Delicious Delay

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  Delicious Delay

  Copyright © 2013 by Tara Quan

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-642-7

  Cover art by Tibbs Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Delicious Delay

  By

  Tara Quan

  ~DEDICATION~

  To my husband, whose career led to my eight-hour not-so-delicious delay at a desert airport.

  Chapter One

  Michelle Day fanned herself with the in-flight menu as she guzzled warming champagne. Hot air blew through the vents above her seat. At the height of summer, no air conditioning could win against the desert sun. Considering how long the plane had been sitting on the tarmac, she hadn’t expected the business class cabin to be comfortable. There had to be some sort of FAA regulation against this heat. She’d bet the security deposit on her New York apartment that the cabin temperature topped a hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  In hindsight, she should have made an effort to find out how much it would cost to switch her flight. A fire truck had pulled onto the tarmac less than fifteen minutes before boarding. Though she hadn’t seen any smoke, the number of coverall-clad workers who had scurried back and forth didn’t inspire confidence. The commotion had prompted her to ask a harried-looking airline representative whether the flight would be cancelled. He’d smiled and assured her the “minor electrical issue” had been resolved. After thirty hours of staying awake, she couldn’t have summoned the energy to make a fuss when boarding began.

  If the status quo persisted, she would melt into a puddle on the synthetic leather seat long before they reached JFK. They’d been circling the runway for the past thirty minutes—the captain had just announced over the intercom there would be an additional fifteen-minute delay. Even with an icy towel on the back of her neck, her body kept sweating by the bucket. The creases at her knees and elbows itched. Her bra’s underwire and straps chafed enough for it to be classified as an instrument of torture. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  After rummaging through her tote, she grabbed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She had planned on changing into more relaxed clothing after takeoff, but she wouldn’t survive until then. Because this Middle Eastern airport served as a regional hub—with passengers transiting from a number of very conservative Arab nations—she had erred on the side of modesty. While it met the no-shoulders-no-knees rule, her jeans and long sleeve button-down were the opposite of weather appropriate. Wearing denim had given her the mobility necessary for navigating the hectic airport in Chengdu, as well as her preceding transit through Beijing, but she now regretted the choice. She could wring droplets of sweat from both garments, and her legs would combust without immediate intervention.

  Making sure the ‘fasten seatbelts sign’ hadn’t yet blinked back on, she picked her way to the bathroom before slipping in and sliding the bolt shut. In record speed, she changed, washed her face, and wet her hair. Reemerging in loose-fitting cotton jersey material, she hurried back to her seat. Any moment now, they would take off. Once the plane gained altitude, the temperature would drop.

  Not long after she settled in, an announcement crackled over the speaker. Even before the captain finished, the man sitting at the far front of the cabin cursed a blue streak. She caught the words “bloody,” “bollocks,” and “incompetent bastards.” Since the statement had not yet been repeated in English, she didn’t have a clue what had upset him.

  She frowned. Only one person other than her had taken advantage of priority boarding. She hadn’t seen his face but had glimpsed floor-length white robes coupled with a checkered red headdress. The attire suggested he was a local—a well-heeled one, at that. What little she overheard him say to the flight attendants came in Arabic. To her knowledge, no one else flew business. So who just swore in a British accent?

  When she didn’t hear an immediate translation over the intercom, she poked her head into the aisle in hopes of finding another Westerner. She had lived overseas long enough to be wary of people from this region and would rather not approach a local for assistance. A handful of them swung pretty close to the ultra-conservative end of the spectrum and frowned upon many practices considered normal in Western societies. Women wearing trousers—let alone shorts—happened to be one of them.

  To her disappointment, she didn’t spot another occupied seat. The owners of the Arabic and British voices must be one and the same. She waited a while longer for a member of the flight crew to repeat the message in a language she could understand. But after a few minutes passed without an update, she feared clarification wouldn’t be forthcoming. Whatever had caused these successive delays must have made the captain forget about the translation.

  Michelle hit the call button and waited for a flight attendant. Garbed in a suit jacket, opaque stockings, and a headscarf-adorned hat, the lady who rushed toward her seemed on the verge of collapse. A loud crash sounded from the main cabin just before she reached Michelle’s seat. The lady smiled in apology before rushing to the curtain separating business class from the rest of the passengers.

  Unintelligible yelling harmonized with the wail of an infant, suggesting others shared her frustration. Because more passengers flew coach, the level of discomfort there must be several magnitudes worse. With young children present, excessive heat could be dangerous. Slumping in her seat, she pressed the call button to cancel her request for assistance. The crew should be focused on the people who needed their help most.

  Left with a single option, she made her way down the aisle toward the mysterious stranger. A fragrant aura of myrrh and spice surrounded him despite the trail of sweat trickling down the side of his face. His neatly trimmed beard covered his square jaw like a dark shadow. His cheekbones slashed high, at a dramatic angle. Supermodels would kill to possess those long curly eyelashes.

  Mid-thirties, she’d say, though he could be older. Born with oil-coated diamond spoons in their mouths, natives of the Gulf seemed to age at a slower rate than most.

  “Excuse me. Would you mind translating wh
at they just announced?”

  He whipped his head to face her. She had to stop herself from jumping back. Some people entered this world with a commanding presence, and this man epitomized the phenomenon. She wouldn’t describe his features as handsome—his face possessed a certain edge that would make most people avert their gazes. For some reason, hers remained glued to his almost black eyes.

  Feminine instinct stirred in awareness. Her knees shook. The tips of her fingers itched to touch his tanned skin. As if it had a mind of its own, her hand moved in his direction. Horrified, she diverted it to smoothen her hair and wipe perspiration off her face. Her mouth suddenly dry, she licked her lips. A tendril of heat lanced through her.

  His dark gaze raked her from head to toe before zeroing in on her bared legs. Having been cursed with short limbs, the gray cotton hem grazed the top of her knees. Nonetheless, his thick brows drew together, and those full lips firmed into a disapproving line. Faint crinkles formed on the bridge of his sharp nose.

  She resisted the urge to tug down her shorts. While her attire would be more than acceptable in the U.S., she understood how this man might find it offensive. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her spine. She was American, this plane on its way to America. If the guy couldn’t stomach a woman wearing shorts and a T-shirt, he should cancel his trip.

  Plastering on a winning smile, she repeated her question. “Would you mind translating the announcement? My Arabic isn’t very good. I was only able to pick out a few words.”

  The jaw muscle on the side of his face ticked. He seemed incensed about something, and she had a sinking suspicion her attire could be it. The awkward silence continued long enough for her to fear he wouldn’t bother with an answer. When he did, his snooty voice thrummed with annoyance. “The plane has been grounded. They’re asking passengers to prepare to disembark.”

  “Oh…. Thank you.” Her shoulders slumped as she walked back to her seat. The plane had come to a complete stop, eliminating her window of opportunity to change clothes. Passengers lined up at the exit, and the sweltering interior echoed with a duet of crying babies. The flight crew barred economy class passengers from getting off until the first and business class cabins emptied. Michelle wouldn’t dream of delaying everyone’s progression toward air-conditioning.

  She allowed the white-robed man to lead the way, figuring he had a much better chance of clarifying their options. He must’ve paid for his ticket, while she had upgraded using her huge bank of frequent flier miles. His traditional attire signaled a certain base level of wealth, and the Henk carry-on confirmed it. She had spent quite a bit of time researching luggage online—his Dutch-designed wheeler proved expensive enough to warrant its own article in Forbes.

  Though she found his judgment questionable, the man’s affluence didn’t come as a surprise. All citizens of this oil rich state received a stipend that far exceeded the median wage in most developed countries. Their lowest paying government job offered more per month than her entire year’s salary. Middle Eastern airlines had a tendency of treating their moneyed local clients with kid gloves.

  A member of the ground crew awaited them at the end of the ramp. Based on his accent, she guessed he hailed from the Philippines, from where Middle Eastern countries recruited employees for the lower rungs of their services sector. To do roughly the same work, East Asians received much lower salaries than their European counterparts. Both fared a notch above South Asians, many of whom toiled in the oppressive heat for a pittance, confined to labor camps.

  The harried-looking man led them back toward the airline lounge and offered assurances he would return to give an update. She and her fellow business-class passenger sat facing each other on the outermost sofa set. Avoiding eye contact, she crossed her legs and examined her fingernails. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as his sandaled foot tapped the marbled floor in a steady rhythm. She didn’t need to see his face to sense the disapproval rolling off him in waves.

  When she gathered the courage to glance in his direction, she found his gaze boring a hole into her uncovered knees. Despite the chilled air, her face burned. Mr. Conservative seemed to be on the verge of pitching a fit. With his mouth turned down and his brows drawn together, he’d need Botox to smooth all those wrinkles out.

  As the minutes dragged on, embarrassment morphed into indignation. She had worn bottoms that cut off above the knees, not committed murder. She might deserve to be ignored, but the unrelenting death glare gave “overkill” a whole new meaning.

  The angrier she felt, the more she babbled in an effort to smooth things out—an unfortunate childhood habit she couldn’t seem to overcome. “I guess I should have introduced myself. My name is Michelle Day.”

  He looked at her proffered hand as if it were an insect. Peeved, she didn’t retract it. If the man hoped to survive in America, he would need to learn some manners. Seconds ticked past. He scowled before meeting her palm with his.

  His fingers engulfed hers, reminding her of their difference in size. He stood over six feet, with broad shoulders and long limbs to match. Despite his obscuring attire, she could tell he stayed in shape. He could probably do some real damage if he tightened his grip.

  “You may call me Kal.”

  “Kal?” The name didn’t quite fit.

  “Unless you prefer Khalid.” His voice turned icy.

  “Oh…Kal is fine.” She rescued her hand from his grasp. Nervous, her mind settled on a neutral subject. “Is New York your final destination?”

  He nodded. The awkwardness stretched.

  His glacial gaze made her anxious. She uncrossed her legs and shifted in her seat. “Mine, too. Are you there to see the sights?”

  He snorted. “There’s not much to see. I’m traveling on business.”

  The man had abrasiveness down to an art form. “Well…ahh…good luck, then.”

  With perfect timing, an airline representative marched through the sliding glass doors. The stunning, beautiful blonde ignored Michelle and lavished her attention on Kal. She slid him what looked like a first-class boarding pass and spoke to him in rapid-fire Arabic. He must have been offered an upgrade to make up for the inconvenience.

  The same courtesy hadn’t been extended to her. She didn’t mind. It meant she no longer needed to share a cabin with him.

  When the woman finished speaking, she marched away without saying a word in English. Michelle took a deep breath and counted backward from ten. Service providers in this country treated expatriates like second class citizens. She had witnessed the preferential treatment on countless occasions in the short time she had spent here many years ago. “Excuse me, what did she—”

  Kal heaved a beleaguered sigh. “The plane is experiencing technical difficulties, and there is no other aircraft available. They are investigating options and will update us when they learn more. Since it is the height of summer, they do not have any other flights scheduled in or out between noon and sunset. Being the only business-class passengers on the aircraft, we will have this lounge to ourselves.”

  In short, her gilded limbo could stretch indefinitely. Changing time zones had worked in her favor, allowing this Friday morning to drag beyond its natural six-hour scope. She didn’t need to report to her new job until Monday morning. She had suffered this man’s company long enough. She grabbed her tote and hankered to just walk away. But someone had taught her manners. The same couldn’t be said of him. “I’ll go find another spot to settle down. Thank you very much for your help.”

  Khalid Al Dehri found his attention riveted to the American’s lush hips as they swayed from side to side. She traversed the less than five-yard journey with an innocent sensuality that brought his awareness to sharp focus. Unable to look away even after she reached the opposite corner of the lounge, he cursed the distance’s inadequate effect. Though her scent no longer filled his lungs, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Most petite women resembled sticks, but this one had curves that would fi
ll his hands. Despite narrow shoulders, her trim waist dipped at the middle, defining her hourglass shape. The close-fitting white T-shirt accentuated her full breasts, and those stretch-cotton shorts molded to her rounded bottom.

  She sat by the floor-to-ceiling window. The sun turned her brown eyes liquid gold and her ruby-colored hair a darker shade of red. Her creamy white skin boasted a dusting of freckles over her nose. Once she pulled the oversized hairclip off her head, her messy bun unwound into a waist-length ponytail. With another tug, those wavy tresses fanned out to frame her curvy body. She reminded him of a mermaid illustration he once saw as a child.

  From the moment he first laid eyes on her, his senses rocketed into a hypersensitive state. Crisp and clean, her perfume reminded him of the wind and sea. Her voice had been slightly high-pitched and laced with a wary edge—as if she had detected the hungry need pulsing through his veins. As he swept her exposed limbs with his gaze, arousal coiled in his gut.

  The uncomfortable stir of desire had fueled his instant disapproval. Unaccustomed to possessiveness, he lacked the ability to handle the emotion with any finesse. Too quickly, it morphed into impotent anger. He hadn’t wanted any other man to entertain the same thoughts racing through his mind. Having spent more than half his life in the United Kingdom, he knew how women dressed outside the Middle East. He preferred Western clothing to abayas and headscarves. But here, dressing the way this woman did invited trouble.

  Most of his peers viewed women as sexual objects—to be bought, sold, and traded. In his country, females who dressed conservatively signaled their protected status, while those who chose more revealing attire played with fire. He didn’t subscribe to the same world-view, but he knew how deeply it permeated.

  The way Ms. Day spoke, combined with the disarming earnestness in her gaze, made him doubt she wished to attract a rich benefactor. But her beauty and the way she chose to accentuate it gave off the wrong signals. If he weren’t the only man here, she would be fending off advances left and right.