Mykael

She smiled at me. It was a startling sight, not only because it brightened her features and lit up her sparkling green eyes, but also because from what I knew of her family, I should have been beneath her notice. I couldn't help allowing a small smile in response, and I was surprised it wasn't entirely faked. There was something about Gabriella Chastain's smile that made it difficult not to reciprocate.

Ruthlessly, I squashed that response and turned away from her for a moment, reminding myself why I was here. I had flown in to the airport to arrange a connection so she and I would be on the same plane as she headed home to the Chastain family from her university, where she had just graduated.

I had arranged it all so neatly, and I wasn't about to blow it on one smile from her. Forcing my expression back to one of polite neutrality, I looked back, but she was gone. She had moved from her seat to do something else, probably visit the ladies' room. The silly young woman had left her suitcase right where she'd been sitting, and anyone could steal it.

I shook my head at her laxness, reminding myself she had been attending a university in Switzerland for the last four years, and I was sure it was a different environment there than it was in the United States. Still, I couldn't help keeping an eye on her bag for her until I saw her slipping from the restroom a moment later. I couldn't resist the urge to watch her get closer, her curves making my mouth water and my cock twitch. At least that part of my plan wouldn't be any problem. I just had to find a way to get her alone.

She had barely returned to her seat when they called for boarding. Once again, she met my gaze and smiled at me before gathering up her bag and her purse to walk toward the gate. I waited another moment, physically willing away the erection trying to form from her smile. What the fuck was wrong with me? I knew what kind of people the Chastains were. I had seen the evidence of their cruelty with my own eyes, and I'd been living with the aftermath for six years. I was finally in a position to do something about it, to get some revenge, and here I was reacting like a horny teenager to a smile.

Shaking my head with disgust at my actions, I got up and went to join the line, ending up a few spaces behind her, with a boisterous family between us. It allowed me a chance to observe from a distance without getting too close.

She was pretty, which seemed like a tepid word. She had a generous ass and an hourglass frame, with moderately sized breasts that would fit nicely into a man's hands. Flowing black hair, silky and straight, touched the curve of her ass, and I could imagine running my fingers through it, stroking it away from her face as I bent to kiss her creamy, pale skin.

I forced myself to imagine what I actually had planned for her, picturing my dark hand in that black hair, dragging it back as she whimpered in protest. At least that image banished my hard—on, though I felt a stirring of doubt about actually carrying through with my plan for the first time since formulating it.

No, dammit, I wasn't going to allow an unwanted wave of conscience to deter me from the path. Chastain deserved everything I could throw at him, and if harming his daughter was one way to do it, I'd just have to suck it up and ignore my own moral compass for the night.

When we boarded the plane, I was surprised to find myself seated beside Gabriella. Well, not quite beside. There was a seat between us, and since the flight was only half—filled, it seemed obvious it would remain free. She must have reached the same conclusion, because she put her purse there and used both armrests with an air of someone stretching out to get comfortable.

I did the same, setting my laptop bag on the seat beside her purse, my gaze unwillingly drawn to the rounded mounds pressing against the white short—sleeved sweater she wore, which would be far too hot for New York. I wondered what she tasted like, and if her nipples would be soft pink, rosy red, or even a brown shade. I had been with a couple of white girls in the past, and one of them had brown areolas. That had surprised me, since I'd thought only black girls had those until that experience.

My first white girl had been much more typical, with her rosy pink areolas and slightly darker nipples. I couldn't remember her name now, which made me feel guilty, but I had been fifteen at the time, and she had been sixteen.

Rowena. The name suddenly popped into my head as I remembered the circumstances surrounding our hookup. I had been a novelty to her, just a bet between her and her girlfriends that she couldn't get some black cock. She'd had me one time and had been done with me. I'd had a little bit of an infatuation for her before that night together, but it quickly died when I'd realized what a bitch she was.

Kind of like the girl sitting beside me. Oh, she seemed polite enough, but I knew the evil festering in the Chastain home, and there was no way she could have escaped it. No doubt, she was just as racist and heartless as the rest of them.

Damned if she didn't seem to want to disprove that assumption as she started talking to me. At first, I answered her in monosyllables, wanting to discourage myself from getting to know her. It could only make my plan more difficult. However, she persisted, chipping away at my walls a word at a time until we were finally engaged in a comfortable conversation about musical theater of all things.