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Flying [MultiFormat]
eBook by Pat Cromwell
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eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: Sequel to Behind Blue Eyes.... Vincent Rutland is complex. Eliot Marie Lays is a woman haunted by tragedies. Their one and only meeting is emotionally and sexually explosive. It starts a chain of events neither anticipated nor can control. The meeting is literally devastating for Eliot and life altering for Vincent. It's also the catalyst that leads him to Antoinette, Eliot's beloved friend. While he has a special bond with Eliot, it is Antoinette who captures his heart, his soul, and ultimately his trust. But she is hiding a secret from Vincent--a secret that is directly related to that night. Once revealed, will he find it in his heart to forgive her or will he choose the path of no return that Eliot has embraced?
eBook Publisher: Amira Press, Published: 2008
Fictionwise Release Date: April 2008
Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [584 KB], eReader (PDB) [187 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [169 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [151 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [214 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [198 KB], hiebook (KML) [424 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [251 KB], iSilo (PDB) [140 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [176 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [242 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [237 KB]
Words: 54633
Reading time: 156-218 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 978-1-934475-61-4
 
Vincent Harrison Rutland, the twenty-six-year-old son of Jonathan Rutland, boarded the transatlantic flight from London to Chicago. He didn't particularly care for flying, but because of his responsibilities to his half-brother Damien, he had no choice but to be in America several times a year. He had learned to deal with the nauseous feeling that always assailed him the minute he boarded a plane. It was just one of the many neuroses he'd paid thousands of dollars to free himself of. Therapy didn't work. Not for his fear of flying, or any of the other questionable behaviors and rituals he exhibited externally, or of the thoughts that plagued him internally. At times, he felt as if there were a gatekeeper in his brain who kept guard over the secret, the answer to everything that perplexed him and contributed to his laconic behavior. Once seated on the plane, Vincent inhaled slowly and closed his eyes, then tapped his fingers three times. This, too, was a ritual. He knew all the peculiarities that would follow, but he was helpless to stop them. His therapist told him his problems stemmed from his childhood. Vincent had figured that out years ago. But knowing something and eradicating it were two different things. Until he could get rid of the gatekeeper, he was trapped. Vincent had accepted long ago that he was an enigma to the people in and out of his circle. But not in the way, his father had cultivated a mystique. His father was a giant, a revered and immortalized American hero. Even when officially labeled an adulterer and the much younger Eliot Marie Lays had given birth to their love child, Jonathan had still managed to emerge from the scandal smelling like roses. But then, how could his flock of fans not understand. Jonathan had literally fallen out of the sky and had been presumed dead. They were so overwhelmed with happiness that their hero was alive, they forgave his indiscretion and firmly planted him back on the Rutland pedestal, the very pedestal that resided next to John and Bobby Kennedy, Charles Lindbergh, and so on. Vincent's modus operandi was secrecy. He was no one's hero, something he unconsciously longed to be. His Uncle Alex had lambasted him that very morning for being so stark, uncaring, unfeeling, and less than human because of his vagueness, his I-don't-give-a-damn-about-anything-or-anyone behavior, and his overall poor outlook on life. Alex had gone so far as to accuse Vincent of being a sexual compulsive. He told Vincent he substituted sex for real emotional involvement and his total disregard for women was just another manifestation of Vincent's "Mommy, Daddy, and newcomer Eliot Marie complex." Vincent responded in his typical manner by slamming the phone down, thereby ending the call and Alex's intuitive and on-the-point summation of Vincent. "To hell with Alex!" Vincent murmured under his breath. The plane was in the air now, and Vincent had performed his rituals and felt perfectly calm. He looked around at his fellow passengers, wondered briefly what their stories were, and then moved on to the flight attendant who was busying herself passing out condiments and drinks at the front section of the aircraft, slowly edging her way toward him. Their eyes made brief contact, and her lips curved into what he called "the famous Mona-Lisa-Fuck-Me Smile." He tossed aside the remnants of Alex's very accurate analysis of him into the darkest recesses of his mind and concentrated on the gorgeous woman who was now openly flirting with him. He scrutinized the sexy flight attendant who was, Vincent noted, making an elaborated production of passing out drinks to the male passengers on board the flight. She smiled suggestively at him as he handed her his empty glass in exchange for the new one. He adjusted his weight slightly in his seat so he could get a better view of her cleavage, but his eyes were drawn to the little beads of moisture that made the skin between her breasts shimmer. He wondered what it would be like to run his tongue along that slippery coast, to playfully bite her nipples, to watch them grow in depth and width and then feeling the hardened texture against his tongue. Without any thought to potential consequences, Vincent did what he did best--reduced his here and now to physical gratification and emotionless companionship. That was all he knew, because he was the unofficial mascot of a jaded society that did not care for anything beyond simple pleasure. The reduction of everything to physical intimacy was Vincent's way of dealing with the demons he ran from. It was his way of reconciling his existence, which was riddled with failures, with his father's triumphs. Vincent accepted that he would never quite measure up to his father, that he would always be second best and never special in any one's eyes, and he compensated for his lot in life with an overactive, well-trained, and polished libido. "Will we be landing in Chicago on schedule?" he asked her, flashing his best bad-boy smile. This type of interaction was Vincent's forte. This was Vincent beating his father and being more than Jonathan Rutland. His father had one paramour other than his mother. Vincent had several. The flight attendant leaned over him slowly, allowing Vincent to get a good, swift smell of her perfume as she handed a drink to the older gentleman who sat next to him in the window seat. He took a quick but thorough glance at her ass. "Yes, sir," she replied quickly, avoiding eye contact with him. She smiled politely, her lips pursing seductively. "Are you going to be in Chicago for a while?" he asked her. She hesitated a moment and took a good look at him. Vincent assumed she was sizing him up, wondering if he was worth the risk. Her calculation of his worth started with his face, and Vincent catalogued in his mind without any modesty what she saw as her gaze drifted over him. He was handsome, had a sexy British accent, and was in his mid-twenties. Of course, she would appreciate his lean yet muscular body, the dark, wavy hair that complimented his pale white skin. There was a faint smile on her face when her gaze settled on the bit of hair between his Edwardian nose and his lips. He was sure his lips would cement the deal. Some of the most gorgeous and exciting women he'd known had told him that his lips were perfectly defined and definitely kissable. Her eyes lingered on the diamond stud earring in his ear. She took special note of the gem, and he assumed she was wondering if it was real. Yeah, baby, he thought, I am most definitely from the same formula that God used to create all bad boys. She pulled herself upright, and Vincent could practically hear her utter "Yes, lover," in a low, throaty voice. But then she looked down, her eyes perused his clothing, leveling off on the old pair of beat-up Nikes that he wore. Her eyes arched slightly, and Vincent knew he would not be sharing his bed with her tonight. Well, damn, he thought as he interpreted her decision. He was sitting in coach, wearing a simple black T-shirt, worn jeans, and an old pair of running shoes. She had no way of knowing that whenever he traveled, he wore the same pair of beat-up running shoes, sat in an aisle seat exactly two rows from the bathroom, and always in coach. His method of travel was like a rabbit's foot for good luck to appease his obsessive-compulsive disorder. Shit! That quickly the door to explore her ass naked in the most lewd manner known to man slammed shut, leaving a loud echo resounding around him. It was a mental rejection, but very painfully obvious to him. Despite his cover-model looks, his less-than-flattering traveling attire cemented the deal. She probably considered spending time with him as slumming in Chicago, and she would no doubt try her luck with more interesting bait on board the plane who had expressed the same level of interest in her. "No," she said politely, but firmly, and then she quickly turned her attention to the couple seated across from him. Vincent expelled a heavy sign. That had been fast. There was no hesitation in her decision. He had not been shot down that quickly before, well, at least not since the last time he had been in the United States. He frowned. He thought he was losing his touch, and then he quickly dismissed the idea. American women were so vain and materialistic, no matter what their race or religion was. They loved to play hard-to-get. He sipped his drink and chalked the rejection up to the fact he looked penniless. Her loss! He was far from penniless. He was a Rutland, a name synonymous with Rockefeller and Vanderbilt financially. He was worth close to a hundred million dollars. At least that was the figure at the close of the stock market the night before. "Tough break," the man who sat next to him said. "American women," Vincent said as he shrugged his shoulders. "They all think you're supposed to chase after it, pay lavishly for it, and then maybe you might get it. Mick Jagger called it right in his song 'Some Girls.'" Both men laughed at the comment. Vincent watched the flight attendant as she pushed the cart down the aisle, concentrating on her legs. They were long and gorgeous. He was definitely a leg man. It was his fetish. He liked the feel of a good pair of legs wrapped around his back, especially high-maintenance legs like hers. He smiled and sat back in his seat. Closing his eyes, he fantasized about having those long legs straddling him so firmly it would be hard for him to move. He would like to tame her! But he knew by her abrupt takeoff from him, that he didn't stand a chance. Not that it mattered. This was a business trip, not one for pleasure. Per the captain's instructions, he adjusted his seat belt for landing. He checked the time on his watch; right on schedule. He had a couple hours before meeting with his Uncle Alex. He hoped Ms. Eliot Marie Lays had come, signed the forms, and had left before he got there. During the last five years, he had managed to avoid coming in contact with her, and he was more than fine and happy about it. He had only seen pictures of her on television, in newspapers, and, of all places, in his parents' home. He wanted to keep it that way. * * * *He never could make clear in his mind his mother's relationship to Eliot, or to his half-brother. But a part of him understood his father's obsession with her. She brought out a man's basic instinct to take care of her and to protect her. Vincent liked the demure type, especially if she was a lady in public with the instincts of a world-class slut in the bedroom. God save him from the little kitten who craved vanilla sex. He wouldn't know what to do with her. The only thing nice he wanted in his bed were sheets. It was hard to find a woman with both qualities, not that he was particularly interested in finding one to keep. He was young, rich, and handsome. Except for his damn obsessive-compulsive disorder, he was enjoying his life and intended to maintain it as it currently was: unattached. He thought about his father's little paramour. As had always been the case, his father had scored in an area he had only dreamed of. Yeah! That Eliot, he thought. Now she was the perfect chameleon. The not-so-sweet rendezvous they shared in his mind would make the most hardened dominant male blush. In his mind, Vincent had taken Eliot in every position he could conceive, so now his fantasies of fucking her had become repeats. Vincent first saw her on television, walking off the plane with his father. The images of her and his father bombarded him for weeks, and the image of her tiny frame was burned in the part of his mind reserved for all things in his life he wanted to forget, but could not. Rather than allowing his mind to feel sympathy for her, he created a sordid x-rated movie starring Eliot, the woman he constantly referred to as his father's whore. Although Vincent was able to escape the media and remain pretty much obscure, his mother had not. She was the third piece to the puzzle that made the tabloids swim in profit heaven. The media had managed to find the most China doll shots of Eliot. She always had a sad, waiflike, clingy, needy look. It was as if she were yelling, "Help me!" While his mother had always been athletic and feisty and strong, Eliot was the opposite. Her photos were of a contradictory woman: sexy as hell with an uncanny mixture of fearfulness and hurt. She was childlike in that you knew she had been hurt somewhere along the way because of those sad, doelike eyes. Vincent figured those qualities had appealed to his father because at Jonathan's age, it made him feel needed, vibrant, and young again. The interest in them soon faded in Europe, but American gossips would not let it die. The Biography Channel profiled his father, concentrating more on the five-week period Jonathan and Eliot were together instead of his business brilliance and the life his parents had enjoyed. Sitcoms had story lines patterned around the young girl-old man theme. That was the main reason he decided to stay in London and call it home. Whenever the buzz surrounding them began to fade, something new would come along--her illness and temporary commitment to EsCare Mental Hospital, the baby, his father's death, and finally his mother's death. Now the media was clamoring for information on his half-brother Damien, something he found unacceptable. Damien was the one true innocent in the sordid media drama that their life had became. Why, the speculation was, had Harriet Rutland left half of her estate valued at twenty million dollars to her late husband's illegitimate son? The conjecture also included polite innuendo that "that girl" had somehow managed to ingratiate herself into Harriet Rutland's life and walk away with even more of the Rutland's riches. Vincent really hated the stories now circulating about his brother and the newfound interest in Damien. Because of the strong sense of family loyalty Vincent had been raised with, he wanted to squash those stories and protect Damien. He wanted Damien to grow up like him, untouched by the media instead of a freak show like the Kennedy clan or the Onassis girl. When his mother died and he came back to the States, he had mulled over getting in touch with Eliot and Damien. But at the time, he decided against it. He thought it best under the circumstances that they continue as they always had, through attorneys and accountants. His mother provided handsomely for Damien, although it had not been necessary. Damien was extremely wealthy from the trust fund their father had created for him. Vincent's mother's will stipulated both he and Eliot equally share in decisions affecting the money she left in trust for Damien. Vincent knew Harriet's goal was to force a bonding relationship between Vincent and his half-brother. But Vincent wasn't interested in bonding with Damien. He wanted to protect him, but Vincent wasn't the big-brother type. It would be a cold day in hell before he would watch some little kid play baseball or hockey or whatever little kids did now. Besides, how could he save his brother when he was having a hell of a time trying to save himself? It was easier for Vincent, and in his mind, safer for Damien, if he just stayed away. So, he avoided thinking about Damien. His attorneys kept him informed of his little brother, but he had never met him. He'd only seen pictures. And there were plenty of those, he discovered, when he retuned to California to handle his mother's affairs and close up the house after she had died. There were dozens of photos of Damien throughout the house in comparison with the few he saw of himself and his father. There was only one photograph of Eliot, however. It was in a silver frame, and it sat on his mother's bedside table. It was of Eliot and Damien together. The photograph was haunting because of Eliot's pose. Vincent found it disturbing. The lost look in her eyes made Vincent uncomfortable when he first saw it. Her pose was the opposite of his little brother's. Damien had a huge grin on his face, mugging for the camera, but Eliot's was subtle, almost forced. The expression on her face reminded him of the typical lost tourist in London. He could spot the "lost tourist look" a mile away. They always had the same expression on their face, not sure of where they were, looking around frantically hoping to find the right person to show them where to go. It was then that he had really become obsessively envious of his father. The jolt of pure jealousy attacked his very core. She looked so tempting and fragile and hot! If such a thing was possible: a hot chick with sad, baby-doll eyes. Her caramel skin was exotically stimulating to him. Her hair was cut short so nothing distracted from the perfect face she possessed. He loved women--all colors and shapes and sizes--but he especially loved black women. The way the sun's rays danced off their skin. The variety of skin tones to choose from was like visiting Baskin-Robbins and sampling the 31 Flavors. He got off on that image alone. They seemed to also have a way of melting at just the right moment which made him feel like God's gift to them. They would gladly put you on a pedestal and just as quickly kick your ass off when you fucked up. He liked a woman who could fight. And they did it best. He knew he was stereotyping a whole race of women, but he didn't care. He loved all women--they all had their good points, he just had a preference. He kept that particular photograph of Eliot and Damien, packing the others away. He told himself that he wanted it because of the charming image of Damien, but that was a lie. He kept it because of her.
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