Chapter One

“Champagne should be crisp and complex, full of flavor and sparkle,” Emma Morgan read under her breath, then lowered the magazine. She snapped open her seatbelt, keeping an eye on the flight attendant handing out drinks, and waited for one of the bubbling glasses. More sparkle, that was what she wanted. Maybe I should champagnerize my life.

“Miss Morgan, we are proud to have you on board.” The flight attendant smiled, holding a tray filled with long flutes. “Can I offer you a glass?”

“Yes, please,” Emma said and reached out. To her right, Will shifted in his seat. A slap landed on her wrist. She pulled her hand back, feeling like a kid caught stealing sticky sweets.

“No champagne for you,” Will said, his voice final.

Emma flinched, fighting anger. Her pride stung—along with her hand—but that wasn’t exactly a first. She opened her mouth to protest but changed her mind after one look at Will’s expression. He wouldn’t give way. She swallowed her words and crossed her arms. No sense in arguing. Somehow, Will always had better answers.

The flight attendant gave her a shocked look before moving on to passengers behind her. Will went back to reading the paper. Emma glanced around the business class section, observing other passengers, checking who else had noticed the slap on her hand. No one, it seemed. Most passengers read the Financial Times, looking bored while doing so.

Relieved, she picked up the magazine again. Someone laughed, and she glanced around once more. Two seats to her left, across the aisle, a waiflike Chinese woman stifled an outburst of laughter behind her slender hand. Shiny, deep black hair framed her positively angelic glowing face, and, good for her, her fingers curled around a glass of champagne.

“Some girls have it all,” Emma muttered and turned to Will, on the verge of starting an argument after all, but he still read, and she knew better than to disturb him. Anyway, she was happy with her life. It was a good life—no, very good. Who needed sparkle?

Emma shot the woman another look, simply because she was so stunning. Snow White. An Asian Snow White. For a second, Emma wished she could morph herself into the woman’s slender, champagne-drinking body. Snow White leaned back, adjusting the seat to a less upright position, giving a clear view of the man next to her.

He turned his head, and Emma sucked in her breath. His gaze locked into hers as if he’d felt her stare. She looked too long to be polite but couldn’t help it. Dark eyes, strong cheekbone and jaw, his nose ever so slightly crooked, giving him a dangerous edge—a welcome flaw in an otherwise too handsome face. Stubble darkened his cheeks, and, while he wore a dark suit like many other men in the plane, he didn’t look bored, or boring, at all. Holy shit.

He lifted his glass of red wine to his mouth, a smile playing around his lips. Her face grew warm. One could believe in love at first sight again. Ha. Right. Every woman with a heartbeat would think that seeing him. She hoped he hadn’t seen her reaching unsuccessfully for champagne. Her envy at Snow White kicked up several notches. She drank champagne, radiated beautifulness, and the guy next to her could tempt nuns to break vows.

Once there was Snow White and her American prince… Incredible blessed genes. If those two ever had children together, they would rule the world.

Emma wasn’t sure why, but anger made a sudden comeback. She touched Will’s arm. “Really, why can’t I have one of these minuscule glasses of champagne?” She kept her voice low, shooting a glance to the man to her left. He locked back, his smile wide, showing white teeth.

She shook Will’s arm. “You know, it’s embarrassing when you’re like that.”

“Why would I care if it’s embarrassing for you?” he replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. “You know that alcohol is hell for your skin. I wouldn’t be much of a manager if I don’t protect you from bad choices.” He grabbed her cushion and placed it behind his back. “Seriously, don’t you want to give your hundred percent?”

She sighed, resigned. Determined about her career or not, she didn’t need his snide remark. “Will, I really don’t need your—”

“Miss Morgan,” the flight attendant interrupted, “what would you like for dinner?” She offered a menu. Emma took the white leaflet, but before she could open it, Will snatched it out of her hand.

“Thanks.” He nodded curtly at the flight attendant, who narrowed her eyes at him before moving away.

Emma eyed the menu in Will’s hands. “I’m hungry,” she said, and her stomach rumbled on cue.

“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, studying the menu, “you snuck a slice of cheesecake at the airport while waiting for the flight.” He turned to her, his eyebrow raised.

She shook her head. “Did not.” A hiccup escaped her mouth. Damn.

“Em, you can’t lie to save your life.” He crunched the menu to a paper ball. “I’ll have the chicken, and you’ll have a bottle of water or two,” he said, giving her thigh a squeeze. She brushed his hand away, crossing her legs. When the flight attendant came back, he ordered for them both.

“You do want to look your best when we arrive, don’t you?” he asked when they were alone again. “And stop frowning at me. You’ll only get wrinkles.”

When his dinner and her water arrived, she grit her teeth, opened a bottle and poured herself a glass. She drank and then poured another glass while Will dug into his dinner. The water eased the hunger pang in her stomach, but the aroma of grilled chicken tickled her nose.

She opened her purse and pulled out the travel guide she’d bought from the bookshop next to the bakery at the airport. She flipped through the pages. “Can’t wait to see the city,” she said, skipping over captions, and admired high-gloss pictures of wide views from a summit, skyscrapers, green hills, vibrant city life, and a magnificent harbor.

Will grunted. “We won’t have time for that.”

“Why not?” She reached up and adjusted the stream of cold air coming from the air-con. Chills crept over her skin, and she cursed herself for wearing a thin summer blouse. Thankfully, there was a blanket in the front seat’s pocket. “I’ll have the whole day tomorrow. There’s no way I’m staying inside the hotel.” She wrapped the blanket over her shoulders, but it failed to warm her.

“Schedule’s full,” Will said between bites of chicken. “Light and sound checks, meeting people. You know how it is.” He shook his head and put his fork down, wiping his mouth on a white napkin. “Em, are you that stupid, or are you only trying real hard?” His voice carried through the plane. The lady in front of her shot a watery blue gaze through the seats into her direction.

Emma hunched her shoulders, biting back tears. She snapped the book shut, then tensed, hearing laughter to her left. Turning her head, she relaxed. For a moment, she’d feared she’d been the source of Snow White’s amusement, but the woman wore headphones, watching a movie on the screen in front of her. Then Emma met his dark gaze and tensed up again. She sucked in her lower lip, because the smile he gave her made her want to smile back. He shook his head and mouthed something. Puzzled, she lifted her eyebrow.

He gestured the flight attendant closer, spoke to her, and she nodded and left. When she came back a second later, she gave him a small notepad and pen.

Emma had watched the exchange, wondering what he wanted with the notepad. He’s a leftie, she noticed as he wrote down something. Her own left hand twitched, but she’d learned the hard way never to use it to write. Her schoolteachers—using the cane liberally—had enforced that, since being left-handed was abnormal and ought to be shunned.

Stupid, really, and she knew better now. But, even though perfectly able to write with her left, she still used her right hand. Some lessons ran deep. Maybe that’s something I should change… She shrugged, watching him fold the square piece of paper. He rose from his seat, the note in his hand. Her heart made a summersault, and she stared unseeingly out the small window as he walked past her. Surely, the note isn’t for me… The folded piece of paper sailed onto her lap.

“What in the world…” she said, staring at it.

“What did you say?” Will, done with his meal, picked up the newspaper again.

She covered the note with her hands. “Just thinking out loud.” The note tickled her palm.

“At least you’re thinking.” He shot her a glance, then continued reading.

She looked at him a little longer. The corners of his mouth, the sharp nose, his immaculately shaved chin. What she should do was to stay put beside him and throw the note away, but instead she found herself saying, “Have to stretch my legs.” She deliberately closed her left hand around the note. She stood, aware of the paper in her hand, and looked down the aisle.

He stood there, a few feet away, sipping from a fresh glass of wine. He wasn’t quite as tall as Will, but broader in the shoulders, and while Will wore his sandy hair cut short, his dark hair was just long enough to sink her hand in it. Not that I want to do that.

With an uncomfortable level of uncertainty, she made her way toward him. He watched her, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. She stopped in front of him and folded the note open. Blue letters, sharp and slanted, stood out from the white paper: Grow a backbone.

She took a step away from him. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. What did he mean with ‘grow a backbone’? Obviously, he’d overheard her arguments with Will. Heat crept into her face, and she decided to be dignified and inapproachable.

“Jack Anderson,” he said, stretching his hand out, and after a moment, she shook it. His grasp cool, he held her hand too long.

“Do you know who I am?” She pulled her hand back and congratulated herself on her smooth voice even though her hand still burned from his touch.

“Sure. I know who you are.” He stepped into the alley between the two seat rows and leaned against the small bathroom door. “I even know what you are,” he said and took a sip from his wine. “You’re a pushover.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She glanced down the aisle. Will shot a look in her direction. I should go back to him. She stepped out of sight, closer to Jack, and looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m not a pushover.” She crunched the note and let it drop to the floor.

“I’ll prove it to you,” he said, leaning closer.

“How do you intend to prove—” She froze, stunned as his mouth touched hers, his kiss killing the words on her lips. He tasted of wine and mint. She didn’t move a muscle to stop him as he flicked his tongue inside her mouth, taking his time. Shivers ran along her spine, and she moved to take a step forward when he broke the kiss.

He rubbed his thumb over his mouth, his gaze not as amused as before, but rather uncertain. “Pushover.” He winked and left.

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