Ryan Saunders opened the white, laminated security door with his keycard to enter the public side of Heathrow Airport. He carried his uniform over his forearm in a neat, flexible canvas holder. The company rules stated that he had to change into civilian clothes if not on duty, and as he was about to deadhead back to New York, he had changed his attire.
Not that there was any hope of taking off soon, though. At the best of times, Heathrow was an extremely busy airport – the busiest in Europe – but today the place resembled a war zone. Thick fog had descended over the area, showing no signs of clearing. He had checked the METAR’s, and the forecast didn’t show any mercy either. Dense fog, so typical for London, clung to the ground, preventing all traffic, and was predicted to do so until very late that night.
He had two options: to check in to an airport hotel and wait for the fog to clear in comfort, or stay at the airport, and hope the forecast was wrong. Experience told him that the first option was the only feasible one.
The mass of people stranded at the airport milled about and the din that filled the large waiting area carried a distinct note of impatience.
Small groups of people gathered. From the body language and the annoyed comments he heard as he passed the irate customers, he was lucky he had changed into his civilian clothes. If he had strutted around wearing his co-pilot’s uniform, the milling crowd would probably have lynched him. He shot a pitying glance at a couple of female airline clerks who were desperately, but professionally, trying to cope with the hoards of dissatisfied people.
Need for caffeine made him stop by a café. Surprisingly, the queue wasn’t too long, so he decided to join it, thinking he’d buy a take-away for the journey to the hotel. It wasn’t far, but his addiction to coffee ruled his life.
He observed an elderly couple in front of him, trying to decide what to eat, holding up the queue. They seemed to be arguing about the cost of a tuna sandwich.
“How hard can it be, to buy a sandwich?” A woman’s voice behind him made him turn to look.
Her face, although frowning, was sophisticated—one of a classic beauty. Symmetrical, a kind of Grace Kelly look with a modern hairstyle; honey color with highlights of lighter, sweet cream - full, wavy, shining, shoulder length and neat, indisputably shaped by a professional hair dresser. The clothes she wore were tasteful, a business woman attire - a dark beige jacket, a sparkling white blouse and over knee-length, straight skirt. Shapely legs clad in nylon stockings ended in a pair of classy high heels.
Her hazel eyes held a frustrated look as she stared at the old couple, obviously willing them to move on.
“I’m not in a hurry, so please, go ahead.” Ryan gestured with his hand, offering her a chance to pass him in the queue.
Her gaze connected with his, and a smile appeared on her face, spreading into her eyes. “Oh, no, thank you so much, but I’m not in a hurry either. Just a little annoyed that people can’t make their minds up before they join the queue.”
Ryan smiled back. “Well, it’s all this choice that confuses them. If these places only served say—dry doughnuts—we wouldn’t have this problem.”
“My God, wouldn’t that be awful.” She laughed.
“Please, I insist.” He took a step back to let her past.
“Oh, alright. Thank you so much.” She moved in front of him and peered at the selection of salads.
“Don’t mention it. The fact is that we’re stuck at this airport for the next five to ten hours, so it makes no difference if I stand in the queue for another minute. Letting you pass isn’t that great a sacrifice for my personal convenience.”
“Ten hours? What makes you say so?” The woman stared at him, clearly disturbed.
“It’s my job to know.”
She lifted her eyebrows in a silent question.
Perfect eyebrows, he thought. “I’m a pilot.” He leaned closer to her and whispered, grinning. “But please, don’t tell anyone, or I’ll get lynched.”
The woman shifted her gaze back to the choice of salads, clearly trying to hold back laughter. She turned to face him again, eyes glistening with joy. “Surely the fog’s not the pilot’s fault?”
“No, but this crowd’s looking for someone to blame. I don’t want to risk being exposed.” The grin on his face refused to die as they moved another foot along the counter. The elderly couple had finally decided to go for the shrimp sandwiches, the more expensive choice. Now they were bickering about whether to buy coffee at this hour.
Ryan shared a look with the woman, and smiled. The equally warm smile he received back touched his heart.
She turned her attention back to the selection of food on the self-service counter. He observed her with leisure, as she was so focused on choosing a dish that she paid no attention to him staring at her.
Her beauty was astounding. A smooth, silky hair reached below her shoulders. Her complexion was clear, luminous. Deliciously rounded, full breasts, narrow waist and hips just wide enough made her appearance sexy, inviting.
A rush of lust constricted his lower stomach. The mild, teasing pressure between his legs indicated it was time to stop drooling over her.
He turned his attention to the disposable coffee mugs, picked a lid and stood patiently, waiting for his turn.
She lifted a portion of Greek salad onto her tray and turned to him. “If you’re a pilot, why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”
“On my way home, on vacation. We have to change into civilian clothes if not on duty, that’s the rule.”
“I assume home is in the States, judging from your accent?”
“That’s right. Originally from Boulder, Colorado, these days residing in New York.”
“And you’re in London…?”
“I flew in from Bangkok this morning. My shift ended here, so I’m deadheading back home on my company’s New York route, if it ever takes off.”
“Deadheading?”
“Traveling on an empty seat for free. Sometimes on the flight deck, sometimes on the passenger side and sometimes with the flight attendants, depending on the plane type. Perks of the job. Free travel, I mean.”
“I see.”
“And you’re heading to?”
“Milan.”
“Right.”
The elderly couple finally managed to pay for their purchases and left the queue, carrying a tray filled with coffee, sandwiches and two large Danish pastries.
The woman was about to dig her purse to pay for her salad when Ryan reached over her and handed in his credit card.
“I’ll pay for both.”
She turned to look at him. “Oh, you shouldn’t have. I have money.”
Ryan laughed as he signed the slip. “I’ve no doubt you do, but this way we get out of the line quicker.”
She smiled. “Well, thank you very much, Mister—?”
“Ryan. Ryan Saunders.”
“Thank you, Mister Saunders. That was very kind.”
“My pleasure, Miss—?”
When she smiled, one side of her mouth rose higher than the other one. Ryan’s insides constricted, sizzling with electricity. Her smile was smoldering hot, gut wrenchingly sexy.
“Annette Lund. Pleased to meet you.”