The second she played with the buttons of my shirt, I went intensely and painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had? I’d have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I’d probably have promised her anything if she’d only continue to touch me.

Alarming to say the least. I haven’t a clue what this woman will say or do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted and unsettling.

Yet for all that, it’s preferable to the well of mindless fear I’d been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.

I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was mistaken.

Her profile, clear against the gray of my vest, is a study of graceful curves, gentle swoops, and delicate lines—not merely pleasant but sweetly pretty. However, it is her skin that captures my attention.

I’ve been with women of all skin colors—from deep rose brown to the palest milk white—and that never factored beyond being a basic framework of the woman’s overall beauty. In short, skin as a singularly attractive feature never entered my mind.

But Sophie Darling’s skin is a thing of beauty. Because it’s luminous, extremely smooth, and fine, not a blemish in sight. Its buttery golden hue reminds me of shortbread biscuits. Then again, everything about Sophie reminds me of some sort of sweet treat: tempting but ultimately bad for one’s health.

Doesn’t matter. The longer I look at her skin, the more I want to touch it just to see if it’s as satiny as it appears. I think of Marilyn Monroe—the way she looked on screen, flawless and glowing. But that beauty came from makeup and good lighting. I’m close enough to tell Sophie isn’t wearing foundation or powder.

Without my permission, my hand drifts up her arm, and I trace the curve of her shoulder, heading toward her bare skin. She holds very still, as if she’s tracking the progress. I am too, my heart pounding against my ribs. I can almost hear the beat shouting, stop, stop, stop. But I don’t.

Just one touch. That’s all. I’ll satisfy my curiosity and move on.

The tip of my finger skims the edge of her collarbone. And I close my eyes, fighting a groan. More delicate than satin. Softer than velvet. Smooth, warm. I suck in a deep breath and slowly release it. My hand falls to the safety of the bed.

It’s too quiet, and this damn plane is still shaking.

Keep talking. About anything.

I have no capacity for small talk. Which means I’m in deep shit.

“Why are you going to London?” I blurt out. “On holiday?”

Frankly I’m surprised a woman like Sophie is traveling alone. She seems the type who needs companionship, someone with whom to share her experiences. The idea of her roaming London on her own doesn’t sit well with me, which is ridiculous. She’s a grown woman.

As if to punctuate that thought, she makes a noise of wry humor. “Actually, I’m traveling on business.”

“Really?” Surprise laces my voice, unfortunately.

And she snorts. “Yes, the fluffy-headed woman with big tits has a brain.”

Christ, don’t mention your tits. It’s hard enough ignoring them against my ribs. “What does breast size have to do with brains?”

Her cheek slides over my shirt, and I know she’s looking up at me. “You actually sound affronted.”

I peer down my nose at her, taking in her wide brown eyes and red lips. “I am. You implied that I’m sexist. I am not. Though I do agree with the fluffy bit. I cannot picture you serious about anything.”

Her pert nose wrinkles as she frowns, and the pointy tip of her finger pokes my ribs. I just manage not to yelp. God help me if she realizes I’m ticklish.

“Funny,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder once more.

Bloody hell, that feels far too good.

Her voice drifts up, distracting me. “But I guess I earned that one.”

She’s earned my gratitude and saved my arse from utter humiliation yet again. I sigh and allow my hand to settle on the crown of her head. There’s no excuse for making her feel less than. “Tell me about your job.”

We’re pressed so close, I can feel her body tense up.

“Ah, well, there’s not much to tell.”

When I don’t say anything, but merely look down at her, waiting, her round cheeks flush, and she clears her throat. “I’m interviewing for a position.”

“And you’re squirming around like a fish on a hook right now because?”

Her nose wrinkles again. I have the mad urge to kiss the tip. Likely it’d shock the hell out her, and turnabout is fair play. But I hold on to my dignity. Because she starts to babble.

“Well, I don’t really know what the position is. I mean, I have some idea, but if you want details, I have nothing really to offer—”

“Do you mean to tell me you’re traveling to another country to interview for an unknown position?” My voice has raised a few octaves. This girl. I have no words. “Do you even know with whom you are meeting? Tell me you didn’t spend all your money on a first class ticket without knowing exactly why you were going.”

“Hey.” She pokes me. “Don’t go all duke on me again.” A sigh escapes her as she sags into me. “No, I don’t know who I’m meeting. I have a name and a few references from mutual people we’ve worked with. And no, I didn’t spend all my money—”

“Well, that’s a—”

“They’re paying my way.”

“Sodding hell.”

Her head lifts, white blond strands pooling on my grey vest. “What? Why is that so bad?”

“I assume you’ve heard the phrase ‘the more you know’? If someone offers to pay for your international flight for the sole reason of interviewing, it would behoove you to know exactly why they’re willing to pay for the opportunity and what exactly is expected of you.”

“Oh, I know why they offered to pay.”

“I shudder to hear it.”

Another poke, this one too close to my ticklish spot. I twitch.

“Because I’m the best at what I do,” she says.

“And what is it that you do?” Please don’t say stripper.