First published in 2001, KATHLEEN O’REILLY is an award-winning author of more than twenty romances, with more books on the way. Reviewers have been lavish in their praise, applauding her “biting humour,” “amazing storytelling” and “sparkling characters.” She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one indestructible goldfish. Please contact the author at [email protected] or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.
Hot Under Pressure
Kathleen O’Reilly
For booksellers everywhere. Stacey, Anne, Elsie, I’m looking at you.
Table of Contents
1
ASHLEY LARSEN climbed over the family of three, mumbling “excuse me,” but honestly, in the wide-bodied jet, there was no elegant way to get to her seat with her dignity intact—especially since darling little Junior kept poking her in the rear and laughing maniacally. All the while Mom tried to pretend that nothing was amiss.
Little booger.
With a tight smile plastered on her face, Ashley climbed over the skanky-handed hellion, and then plopped into her seat with a relieved sigh. She hated the five seats in the center aisle. What designer thought that was a good idea? Especially on a day like today, when the direct route to her seat was blocked by the sweet little old lady who wanted to stuff the three-foot antique lamp into the overhead compartment. Patiently, the flight attendant was explaining how honestly, truly, cross her heart, the baggage handlers would treat the fragile piece with care. Stubbornly, the little old lady wasn’t buying it for a minute, and Ashley wished her all the luck in the world. Thank God that was over; now on to the real death-defying feat—preparing for takeoff. After a slow count to three hundred—twice—she pulled the plastic bag from her carry-on and then pushed the suitcase back under the seat in front of her. Furiously she kicked off her travel shoes with some previously unleashed aggression, and then donned fluffy pink bunny slippers. If she was going to die in the air, she wanted to be with at least one thing close to her heart.
Ashley hated flying. Her sister Valerie called it her Erica Jong moment, but it wasn’t sex that Ashley was afraid of, only moving through the skies at supersonic speeds, a gazillion feet off the ground. Physics had never been her best subject, and besides, she knew there was something seriously wrong with the concept. However, she hated the idea of being a slave to her fears, so, as a survival mechanism she had created her flying ritual. Every month, when she took off from O’Hare airport on her latest buying trip, she meticulously followed the same pattern to maintain sanity. Whatever worked.
Soon everyone was seated, the antique lamp was stored below and the flight attendant droned the standard disclaimers about pulling away from the gate in ten minutes. Just as Ashley had properly prepared herself for takeoff, another passenger made his way down the aisle, claiming the one remaining empty seat in the airplane. The one between Ashley and Mr. and Mrs. American Family, who were futilely trying to keep Junior amused. Now they decided to resume their parental responsibility. Couldn’t they have done it earlier, when he was playing pin-the-sippy-cup on Ashley’s butt? No.
Pointedly, Ashley stared out the window because she wasn’t normally a rude person, but air travel brought out one hundred and one demons in her, none of them Emily Post-like. Valerie said that the buying trips were good for her. That the only way to conquer a fear was to tackle it head-on. Valerie could be a total pain, and one day Ashley was going to stop listening to her sister’s advice. But not today. Today she needed the ritual.
A hard thigh brushed against hers, and she jumped.
“Sorry.” The voice was deep, husky and appropriately apologetic. Okay, there was another reasonable, sane human being on this flight. Ashley turned and the polite smile froze.
Hello, hot man.
His trousers were an off-the-shelf-khaki, his shirt, a nicely mussed crisp white, which, on most men would scream copier repairman, but here…it was like newsprint veiling a diamond. Yes, sometimes clothes made the man, but sometimes, the man made the clothes.
After logging thousands of air miles, she’d traveled next to perfumed matrons decked in crystal-encrusted fleece, overly large seat huggers, squeegee businessmen who thought she looked lonely and, yes, a veritable cornucopia of families from hell, but never, never, had she actually sat next to a man with a nice smile, wonderfully wicked hazel eyes and a lovely, lovely body that begged to be unwrapped.
Ashley swallowed.
“Not a problem,” she said, and then promptly looked away.
Come on, Ashley. Flirt a little. Pep up your game. Give him the goofy smile. Guys like that.