3 BOOK BUNDLE: Flown By The Billionaire I, II, & III (2 page)

O
nce being back home
for more than a month, and after ten unsuccessful interviews, I had moved
beyond desperate. I would have been willing to do anything, even clean toilets.
I had to get out from the suffocating atmosphere of my parents’ home.

So, with an attitude of ‘why the heck not?’ I applied for a
post I found online. I wasn’t qualified, I had no experience, but it was a job
and it was one that would get me out of my folks’ house (even if just for
stints at a time) immediately.

“You have an impressive résumé, Ms. Cannagh,” said the man
sitting on the other side of the desk. I’d only had to wait a week for the
interview, and I was determined to make a good impression.

“In fact,” he added, with a tilt of his head. “You’re rather
overqualified for the job.”

That morning, I’d applied a little more make-up than usual,
ensuring that I looked as beautiful as ever. My long blonde hair was clipped up
at the back, with bangs swept sideways across my forehead. “I’ve been out of
work for several months now,” I admitted, “and I really am desperate to get a
job, no matter what it might be.”

“Hmm,” he nodded understandingly. “It’s just, I wonder if
you’ll be bored. Being part of a flight crew can be tedious,” he chuckled. “But
being the flight crew on a private jet is truly mind-numbing at times.”

“I’m sure I won’t be bored,” I insisted, smiling warmly.

“Well, you’re clearly an intelligent woman,” he replied.
“Serving drinks and fetching blankets or pillows is hardly the kind of work I
think you would find stimulating.”

Dropping all pretense, the smile quickly slipped from my
face. I glanced down at the pale fingers that were entwined in my lap and shook
my head. “Please, Mr. Joice,” I pleaded, lifting my face back to his and fixing
my eyes on him. “I need this job. And I will be the best crew member that you
have ever had.”

Smiling sympathetically, his face softened. “All right,” he
nodded. “Let’s give it a go.”

For a moment, I wasn’t able to believe what I’d heard and
sat with my jaw hanging open. “I…are you…?”

Paying minimal attention to my stunned expression, he
continued. “You’ll be working for a man named Mr. Race. He flies a lot for
business; at least once or twice a week. We’ll start you off on a temporary
two-week contract. And after that time, if you, Mr. Race, and I are all happy,
we’ll fix you up with something more permanent.”

I barely absorbed his explanation. “Thank you,” I gasped, my
lips spreading into a wide grin. “Thank you so much,” I added. “I promise you
won’t regret this.”

Just five days later, I was dressed in my flight attendants’
uniform: a white blouse that hugged my bust; a scarlet 1950s-style neck scarf
tied to the left of my chin; a black pencil skirt, which came to my knees; tan
hold ups, and a pair of black court shoes with a three-inch heel. My hair was
tied in a ponytail in the middle of my head, with just a couple of loose
strands framing either side of my face.

I met Mr. Joice at the main office and he walked me down to
the plane I would be working in. It was named, ‘Make a Wish’ and was one of the
most luxurious things I’d ever set my eyes on. The cabin was divided into two sections;
the front was like a small living room with a couch along one side, a mahogany
coffee table in front of it, and four large seats that reclined all the way
back to create a narrow bed. The section beyond that was lined with seats like
a traditional jet. All were white leather and had plenty of leg room. Gold cushions
adorned each seat, as well as the larger chairs up front.

“Usually, Mr. Race doesn’t have a full house, but if he
does, you’ll have someone else with you,” Mr. Joice said, as he walked me down
the length of the cabin, showing me the full bar and the miniature cooking
facilities that was located at the rear of the plane. Or at least, I thought it
was the rear of the plane. He reached for a small handle and pushed open a
door, which lead to a bedroom, complete with double bed and artwork hanging
over the headboard.

“Is that an Altman?” I asked, staring at the oil painting of
a blue jug sitting beside three tomatoes.

“Huh?” he asked, turning to look at the path of my gaze.
“Oh, I haven’t the faintest,” he admitted with a shrug. “You’ll have to ask Mr.
Race.”

I nodded, but dismissed the notion. I had no intention of
firing questions at Mr. Race; I would do my job, be efficient, and make sure
that he had the best flight possible. I certainly didn’t want to appear nosey.
No, I would mind my own business and let him get on with his. He’d be far too
busy to discuss art with me.

As is so often the way when you hear about someone before
you actually meet them, I had an image of Mr. Race in my mind. An obviously wealthy,
successful business owner; I pictured him in his fifties, maybe even sixties. I
guessed he’d be a little hefty from too much fine wine and food, and would no
doubt have an air of confidence about him.

So, when a man in his mid-thirties; muscular, handsome, and
little shy, boarded the plane, I assumed he must have been Mr. Race’s
assistant. I watched Mr. Joice walk briskly toward him, shake his hand and then
turn to me.

“This is Ms. Cannagh,” he stated.

Politely, I moved forward and forced a nervous smile at the
brown-eyed man. “Good morning,” I greeted, offering him my hand.

He reached out, taking it gently and giving it a quick
squeeze. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. “Please call me, Alex.”

“All right,” I nodded. “I’m Melissa.”

“Great,” he smiled, releasing my hand and turning to Mr.
Joice. “Have you given her the tour?”

As the two shared a brief conversation, I listened
passively, my eyes moving over Alex’s perfectly-fitted charcoal three-piece
suit with white dress shirt, maroon tie, and a crisp white pocket square.

“So, umm, Melissa,” he said, turning to face me. “If you
wouldn’t mind greeting the other passengers at the door, they should be
arriving,” he paused long enough to lift his left arm with a jerk that tugged
his sleeve away from the black leather-strapped watch he wore, “in around five
minutes.”

“Okay,” I eagerly responded, keen to make a good first
impression. “Will Mr. Race be with them?”

A strange lopsided grin pulled at the right side of Alex’s
face. His eyes moved from me to Mr. Joice, who was laughing softly. Finally,
his gaze shifted back to where it had begun. “I am Mr. Race,” he explained,
still wearing the same unbalanced smile.

“Oh,” I mumbled. “I’m so sorry, I just assumed that…” I
babbled. “I mean, I thought that Mr. Race would be….I’m really terribly sorry, sir.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he chuckled. Slipping
his hands in the pockets of his pants, he shrugged. “And there’s no need for
the ‘sir’.”

“But Mr. Race-” I began to protest.

“I told you,” he good-naturedly interjected, “call me Alex.”

“I’d rather not,” I quietly admitted, realizing as the words
slipped from my mouth that if my goal was to make a good first impression,
arguing with the boss within five minutes of meeting him probably wasn’t the
best way to go.

He was no longer smiling. Instead, he studied me curiously.
“Listen,” he said. “I like to keep things informal because I’d like you to view
me as an equal. But, at the same time, I keep things professional. John will
tell you,” he added, nudging an elbow toward Mr. Joice.

As it happened though, Mr. Joice’s testimony wasn’t actually
called for.

“If it makes you uncomfortable to address me by my first
name, I’ll accept that,” he continued smoothly. “But you were happy to call me
‘Alex’ before you knew who I was.”

That was a rationale I could not argue with. When I thought
he was just another employee of Mr. Race’s, I would have been content to be on
first-name terms. So what was my problem; some kind of inverted snobbery? No,
it wasn’t that. But at Blue Rock, I had always called senior members of staff
Mr. or Ms. so-and-so. It was embedded in the company culture and seemed
disrespectful to do anything else.

“So,” he softly sighed, when several seconds swept past
without my reply. “What’s it going to be, Ms. Cannagh or Melissa?”

“Melissa is fine,” I offered quietly, nodding. I wasn’t
comfortable, but if it was the way he preferred things, I’d just have to get
used to it.

Thankfully, the rest of my first day went much more
smoothly. The plane flew from Teterboro Airport to Chicago, where Alex Race and
some of his board members had a meeting with a company they were in merger
talks with. The flight took a little under two hours, and I was simply on hand
to provide snacks and make cups of coffee. The five men and two women discussed
business matters openly, but I tried to make myself as discreet as possible,
drifting in and out and making a conscious effort not to listen to the details
of their discussions.

I also tried not to stare too often at Alex, who was an
incredibly attractive man. At a little over six feet and muscular without being
too bulked up, he was the very definition of tall, dark and handsome. It became
apparent as I got to know him better, that he was more than just physically
attractive. He was polite to everyone and endearingly lacked an ego for someone
of his success level; he was also intelligent and humorous.

Trying to deny that I was attracted to him would have been
ridiculous, but I did repeatedly attempt to push the feelings aside.
Nevertheless, I’d find myself blushing when I caught him looking at me from the
other end of the plane, and I felt painfully shy when he was flying alone and
would ask me to come and sit with him.

I did try to make conversation. “Is that a Nathan Altman in
the bedroom?” I asked, standing even though he’d asked me to take a seat in one
of the large lounge-style chairs near the front of the cabin.

“Yes,” he smiled, loosening his tie and leaning back into
his own seat. “Are you a fan of his?”

“Umm,” I responded hesitantly. “Yeah,” I shrugged. “He’s
produced some interesting work. I like some of his early Cubist stuff.”

His eyes lighting up, he nodded. “You studied art?”

“Only for a year in college,” I dismissed. “I enjoyed it,
but my parents didn’t think it would lead to a proper career. Of course, they
weren’t happy with the career I ended up in, either,” I added with a
self-deprecating chuckle.

“Financial services, right?” he asked, sitting forward and
resting his elbows on his thighs.

“Yeah,” I replied, realizing that I’d done exactly what I’d
sworn not to do and begun to talk about myself. “Anyway,” I quickly added, “I’m
sure you don’t want to hear about that. Can I get you another coffee?”

“No, I’m fine,” he responded. “Please, sit down. We’ve got
another hour until we land and I don’t want to sit here talking to myself.”

“Shouldn’t I be working?” I suggested, pointing to the rear
of the cabin.

“There’s nothing to do,” he shrugged.

Relenting, I sat down in the chair opposite him and, as he carefully
steered the subject back to art, we began to talk.***

A
s the days turned to weeks,
our conversations became more frequent. Alex was often flying alone and he’d
usually ask me to sit with him on both the outbound and return journey. Perhaps
inevitably, conversation did turn to private matters and I found myself telling
him about my experiences at an all-girls’ school and my time at college.

He, in turn, told me about the boarding school his parents
sent him to. And then, suddenly, our chat took an unexpected turn.  As we were
sitting next to each other on the couch, his body slightly turned toward mine
and elbow propped on the back of the seat. “I met my wife when we were both
freshmen in college,” he sighed.

“Oh,” I blurted, unable to disguise my surprise. “I didn’t
realize you were married.”

“I’m not any more,” he explained. “We’re divorced,” he
breathed, his eyes drifting to the floor in thought.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s okay,” he responded, forcing a smile. “These things
happen. And I don’t suppose we were really well-suited in the first place. My
parents wanted me to marry her and…” he drifted to a stop, before shaking his
head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I do miss Fin, though.”

“Fin?” I repeated.

“My son,” he explained, smiling as he reached into his
pocket and retrieved his wallet. Opening it, he offered it to me and I gently
took it between my finger and thumb. The little boy in the picture must have
been about three; he was a miniature version of his father, with big brown eyes
and dark hair that was a little messy.

“He looks lovely,” I said, giving the wallet back to him.

“Thanks,” he grinned. “He’s not always that sweet,” he added
laughing. “But…umm, I miss the little guy anyway.”

“You don’t get to see him much?”

“No, not as much as I’d like,” he softly announced. “Things
between me and my ex are strained, so she makes it as tough as she can for me
to see him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely.

Looking up, his eyes met mine and remained there for a long
moment. “Thank you for sitting here and listening to me,” Alex murmured softly.
“I umm…” he began, his right hand moving forward and settling on my knee.

It wasn’t an advance, it wasn’t a remotely sexual touch, but
the very fact that he’d touched me caused me to jump as though I’d been hit by lightning.

Snatching his hand back, he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry,”
he stated. “I didn’t mean to…I mean, I…”

“It’s all right,” I responded getting up. “It wasn’t your
fault, I was just startled.”

“Melissa,” he urged. “The thing is,” he added, his head
dropping for a second before returning to me. “I’m not going to pretend that I
don’t like you,” he said, “because I do, and if we’d met under different
circumstances, I think that…” He didn’t complete the thought. Instead, he
changed tact. “I don’t ever date people that I work with, it just makes things
messy.”