Who Needs Mistletoe?

knowing what was around the next corner.

Slipping out of the house, she walked across the small lawn to a point that overlooked the bay. People paid thousands of dollars to come and admire a view like this, she mused. The steeply raked crags covered with lush vegetation, the turquoise water and white sand, the little fare, surrounded with flowering vines and bushes.

Perhaps she might convince her father to sell and find a place in Pape‘ete. Maybe then she could meet some people her own age, maybe even find a man to distract her from her troubles. She flopped down onto the lawn and stared up at the sky, the dampness from the rain soaking through her pareu.

Though she was emotionally exhausted, something inside her couldn’t seem to rest. She felt as though she was ready to jump out of her skin. She smoothed her hands over her body and closed her eyes as the rain pelted her face. The sensations her hands evoked were enough to remind her how long it had been since she’d been touched by another.

It had been nearly a year since she’d enjoyed the pleasures a man’s body offered. Though her Irish-American father would be more than happy if she decided to enter a convent, her French mother had given Sophie a very practical and healthy attitude about sex. One must accept that a woman has desires, her mother had told her, and they must be fulfilled. There is no sin in acting upon these feelings. As long as both parties agree there will be no promises the next morning.

After she finished flying Peter Shelton around the islands, she’d take a little bit of the money, buy herself a new dress and find herself a man, Sophie decided. There were always tourists at the resorts on Tahiti and Bora Bora, handsome men who’d offer a temporary diversion.

She’d make it her goal to ring in the New Year in the bed of a sexy man. “I’ll make it happen,” Sophie muttered, stretching her arms above her head and arching her back. “A lover for New Year’s Eve. And for New Year’s Day.”

But would a few nights in a man’s bed really satisfy her? Or would she still have to make some more drastic changes in her life in order to be happy? “I’ll start with the lover,” she said, sitting up. “Then we’ll see what happens.”

TREY SHELTON GLANCED at his watch then cursed softly. He was already an hour late and the taxi he’d hired at the hotel had managed to get him to the airport but no farther. “Are you sure you don’t know where Madigan Air is? It’s a well-known charter company.”

The native driver peered at him in the rearview mirror. “Non. Maybe this way?” he said in heavily accented English, pointing to a small cluster of hangars on the periphery of the Faaa airport.

“Let’s try there,” Trey suggested. “Someone should know.” He’d hired the plane for three days, but he hoped to get his business settled early so he might enjoy a short vacation in paradise. He’d spent last night with an attractive Polynesian dancer from one of the local clubs and he’d promised to meet her that evening for dinner. Though she’d been interested in spending the night in his suite, Trey had begged off, explaining he had an early morning.

Since he’d begun working for his father a year ago, Trey had been forced to leave his jet-set Casanova lifestyle behind. Six months ago, he’d ended a relationship with a somewhat crazy, but sexy, English actress. Since then, he’d had a few one-night stands, but they’d left him more confused than satisfied.

He’d spent his adult life indulging in one whim after the other, all of it fueled by a seemingly bottomless trust fund. But now, at age twenty-nine, the money was almost gone and the lifestyle with it. His father’s job offer was his only option.

“Ah!” the driver cried, pointing at a rusty sign dangling from above a hangar door. “Nous sommes ici! Madigan Air. Voila!”

Trey paid the driver in colorful French Pacific franc notes, then grabbed his bag and slid out of the cab. He slowly walked through the huge overhead door into the interior of the hangar. The place was a wreck, parts strewn everywhere, a bent propeller dangling from the ceiling, an old girlie calendar hanging on an open office door. A small amphibious plane was parked inside. Either the guy on the phone had oversold the company, or Trey was in the wrong place.

“Hello?” he called. “Anybody home?”

“Bonjour!”

The female voice came from the direction of the plane.

“Is this Madigan Air?”

“Oui. This is. You’re late,” the voice said. “When you didn’t come, I decided to do some maintenance. We’ll be ready to go in about fifteen minutes. Just find a seat and relax. I won’t be long.”

Though she spoke flawless English, Trey could detect a French accent. He approached the plane, circling around the front until he came upon a slight figure standing on a small ladder, her head bent over an open engine compartment. He expected her to be cleaning the windows or polishing the mirrors, not wielding a wrench!

She wore a skirt made of fabric so thin he could see her bare legs through it, a tiny T-shirt didn’t even cover her midriff and her dark hair hung well below her shoulders, held back by a colorful scarf. She’d tucked a flower behind her ear, the creamy-white color a stark contrast to her deeply tanned skin. “Are you sure you should be messing with that? Maybe you should wait for the pilot.”

Her head snapped up and he met her gaze. Trey’s breath caught in his throat as the most stunning pair of sapphire eyes fixed on his face. He watched as her expression quickly shifted from thinly veiled annoyance to embarrassment. A pretty blush colored her cheeks and she forced a smile. “I-I am the pilot, monsieur,” she murmured.

Trey couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re the pilot?”

She straightened her spine. “What? You don’t think a woman might be capable of flying a plane?”

A smudge of grease marred her exquisite complexion. Even from this distance, he’d become lost in her eyes, rimmed by long, dark lashes. Her features were perfectly balanced, and even without a bit of makeup, her beauty stole the breath from his lungs. “No. Of course not. I was just…surprised, that’s all.”

She grabbed a rag, wiped her hands, then climbed down the ladder. “It seems I’m both. Pilot and mechanic. Sophie Madigan.” She said her first name in the French way, with the accent on the last syllable.

“This is your plane?” he inquired.

“No, it belongs to my father. But I fly it. I am a licensed pilot,” she said. “There is no need to worry, Mr. Shelton. I know what I’m doing.”

He reached out and took her slender fingers in his, shaking her hand. God, she was stunning. This island was teeming with gorgeous women, but this woman put them all to shame. She was slender and delicate, with long legs and graceful arms. Her clothing clung to every curve of her body and if he had to guess, Trey would venture she wasn’t wearing a whole lot underneath.

“You are younger than I expected,” she said, a tiny smile curving the corners of her mouth. Her gaze was still fixed on his face, her eyes slowly taking in his features. For a moment, he thought she might say more.

She didn’t seem to recognize him, even though his name should have given him away. Trey’s reputation as a celebrity playboy usually followed him wherever he went. The press had dubbed him the male equivalent of Paris Hilton. They’d documented his exploits with women and poked fun at the various careers he’d attempted.

Most women found his bad-boy reputation irresistible. But he found the thought of going unrecognized for once intriguing. What would it be like to be judged on his own merits rather than an image perpetrated by the press?

“My friends call me Trey,” he said, turning on his most dazzling smile. She still showed no sign of recognition.

“Tres? Tres what?” Sophie asked, frowning.

He chuckled softly. “My name is actually Peter Shelton the Third. My grandfather was the first and my father was the second. I’m the third. Trey.”

“Oh, like un, deux, trois. Well, that makes sense then,” Sophie said, dragging her hand from his. “But I’ll call you Mr. Shelton. Okay, just have a seat and let me finish and we’ll be on our way.” She climbed back up the ladder, then gave him an odd look.

“I’m good right here,” he said. “I’d be happy to give you a hand.”

She shrugged and went back to work. His gaze slowly drifted along the length of her body, lingering on her