She clicked her tongue. “You work so hard. Too hard.”
“Rich people work hard.”
“Old money knows how to relax, new money scrambles. You scramble like you’re afraid someone will take it all away.”
“Now you sound like a fortune cookie.”
She seemed to take no offense at that. “Maybe. And you spend money heedlessly. I saw you give Stacy that limitless black credit card. She is at the spa every day splurging on treatments with your money. People who are born rich tend to be frugal.”
“That’s a generalization.”
“True.”
“So what if I work hard and spend easily?” Stop being defensive. You don’t owe her an explanation. “I still don’t see how you drew your conclusion.”
“In two weeks time you never took off the suits.”
He ran a hand over the sleeve of his silk Armani.
“Not once.”
“I took them off to go to bed.”
“But not when people could see you. I had to ask myself why. Why does this handsome, successful man drive himself so hard? He’s supposed to be on vacation and he never takes off the suit. What is he so afraid of?” She paused. “And then it hit me.”
“What did?”
“You never felt loved for who you were.”
Goose bumps spread over his arms at the same time the hairs on the nape of his neck lifted. He tried to laugh, but he just exhaled harshly.
“So you drove yourself hard in order to get recognition. Status became everything.”
His throat worked, but no words came out.
“You became adept at charming others. You adopted whatever image worked. It’s why you wear expensive suits—status, attention getting, uniform of the wealthy.”
Gibb’s mouth dropped open. How did she know!
“You came to feel that it was not okay to be who you really were, that in order to be loved, you had to take on the feelings and identity of those whose love you wished to win.”
He wanted to deny it. He felt the need to contradict her, but he was so floored that he simply couldn’t find the words.
“Deep down inside,” she went on, “you believe that no matter how much success you achieve you’ll always be a failure. You feel like a fraud.”
He planned to say, “Hell, no, you’re crazy, you’re nuts,” but instead Gibb simply nodded and said, “Empty.”
“This friend of yours that you’re flying to see. The one you want to stop from getting married. He’s known you a long time?”
“Yeah.” Gibb grunted.
“Before you were rich.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s the only one who knows who you really are, isn’t he?”
Was the woman some kind of psychic or just perceptive as hell? “How...how can you possibly know this?”
She met his gaze. “Why, it’s written all over you. Anyone who bothers to look past the suit can see it.”
4
B
ESIDES
FLYING
,
Sophia’s one great talent was the ability to read people quickly. She couldn’t explain her skill. It was intuitive. Perhaps it came from being the youngest of seven, where in order to get her way, she had to figure out what everyone else’s angle was and use it to her advantage. Or maybe it was simply because she loved people, and found them fascinating.
Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that most people did not enjoy being sized up. Usually, she kept her opinions to herself, but something about Gibb had loosened her tongue.
Now he sat there scowling at her as if she’d given him a bad tarot card reading. For many hours it would be just him and her together in this tiny cockpit.
“You should be proud that you are a self-made man,” she said, trying to smooth things over.
“But you see, I’m not.”
“If you weren’t born rich and you’re not a self-made man, then where did you get your money from?” she asked.
“My mother married a rich man. He adopted me.”
“And he died and left you all this money?”
“No, James is still very much alive.”
“He simply gave you a billion dollars?”
“Of course not. I earned my own money.”
“Then you are a self-made man.”
Gibb shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it without James’s connections.”
“So you are in the same business he’s in?”
“No. He’s in real estate, I made my first few million creating a game app for phones when that industry was just taking off.”
“Like Angry Birds?”
“Something along those lines.”
“What is the app called?”
“Zimdiggy.”
“Oh! I’ve played that game. It’s fun. I love all the detailed levels. Have you invented more game apps?”
“I sold out to a big gaming company, then I became a venture capitalist. I’m not really an idea guy.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m more of a moneyman, backing other people’s inventions. I seem to have a knack for predicting the next big thing and I’m not afraid to take risks.”
It was odd, this self-effacing side of him. It didn’t match with his confident outer persona.
“Really? You’d rather work yourself into the ground just to keep getting richer than do something fun that you love?”
“It’s not about getting richer. It’s about seeing how much I can achieve.”
“So achievement is your passion, not creating your own game apps?”
“This way, I help other people achieve their dreams.”
“Your game app helps people. I can’t tell you how much Zimdiggy kept my mind distracted while I sat at my father’s hospital bed after his eye surgery.”
A brief smile flitted over his lips.
“When do
you
get to enjoy the fruits of your labor?” she asked.
“My labor is the fruit,” he said it as if he really believed it, but a faraway expression in his eyes belied the words.
Poor guy. He was unhappy and didn’t even know it, but she wasn’t about to point that out. He’d just deny it anyway. “So see, you
are
self-made.”
“I wouldn’t have made it without my adopted father’s help.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I feel like I’m only where I’m at by a twist of fate. If James had married someone other than my mother, some other guy would be here instead of me.”
“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Martin.”
“Gibb,” he said. “Call me Gibb, we’ve got a long flight ahead of us and when you call me Mr. Martin, I think of my stepfather.”
“Even though he adopted you, you still don’t think of him as your father?”
“He’s a tough man to get to know. I don’t want to sound ungrateful because he’s done a lot for me and my mother, but he and I never really bonded, you know?”
Sophia didn’t know. Her father was her best friend. “So you are an only child.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your real father?”
“Who knows? Dead maybe, or in prison? He left my mom when I was a baby. I never knew him.”
“You have no desire to seek him out?”
“None at all.”
How sad. She cast a sideways glance over at him. The man was a tight ball of barely contained energy, his hands curled into fists against his upper thighs. She remembered how he’d paced the balcony of his bungalow, restless as a tiger. He was not a man who sat still easily.
A sweet shiver, like fingers gliding over piano keys, ran up and down her spine.
Beneath the kumquat and leather notes of his cologne, she caught the scent of something deeper, more primal and masculine. Raw, sexual heat from his body radiated across the confined space, and crashed headlong into her.
Did he feel it, too? Or was it all in her imagination?
His gaze flicked to her legs again and something in his eyes flared hot. Oh, yes. He was feeling it, too.
When was the last time she’d felt such a strong instant attraction to anyone? His gaze tracked from her legs to her breasts with an expression so sultry she could hardly breathe. Um, never?
Who was she kidding? A man like Gibb Martin could never be interested in her. Not for the long haul at any rate.
She wouldn’t need him for the long haul. One hot night in his arms would do the trick.
Mmm. It was a delicious but dangerous thought.
Just thinking about having sex with him had her going soft and pliant in all the right places.
That light gray silk suit had clearly been tailored to fit his body. His hair was as sandy as the beaches of Limon, and cut short and neat.
She lowered her eyelids, looked at him through the fringe of her lashes, hoping he would think that she was inspecting the instrument panel and not him.
Be honest, Sophia.
No point lying to herself. She was flat out ogling him. Who wouldn’t ogle? The man had splendid bone structure and firm, elegant muscles—hard, but not bulky.
He was magnificent.
Gulping, she shifted her attention back to the landscape. They had passed over the center of Costa Rica, which, at its widest point, was only one hundred and eight miles across, and were headed toward the Caribbean Sea. Before long, they would be entering Nicaraguan air space.
“Sophia,” Gibb murmured.
Had he said her name or had she imagined it. Between the sound of the engine and the headset, she had trouble hearing him.
She turned her head again to find him staring at her. “Yes?”
“Are you married?”
The question took her by surprise, so did the heated flush that raced to her cheeks. She held up her left hand so he could see it was bare of a ring.
“Boyfriend?”
Good question. She still hadn’t told Emilio that they would not be taking their relationship to the next level. He was such a nice guy, but it wasn’t fair of her to string him along when she did not have any romantic feelings for him.
She studied the instrument panel, the tachometer reading, the fuel system cluster, the altimeter and temperature gauges. Everything was fine.
“Sophia?”
“Emilio is not my boyfriend any more so than Stacy is your girlfriend,” she finally answered.
“Ah,” he said. “A friend with benefits.”
She owed him no explanation about her relationship status. She would let him think whatever he wanted.
“So no one serious?”
Why was he asking? She lifted a shoulder. “I’m too young to get serious.”
“How old are you?”
“Did anyone ever tell you that it’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” She maneuvered the plane through puffs of late-afternoon cloud.
“I’m thirty-two,” he volunteered.
He was older than she would have guessed. “Twenty-six,” she admitted.
“And you’re still not ready to settle down?”
“Are you?”
He chuckled. “No, no, I’m not.”
That killed the conversation.
Good. She needed to concentrate on what she was doing. They were about to cross over into Nicaragua. She radioed the nearest air tower with her intentions and was cleared. They were cruising along at seven thousand feet and a hundred and thirty knots per hour.
But soon, the silence got to her, which was odd. Normally, she was happy as a clam when she was in the air and nothing upset her equilibrium. She canted her head, studied him from the corner of her eye.
He was handsome enough to be a movie star, especially when he flashed that grin. He was such an enigma. On the one hand, a serious workaholic, underneath though, there was a playful side he’d buried long ago to please a stepfather who, from Gibb’s account, withheld affection while at the same time, freely gave him material things. Such mixed messages must be very confusing.
“May I ask you a personal question?” she asked.
“Nothing has stopped you so far,” he said.
“You do not have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Let’s hear it. What’s on your mind?”
“What is it that you want most in life, Mr. Martin?”
“Gibb,” he said. “You can call me Gibb. Maybe you should tell me what I want, Sophia, since you just did such a good job of reading me.”
“Ah, but if I do it for you then you don’t have to do any soul searching.”
“Soul searching is overrated. I’m more goal oriented than emotive.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“You said I didn’t have to answer.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Emote.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you can be a bit bossy?”
“In other words, you have no idea what it is that you want from life?”
“I want for nothing. I’m living the dream.”
“And yet, you do not seem happy.”
For a long time he said nothing. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind. I don’t know you. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, really. Go on. I want to hear your thoughts.”
“It’s just that...”
“What?”
“When will you have enough money to earn your stepfather’s love?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“All right.”
“It’s not.”
“You never did answer my question about what it is you want.”
“Food. I’m starving. I forgot to eat lunch. You got anything to eat?” he asked.
She didn’t poke his answer. She’d done enough prodding. “There are snacks in a box in the seat behind you.”
He undid his seat belt; twisted around, found the box of snacks. “Hey, graham crackers. I haven’t had those since I was a kid.”
“They’re my favorite.”
“You ever make s’mores?”
“I’ve got the makings for s’mores in that box.”
“And so you do!” he said, pulling out a bag of marshmallows and some chocolate bars. “How come you fly around with the makings for s’mores in your plane?”
“I take my nieces and nephews out camping sometimes.”
He crunched a graham cracker, held one out to her.
She took the cracker and their fingers brushed in the handoff. His touch ignited something hot and irresistible inside her. To distract herself, she stuck the cracker in her mouth.
“I haven’t made s’mores since Scott and I camped out in his parents’ backyard, like I said,” Gibb mused.
Sophia tried to imagine him as a young boy, but she couldn’t picture it. “Maybe you two could make s’mores again. Once you break up his wedding.”
“You’re making me sound like an ass.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Sounds to me like you’re feeling guilty,” she commented.
“About how long do you think it will take for us to get to Key West?” he asked.
“Factoring in fuel stops, depending on the weather, I’d say at least fifteen hours. Maybe fourteen, if we’re lucky and don’t run into a headwind, but it could be longer.”
“Is this as fast as the plane will go?”
“Yes. If you wanted faster, you should have called for a private jet.”
“Privacy is more important than speed at this point,” he said.
“Then sit back and relax and let me do my job.”
“I’m not very good at that.”
“What? Letting go of control or relaxing?”
“Either. Both.”
“All the more reason to surrender,” she said.
“Easy to say, not so easy to do.”
“Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
“I’d—”
“I’m the pilot,” she interrupted. “It’s an order.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Only with certain clients.”
He surprised her by closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.
Sometime later, she peeked over at him again. Gibb was sound asleep. Good.
They had passed over Nicaragua and were above the Caribbean Sea. She peered out the window and through the wisp of clouds, spied a petite lush green jungle island with a thin apron of beach lying due south. The island looked completely uninhabited, no roads, no structures, too small and isolated for anyone to live there. It wasn’t even on the aerial map. What a thrill. Discovering a place she’d never known existed.
For the next several minutes, she navigated smoothly through patches of harmless midlevel, horizontal altostratus clouds with a flat, uniform structure. The fine mist of the altostratus parted easily and caused no turbulence.
She had radioed the last tower before leaving Nicaraguan airspace. She’d wanted an update on the tropical storm brewing in the Caribbean and received an all clear about the weather. So it was something of a surprise when she sailed through the last batch of stratus clouds and came face-to-face with a wide, vertical band of wooly clouds. They were in the exact direction where they needed to fly.
Sophia sighed. “Shoot.”
Gibb opened one eye. “What is it?”
“Cumulus.”
“Cum what?” He straightened in the seat, opened his other eye and instantly wore a cocky expression on his handsome face.
She ignored his innuendo, ignored the spark of sexual awareness zipping through her. “Cumulus clouds. Although at this elevation they’re called alto cumulus. A small street of them might be just bumpy, but they can be dangerous for small planes to fly through because they are formed in unstable air that is always trying to rise higher.”
“So there is a chance for updrafts.”
“Yes, and if the cumulus clouds gain moisture at higher altitudes, they turn into cumulonimbus clouds.”