Not how she’d have ordered coffee in a bar in Rome—requesting a caffè in Italy automatically got you what the rest of the world labelled espresso—but Evelyn wasn’t Italian, and Marietta wasn’t in the mood for weak, watery coffee.
Evelyn tilted her head. ‘Un caffè ristretto?’
Marietta felt her brows climb and the other woman laughed. It was a pleasant laugh. Bubbly and bright.
‘I know.’ Evelyn winked. ‘Who’d have thought a gal from Mississippi would know how to make proper Italian coffee.’
Marietta couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘You just improved my morning.’
Another long-lashed wink. ‘My pleasure, honey. One coffee coming up,’ she said, and Marietta decided right then that she liked Evelyn. Very, very much.
A short while later they were airborne. An hour after that they were cruising at forty-one thousand feet above sea level, halfway between Rome and their destination of Toulon, on the southern coast of France. Marietta knew this because Evelyn was a veritable fount of information. Unlike Nico who, aside from enquiring about her comfort prior to take-off, had uttered scarcely a word in the time since.
He sat in one of the cushioned club-style seats on the other side of the cabin, facing in her direction, so that if he looked up from his laptop they could easily converse. He hadn’t. Not once in the last sixty minutes. Which made the challenge of snagging his attention almost impossible to resist.
‘Here you go, honey.’
Evelyn placed a glass and the bottle of mineral water Marietta had asked for on the shiny walnut table in front of her. Marietta smiled her thanks. The honey might have sounded patronising from anyone else. From the tall, statuesque American it was just part of her charm.
Marietta watched her return to the other end of the cabin. It had to be an exciting life, jetting around the globe. Evelyn wore no rings, so presumably she was single, free of ties. Marietta didn’t doubt she worked hard, but the perks had to be rewarding.
She waited until Evelyn was out of earshot before speaking. ‘I like her.’
Nico’s head came up and in her mind Marietta did a little self-congratulatory air-punch. Finally she had his attention.
‘Pardon?’
‘Evelyn,’ she said, and watched to see his reaction. Because he had to know how beautiful his flight attendant was. No man could fail to notice a pair of legs as long and toned as Evelyn’s, never mind that everything else about her was flawless and elegant.
Though Marietta felt sordid even thinking it, she couldn’t help but wonder what level of ‘personal service’ Evelyn gave her boss. They were two beautiful people in the prime of their lives; they had to be aware of each other. Evelyn embodied the kind of physical perfection a man like Nico would no doubt look for in a sexual partner.
And yet he was frowning at her as if he hadn’t a clue what—or whom—she was talking about.
‘Your flight attendant,’ she said, and stared at him, astonished. ‘You don’t know the names of your flight crew?’
He shrugged. ‘I have many hundreds of employees,’ he said, his tone implying that he considered that a perfectly adequate excuse—and then he returned his attention to his computer.
End of conversation.
Marietta sniffed. ‘Well, I like her,’ she said to the top of his head. ‘She’s very good at her job. And she has spectacular legs.’
That got his attention back.
He looked at her and she shrugged. ‘I’m an artist,’ she said. ‘I appreciate beauty in all its forms. And you have to admit Evelyn has great legs.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Really?’ Her voice rang with disbelief.
‘Oui,’ he said, holding her gaze for a drawn-out beat. ‘Really.’
And then something happened that she wasn’t prepared for. His gaze dropped. First to her mouth, where it lingered for several seconds—long enough to make her self-consciously moisten her lips—and then down to her chest, where it rested only briefly. And yet the effect of that very deliberate scrutiny was so shocking, so profound, he might as well have touched her.
Heat prickled over her skin, from her neck to her breasts, and her heart pounded so hard, her pulse beat like the wings of a moth trapped in her throat.
Then his gaze came back to her face and she knew he must see the heightened colour there. One side of his mouth did that flickering thing again. That quirk that wasn’t quite a smile.
‘I’m a breast man myself,’ he said, as casually as if he’d said he preferred beans over peas, or his steak medium rare, and then he went back to his work as if the air all around them wasn’t sizzling and popping in the wake of that brief, electrifying exchange.