An Outrageous Proposal (8 page)

Her stomach did a fast roll and her heartbeat leaped into a
gallop. And still she teased him because she’d discovered she liked the teasing,
flirtatious way they had together. “Starving? Patsy Brennan left some bread and
soup in the kitchen.”

“You’re a hard woman,” he said, but the curve of his mouth
belied the words.

“Or,” she invited, taking his hand in hers and heading for the
stairs, “you can come up with me and we’ll find something else to ease your
appetite.”

“Lá nó oíche, Tá mé do fear.”

She stopped and looked at him. “Now you’re just doing that
because you know what it does to me.”

“I am indeed.”

“What did you say that time?”

“I am indeed.”

Her lips quirked at the humor in his eyes. “Funny. Before that,
what did you say?”

“I said,” he told her, swooping in to grab her close and hold
on tight like a drowning man clinging to the only rope in a stormy sea, “‘Day or
night, I’m your man.’”

Then his mouth came down on hers and every thought but one
dissolved.

Her man.
Those two words repeated
over and over again in her mind while Sean was busy kissing her into oblivion.
He was hers. For now. For tonight. For however long they had together.

And that was going to have to be enough.

When he let her up for air, she held his hand and shakily led
the way up the steep flight of stairs. The ancient treads groaned and squeaked
beneath them, but it was a cozy sound. Intimate. At the head of the stairs,
Georgia pulled Sean into her room and then turned to look up at him.

He glanced around the bedroom and smiled as he noted everything
she’d done to it. “You’ve made it nice in here. In just a day.”

She followed his gaze, noting the fresh curtains at the
windows, the quilt on the bed and the colorful pillows tossed against the
scrolled iron headboard.

“Laura and Patsy brought a few things over from the manor.”

“You’ve made it a home already.”

“I love it already, too,” she confessed. “And when I get some
of my own things in here, it’ll be perfect.”

“’Tis perfect right now,” he said, moving in on her with a
stealthy grace that made her insides tremble. “There’s a bed after all.”

“So there is.”

“I’ve a need to have you stretched across that bed,” he told
her, undoing the buttons of his shirt so he could tear it off and throw it onto
a nearby chair. “I’ve a need to touch every square inch of that luscious body of
yours and then, when I’ve finished, to begin again.”

Georgia drew a long, unsteady breath and yanked her sweater up
and off, before throwing it aside with Sean’s shirt. Her fingers were shaky as
she tugged at the buttons on her blouse, but Sean’s hands were suddenly there,
making fast work of them. Then he pushed the fabric off her shoulders and let it
slide down her arms to puddle on the floor.

Outside, the night was clear for a change. No rain pinged
against the windows, but moonlight did a slow dance through the glass. Inside,
the house was still, only the sounds of their ragged breathing to disturb the
quiet.

Georgia couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of her own
heart, anyway. Sean undid the front clasp of her bra, and she slipped out of it
eagerly. His hands at her waist, her hands at his, and he pushed her jeans down
her hips as she undid the hook and zipper of his slacks, then pushed them down,
as well.

In seconds they were naked, the rest of their clothes discarded
as quickly as possible. Georgia threw herself into his arms, and when he lifted
her off her feet she felt a thrill in her bones. He tucked her legs around his
waist, and she hooked her ankles together at the small of his back.

He took two long steps to the nearest wall and braced her back
against it. With her arms around his neck, she looked down into his eyes and
said breathlessly, “I thought we needed the bed.”

“And so we will,” he promised. “When we’re too tired to
stand.”

Then he entered her. His hard, thick length pushing into her
welcoming body. Georgia could have sworn he went deep enough to touch the bottom
of her heart. She felt him all through her, as if he’d laid claim to her body
and soul and was only now letting her in on it.

The wall was cold against her back, but she didn’t feel it. All
she was aware of was the tingling spread of something miraculous inside her. Her
body was spiraling into that coil of need that would tighten until it burst from
the pressure and sent jagged shards of sensation rippling through her.

Bracing one hand on the dresser beside her, Georgia clapped the
other to his shoulder and moved with him as he set a frenetic pace. She watched
his eyes glaze over, saw the mix of pleasure and tension etch themselves onto
his features. Again and again he took her, pushing her higher and higher, faster
and faster.

Her heels dug into his back, urging him on, and when the first
hard jolt of release slammed into her, she shouted his name and clung
desperately to him. She was still riding the ripples of her climax when he
buried his face in the curve of her neck and joined her there.

* * *

A few miles away at Laura’s house, the phone rang and
Laura picked it up on the run. She had just gotten the baby down for the night
and she had a gorgeous husband waiting for her in the front parlor with a bottle
of wine.

“Hello?”

“Laura, love,” Ailish said. “And how’s our darling Fiona this
night?”

Sean’s mother. Why was she calling? Did she suspect something?
This
was why Laura didn’t like lies. They
tangled everything up. Made her unsure what she could say and what she couldn’t.
Sean and Georgia were trying to protect Ailish, and what if Laura said something
that blew the whole secret out of the water? What if she caused Ailish a heart
attack? What if—

Laura stepped into the parlor, gave her husband a silent
Oh Dear God
look and answered, “The baby’s wonderful,
Ailish. I’ve just put her down.”

“Lovely, then you have a moment?”

“Um, sure,” she said desperately, “but wouldn’t you like to say
hello to Ronan?”

At that, her devoted husband shot out of his chair, shaking his
head and waving both hands.

Laura scowled at him and mouthed the word
coward
.

He bowed at the waist, accepting the insult as if it were a
trophy.

“No, dear, this is better between us, I think,” Ailish told her
through the phone.

Uh-oh. She didn’t want to talk to Ronan?
Better between us?
That couldn’t be good.

Deserted by the man she loved, Laura took a breath and waited
for the metaphorical ax to fall.

“I just want to ask you one question.”

No, no, no. That wasn’t a good idea at all.

“Oh!” Laura interrupted her frantically, with one last try for
escape. “Wait! I think I hear Fiona—”

“No, you don’t. And there’s no point trying to lie to me, Laura
Connolly. You’ve no talent for it, dear.”

It was the Irish way. A compliment and a slap all in the same
sentence.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, throwing a trapped look at her husband.
Ronan only shrugged and poured each of them a drink. When he was finished, he
handed her the wine and Laura took a long gulp.

“Now then,” Ailish said and Laura could picture the tiny,
elegant woman perfectly. “I know my son, and I’ve a feeling there’s more going
on between him and Georgia than anyone is telling me.”

“I don’t—”

“No point in lying, Laura dear, remember?”

She sighed.

“That’s better.” Then to Sean’s housekeeper, Ailish said,
“Thank you, Katie. A cup of tea would be wonderful. And perhaps one or two of
your scones? Laura and I are just settling down for a long chat.”

Oh, God,
Laura thought. A long
chat? That wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all. Quickly, she drained her glass and
handed it to her husband for a refill.

Eight

F
or the entire next week, Sean felt that
itch between his shoulder blades. And every day, it got a little sharper. A
little harder to ignore. Everywhere he went, people in the village were talking
about the upcoming wedding. It shouldn’t have bothered him, as he’d known full
well what would happen the moment he began this scheme. But knowing it and
living it were two different things.

The pool in the pub was more popular than ever—with odds
changing almost daily as people from outlying farms came in to make their bets
on the date of the wedding. Even the Galway paper had carried an engagement
announcement, he thought grimly, courtesy of Ailish.

From her sickbed, his mother had leaped into the planning of
this not-to-be wedding with such enthusiasm, he shuddered to think what she
might do once she was cleared by her doctor.

When the article in the paper had come out, it had taken Sean
more than an hour of fast talking with Georgia to smooth that particular bump in
the road. She was less and less inclined to keep up the pretense as time went
by, and even Sean was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the whole thing.

But then, he would see his mother moving slowly through the
house and tell himself that he’d done the right thing. The only thing. Until
Ailish was well and fit again, he was going to do whatever he had to.

Though to accomplish it, the annoying itch would become his
constant companion.

Even Ronan and Laura had been acting strangely the past few
days, Laura especially. She had practically sequestered herself in the manor,
telling Georgia she was simply too exhausted with caring for the baby to be good
company.

Frowning, Sean told himself there was definitely something
going on there, but he hadn’t a clue what it was. Which made this trip with
Georgia to the States seem all the more attractive.

At the moment, getting away from everyone in Ireland for a week
or so sounded like a bloody vacation. Going to California to close out Georgia’s
house and then on to Ohio, of all places, for the wedding, would give both of
them a chance to relax away from the stress of the lies swarming around them
like angry bees.

Or maybe it was the muted roar of the plane’s engines making
him think of swarming bees. He and Georgia had the jet to themselves for this
trip, but for the pilots and Kelly, the flight attendant who had already brought
them coffee right after takeoff and then disappeared into the front of the jet,
giving them privacy.

He looked at Georgia, sitting across from him, and Sean felt
that quick sizzle of heat and need that he’d become accustomed to feeling
whenever he was close to her. Oh, since the moment he first met her at Ronan’s
wedding, he had felt the zing of attraction and interest any man would feel for
a woman like Georgia.

But in the past few weeks, that zing had become something else
entirely. He spent far too much time thinking about her. And when he was with
her, he kept expecting to feel the edge of his need slackening off as it always
had before with the women he was involved with. It hadn’t happened, of course.
Instead, that need only became sharper every time he was with her. As if feeding
his hunger for her only defined his appetite, not quenched it.

It wasn’t just the sex, either, he mused, studying her profile
in the clear morning light. He liked the way her short, honey-blond hair swung
at her chin. He liked the deep twilight of her eyes and how they darkened when
he was inside her. He liked her sense of style—the black skirt, scooped-neck red
blouse and the high heels that made her legs look bloody amazing. And he liked
her mind. She had a quick wit, a sharp temper and a low tolerance for
bullshit—all of which appealed to him.

She was on his mind all the bloody time and he couldn’t say he
minded it overmuch. The only thing that
did
bother
him was the nagging sensation that he was coming to care for her more than he’d
intended. Sean knew all too well that a man in love lost all control over a
situation with his woman, and he wasn’t a man who enjoyed that. He’d seen enough
of his friends become fools over women. Even Ronan had lost a part of himself
when he first tumbled for Laura.

No, Sean preferred knowing exactly what was happening and when,
rather than being tossed about on a tide of emotion you couldn’t really count on
anyway.

And still…

There was a voice inside him whispering that perhaps
real
love was worth the risk. He argued that point
silently as he’d no wish to find out.

A knot of something worrisome settled into the pit of his
stomach and he determinedly chose to ignore it. No point in examining feelings
at the moment anyway, was there? Right now, he was just going to enjoy watching
her settle into the plush interior of one of his jets.

Her gaze didn’t settle, but moved over the inside of the plane,
checking out everything, missing nothing. Another thing to admire about her. She
wasn’t a woman to simply accept her surroundings. Georgia had enough curiosity
to explore them. And Sean could admit that he wanted her opinion of his
jets.

He was proud of what he’d built with Irish Air and had a
million ideas for how to grow and expand the company. By the time he was
finished, when someone thought luxury travel, he wanted Irish Air to be the name
that came to mind.

“What do you think?” Sean had noticed how she had tensed up
during takeoff, but now that they were at a cruising altitude, she was relaxed
enough to ease her white-knuckled grip on the arms of the seat.

“Of the jet? It’s great,” she said. “Really beats flying
coach.”

“Should be our new slogan,” Sean said, with a chuckle. “I’m
glad you like it. Irish Air is a luxury airline. There are no coach seats.
Everyone is a first-class passenger.”

“A great idea, but I’m sure most of us couldn’t afford to
travel like this.”

“It’s not so dear as you’d think,” Sean said. In fact, he’d
made a point of doing as much as he could to keep the price down.

He was proud of what he’d built, but curious what Georgia
thought of his flagship. This plane was the one he used most often himself. But
all of the others in his fleet were much like it.

Sean’s idea had been to outfit a smaller plane with luxury
accommodations. To give people who wouldn’t ordinarily fly first class a chance
to treat themselves. And yes, the price was a bit higher than coach, but still
substantially less than that of a first-class ticket on an ordinary airline.

“It’s cheaper than chartering a jet.”

“Yeah,” she said, flicking a curtain aside to take a look out
the window at the clouds beneath them. “But coach is still way cheaper.”

“You get what you pay for, don’t you?” he asked, leaning back
in his own seat to sip at his coffee. “When you fly Irish Air, your vacation
begins the moment you board. You’re treated like royalty. You arrive at your
destination rested instead of wild-eyed and desperate for sleep.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Believe me. And it’s a great
idea…”

He frowned as she left that thought hanging.
“But?”

Georgia shot him a half grin. “But, okay.” She set her coffee
on the table. “You say your airline’s different. Set apart.”

“I do.”

“But, inside, it’s set up just like every other plane. A center
aisle, seats on either side.”

There was a shine in her eyes and Sean was paying more
attention to that, than he was to her words. When what she’d said at last
computed, he asked, “And how else should we have it arranged?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?” she countered. “It’s
your plane, Sean. You want to make Irish Air different from the crowd, so why
even have them furnished like everyone else?”

She ran the flat of her hand across the leather arm rest and
for a second, he allowed himself to picture that hand stroking him, instead. As
his body tightened, he reminded himself they had a six-hour flight to New York
and then another five to L.A. Plenty of time to show Georgia the owner’s bedroom
suite at the back of the jet. That brought a smile to his face, until he
realized that Georgia was frowning thoughtfully.

“What is it you’re thinking? Besides the fact that the seats
are arranged wrong?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“It’s something,” he said, following her gaze as she studied
the furnishings of the plane with a clearly critical eye. “Let’s have it.”

“I was just thinking…you say you started Irish Air as a way of
giving people a real choice in flying.”

“That’s right,” he said, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on
his knees. “As I said, most can’t afford first-class tickets on commercial
airlines, and chartering a jet is well beyond them, as well. Irish Air,” he said
with a proud smile, “is in the buffer zone. I offer luxury travel for just a bit
more than coach.”

“How much is a bit?”

“More than a little,” he hedged, “less than a lot. The theory
being, if people save for an important vacation, then they might be willing to
save a bit more to start their vacation the moment they board the plane.”
Warming to his theme, he continued. “You see, you fly coach, say from L.A. to
Ireland. By the time you’ve arrived, you feel as though you’ve been dragged
across a choppy sea. You’re tired, you’re angry, you’re hungry. Then you’ve to
rent a car and drive on a different side of the road when you’re already on the
ragged edge…”

“All true. I’ve done it,” she said.

He nodded. “But, on Irish Air, you step aboard and you relax.
There are fewer seats. The seats are wider, fold out into beds and there’s a TV
at every one of them. We offer WiFi on board and we serve
real
meals with actual knives and forks. When you arrive at your
destination, you’re rested, refreshed and feel as though your worries are behind
you.”

“You should do commercials,” Georgia said with a smile. “With
the way you look, that accent of yours and the way your eyes shine when you talk
about Irish Air, you’d have women by the thousands lined up for tickets.”

“That’s the idea.” He sat back, rested one foot on his opposite
knee and glanced around. “By this time next year, Irish Air will be the most
talked-about airline in the world. We’ll be ordering a dozen new planes soon
and—” He broke off when he saw her shift her gaze to one side and chew at her
bottom lip. A sure sign that she had something to say and wasn’t sure how to do
it. “What is it?”

“You want the truth?”

“Absolutely,” he told her.

“Okay, you want Irish Air to stand out from the crowd,
right?”

“I do.”

“So why are you creating such boring interiors?”

“What? Boring, did you say?” He glanced around the main cabin,
saw nothing out of line and looked back at her for an explanation.

She half turned in her seat to face him, then slapped one hand
against the armrest. “First, I already told you, the arrangement of the seats.
There are only ten of them on this plane, but you’ve got them lined up in
standard formation, with the aisle up the middle.”

One eyebrow winged up. “There’s a better way?”

“There’s a
different
way, and that
is what you said you wanted.”

“True. All right then, tell me what you mean.”

A light burned in her eyes as she gave him a quick grin.
Unbuckling her seat belt, she stood up, looked down the length of the plane,
then back to him.

“Okay. It’s not just the seats,” she said, “the colors are all
wrong.”

A bit insulted, as he’d paid a designer a huge sum to come up
with a color palette that was both soothing and neutral, he asked, “What the
bloody hell is wrong with beige?”

She shook her head sadly. “It’s
beige,
Sean. Could any color be more ordinary?”

“I’ve had it on good authority that beige is calming and
instills a sense of trust in the passenger.”

“Who told you that?” she asked, tipping her head to one side as
she studied him. “A man?”

He scowled. “I’m a man, if you’ve forgotten.”

She gave him a wicked smile. “That’s one thing I’m certain
of.”

He stood up, too, but she skipped back a pace to keep some
distance between them. “
But
you’re not a
designer.”

“I’m not, no.” Considering, thinking, he watched her and said,
“All right, then. Tell me what it is you’re thinking, Georgia.”

“Okay…” She took a breath and said, “First, the carpeting. It
looks like the kind you see in a dentist’s office. Trust me when I say
that
is not soothing.”

He frowned thoughtfully at the serviceable, easy-to-clean
carpet.

“It should be plush. Let a passenger’s feet sink into it when
they step on board.” She wagged a finger at him. “Instant luxurious feel and
people
will
notice.”

“Thick carpet.”

“Not beige,” she added quickly. “I think blue. Like the color
of a summer sky.”

“Uh-huh.”

She ran one hand across the back of the leather seat again.
“These are comfortable, but again. Beige. Really?”

“You recommend blue again?” he asked, enjoying the animation on
her face.

“No, for the seats, gray leather.” She looked up at him. “The
color of the fog that creeps in from the ocean at night. It’ll go great with the
blue carpet and it’ll be different. Make Irish Air stand out from the crowd.
And—” She paused as if she were wondering if she’d already gone too far.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go on, no reason to stop
now.”

“Okay, don’t line the seats up like bored little soldiers.
Clump them.”

“Clump?”

“Yeah,” she said. “In conversational groups. Like seats on a
train. You said this is the midsize jet, right? So your others are even wider.
Make use of that space. Make the interior welcoming. Two seats facing back, two
forward. And stagger them slightly too, so the people sitting on the right side
of the plane aren’t directly opposite those on the left. Not everyone wants
strangers listening in to conversations.”