Page 4 of Perfect Satisfaction

I run my hands carefully over the surface of the carpet, shuddering as I imagine the germs I’m picking up from the airline carpet sticking to my hand. I can only thank God I have a veritable villa to bathe at once this bloody plane lands. But first I must find my diamond.

I begin hunting again in earnest, only to be drawn up short by his insinuating, “Exactly my point. Why does a woman travel on Christmas unless she’s completely driven by her career?”

Fighting the urge to slap him down since I left my brother’s very lovely retreat to respond to the edict—no demand—of our autocratic father, I state, “Maybe this was the only flight I could get.” A truth, even if this judgmental stranger doesn’t know it.

“Or you’re a workaholic. I haven’t seen you raise your head from your laptop once and we’ve been on board for hours.”

I’m about to snap that it’s none of his business when a look of satisfaction crosses his face. My breath lodges in my throat when he lifts his finger—a finger that’s been running all over the carpet—to his lips. After wetting the end, he presses down hard.

When he lifts it back up, embedded in the very tip is my diamond.

“You found it,” I breathe. I hold out my hand for him to lay it in my palm.

Instead, he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Stubbornly, I hold out my hand. “Give it to me—”

“Arek.” He supplies his name.

I slide back up into my seat, striving for what limited patience I have. “Arek, thank you for help finding my diamond. I sincerely appreciate it.” And I do.

He does the same, leaving me disconcerted when he leans across the aisle to get close. Now, that I’ve acknowledged the stranger next to me, I can’t help but notice the jade green color of his eyes, the scent of the cologne he’s wearing. Both wrap around me like the sensuous sheets I sleep under in my Dublin flat. “You’re welcome . . .” His voice trails off as he waits for me to give him my name.

I grind my teeth and relent. “Ursula.” Then I wait for the inevitable.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Did your parents likeThe Little Mermaid?”

“No, I doubt they ever saw it. But what the hell does it have to do with my getting my diamond back?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to know your name,” he admits with a cocky grin.

Amused despite myself, I find the edges of my lips curving in a fleeting smile. The crinkling around his eyes is my reward. Unable to restrain the huff of laughter that escapes, I hold out my hand. “Now that you do, can I have my stone back?”

Arek reaches over and captures my right hand in his left, rubbing the tip of his right forefinger in circles around my palm until the stone dislodges from his skin and presses into mine.

Whoa. A puff of air escapes me as the current between us detonates.

His eyes narrow and I know he feels it too. Instead of letting my hand go when he transfers the diamond back to my safekeeping, he clasps my fingers beneath his own. “Tell me, Ursula, are you flying to Vegas for business or pleasure?”

I think about the days of software installation ahead of me inside the secured space carved out for me and my team at Nellis Air Force Base. My reward for driving myself into the ground is backstage access to watch my favorite country musician wow another audience.

I should curtly thank this man and go back to the work I need to accomplish before we touch down at Maclaren, but I’m drawn to Arek as I haven’t been drawn to anyone in forever. Kissing the last vestiges of my productivity away, I peer at my laptop in the seat beside me and then I answer honestly, “A bit of both. What about you?”

The left side of his lips kick up beneath his well-groomed beard. “A little bit of both, as well. I have some work to do at the beginning of the week but have tickets for the Brendan Blake concert at the end.”

“Excellent taste,” I afford him with a true curve of my lips.

“In what?”

“Music.”

“I have excellent taste in all manner of things,” he counters smoothly.

My brow wings upward. “Such as?”

Just then a steward passes by and Arek stops him. After giving me an assessing glance, he orders two bourbons of excellent quality. The steward scurries off to fulfil his request. “Bourbon is another example.”

I lean forward until this time, it’s me who is invading his space across the aisle. “What makes you think I’ll accept a drink from a stranger?”