The tingling pleasure of his kiss continued to flow through her, making her light-headed. She was too intensely aware of him, of his scent, the lingering heat of his lips, his magnetic eyes gazing lovingly at her.
“You were about to introduce your wife,” Foxie said.
Izzy blinked, coming out of a stupor his soft stare brought on.
“Oh, yes. Foxie, was it?” Mr. Parish said. “My wife’s name is—Isabel.”
“Call me Izzy,” she cut in, grateful her lips worked, considering they still sizzled. She passed her fake husband an impertinent look, her emotions a roiling mix of anger, hurt and melancholy. “Lambie-pie loves the nickname, Izzy.”
His grin turned lopsided at her gibe, and though she saw a flash of reproach in his gaze, she knew the others couldn’t have noticed. “And I’m Gabe Parish.”
“Ah, right.” Foxie snapped beefy fingers. “I’ve heard good things about you, my man. The young genius of promotion in the Big Apple.”
Gabe lifted his gaze from Izzy. “And I about you, Foxie. L.A.’s hottest ad exec.”
“California, my man,” Foxie amended, with a guffaw “California’s hottest ad exec.”
“I stand corrected.” Gabe’s glance moved across to the bookends in blue. “And you are?”
“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Hedda and Roger Miles. Chicago. The Miles and Unwin Agency.” Mr. Miles straightened his tie. His movements held a prim, brittle dignity that did nothing to indicate a desire to strike up a friendship.
“I’ve heard of your firm. Good solid reputation,” Gabe said. He still held Izzy’s hand. As he spoke he laced his fingers with hers. She continued to face Mr. and Mrs. Miles with an expression of interest, but it was difficult. Her heart ached because the intimacy of their entwined fingers was a superficial sham.
“And what do we call you?” Foxie’s voice boomed in the cabin. “Rog?”
Roger Miles turned close-set eyes on Foxie. With a sniff of his thin nose, he said, “Roger and Hedda.”
Foxie’s white-blond brows wagged upward as though he was amused by the man’s frigid tone. “You got it, my man. Roger and Hedda it is.”
Izzy scanned Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Clearly they weren’t planning to disguise their aversion to their competition, at least until in the presence of their host.
The pilot and copilot climbed aboard. As the crew disappeared up front, an attractive brunette, also clad in a black uniform, entered the plane and began to take drink and breakfast orders.
Not long after Gabe ordered two glasses of gourmet water with a twist of lime, Izzy braced herself for takeoff. She’d never enjoyed the experience. Glancing at her disturbing counterfeit husband, then around at his business rivals, she had a sinking sensation that the white-knuckled takeoff would be the least stressful experience she could expect for the next week.
Gabe only half listened to Claudia and Foxie Wirt name-drop about celebrities they buddied around with in Los Angeles. He smiled and nodded when appropriate, but knew half of what the couple said was bull.
His gaze drifted to Roger Miles, who looked like a bean counter in his conventional blue suit, wing tips and slicked-back graying hair. Gabe wasn’t fooled by the drab image. Roger Miles’s reputation in the advertising business was well-known. The man was sharp and creative and had won a lion’s share of prestigious awards.
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