I wordlessly walked behind him. No, walking wasn’t right. It was more like gliding. I floated through the sliding door and wasn’t bombarded with a cesspool of noise and bustle since there were only a handful of people inside the lobby. A smiling attendant greeted us that seemed far too congenial to work at an airport. Instead of standing in a security line that crawled, having to remove my shoes and getting molested by some woman who wasn’t any happier about it than I was, I flew right through security.
The driver handed over my bag and I took it gingerly, realizing that I had no cash to tip him. That’s what rich people did, right?
“Mr. Whitmore has taken care of everything, Miss Montgomery,” he said, reading my mind. “Have a safe flight.”
I pulled up the bar on my bag and drug it along as I took in the quiet surroundings. There was no strip mall feel here, no walking past endless gates and scouring the place for monitors with flight updates. No bobbing and weaving around people willing to take you down to make their flight.
I sunk into a leather seat tucked near sliding doors that led to the jets and ruffled in my bag for my itinerary. I scrolled the check-in information along with finding and boarding the plane.
I still couldn’t believe that Jacob Whitmore thought I was worth the trouble. Not that any of this came free of conditions. They burned in the blue fire of his eyes when he cornered me in the dressing room. Obey. And keep my lips zipped. I wasn't particularly good at either. But with his body against mine, his hands staking claim to me, damn it if I wasn't putty in his hands. Even though I found his type A antics infuriating, everything I learned in feminism 101 went out the window as soon as he touched me.
"Miss Montgomery?"
I glanced up in surprise, taking in the woman standing in front of me. She was dressed in a navy blue suit with silver buttons that glimmered like gun metal. Fiery red coils sprung from a doll like face, the one thing that seemed to revolt against her otherwise tailored appearance. I felt an instant connection to her, like we were long lost sisters of the Girls Whose Hair Won't Do Right club.
"My name is Maggie Hall. I’ll be servicing your jet today," she said smoothly, extending a pale hand.
I shook it gingerly and rose to my feet. "Oh! Thanks for servicing me.” Yikes. That came out creepy. “I mean...for attending me...or, uh, the plane.”
I was grateful when she smiled instead of looking at me like I was an idiot. “Your first time traveling in a private jet?”
“That obvious?” I said with a nervous chuckle.
“You’ll be fine,” she said supportively. “Oh! I was given this by Mr. Whitmore...” She reached into her purse and handed me a slender white envelope. "You are to follow the instructions prior to boarding the jet."
I frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Mr. Whitmore requests that you read this and follow the instructions before you board." Before I could open my mouth to protest, she held up a hand in defense. "I'm just the messenger."
I slowly took the envelope and watched as she moved to the exit, sending a wave of heat whooshing into the waiting area when the doors slid open, then closed.
Sweat exploded at my temple and found company with the bitter taste in my mouth. Follow the instructions before boarding? I had a feeling that ‘Remove all traces of your poor-ness’ was scribbled on the paper. Couldn't contaminate his precious jet, now could I?
I broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out a crisp piece of paper. "Remove your-" I read the last bit silently, shock moving across my body like wildfire. I had to read it twice and the words still punched all the air from my lungs.
In brisk curves and fierce lines, his requirements were simple: Remove your bra and panties prior to boarding.
Remove my underwear? I thought incredulously. Hell no!
He'd told me to wear the colorblock dress for the flight and I was already breaking into hives thinking about how close I'd been to revolting and wearing the sheer black dress because of the heat.
“Absolutely not,” I said to myself, my voice hoarse. “I won’t do it.” Who cared if I signed a contract, agreeing to submit myself to his will? Rough, kinky sex, was one thing, but no underwear? Didn’t he know that I wasn’t some A cup waif that could go topless without flopping about?
My cheeks darkened as it sunk in. Of course he knew. That was the whole point. Making me uncomfortable. Reminding me who was in charge.
I turned quickly, swinging my bag over my shoulder. I was just going to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I wasn’t, under any circumstances, taking off my bra and undies. I kept repeating it, over and over, even as I stepped into the stall and slowly pulled off my comic boy shorts. It would have been easier to pretend I wasn’t giving into his humiliating request if I could just magically remove my bra without taking off the dress. No such luck.
When I pushed out of the stall, my bra and underwear were a bundle of cotton and polyester in my bag. I held my breath as I rushed out of the lobby toward the loading dock, focusing on the tail end of the aircraft. I just needed to find the jet and get on board before a strong wind made a neon sign of my na**d body.
“Miss Montgomery?” Maggie stood at the landing of a set of stairs leading up to the belly of a jet. “Are you ready to board?”
I couldn’t manage an actual response so I just took a step in her direction and hoped she took it as some sort of affirmation.
“I’ll take your bag.” She reached for the Frankenstein-like thing and did me a solid by not holding it gingerly between two fingers. “Mr. Whitmore is in the sleeping chamber and requests that you join him as soon as you board.”
Something in her voice told me it wasn’t a request at all and I couldn’t help but hesitate, lingering at the landing and wondering what he had planned.
She picked up on the awkward and leaned in, dropping her volume to a whisper. “You’ll be just fine.”
I knew she meant to make me feel better, more at ease, but I couldn’t help but think about the last person that tried to give me advice. Skye from Le Magnifique came rushing back with her wiggling eyebrows as she pretty much lumped me in with every other girl that cycled through Whitmore’s office and bed.
I didn’t say another word, holding my head high as I walked up the stairs. I said yes, but he didn’t own me. This wasn’t Pretty Woman. I had a degree. I was here to work, damn it.
My temper cooled as I stepped into the crisp body of the jet and took everything in. Gone were the cold, uniformed seats packed tight like sardines like on a commercial plane. In their place were four reclining chairs to the right near the window and a table to the left flanked by two more. The chairs weren’t made of the horrible pleather material, instead, a rich, mahogany cow hide that was soft to the touch. The walls were lined with wood paneling giving off the vibe and atmosphere of riding in a luxury car instead of a plane. Even in flats, I could feel the plush carpeting beneath my feet.