Melina Wilder hated airplanes. Even the touted luxury of Business Class was torture next to the ecstasy of using her own wings. Unfortunately, she couldn't fly from Vancouver to Ireland without the benefit of a jet. She had been tempted to try it, though.
A curse had left her and her siren sisters wingless except under one condition—sexual encounters with others could, for a short time, restore their ability to fly. From the beginning, Melina had indulged less often than her sisters—that is, until recently. And then she found herself on the receiving end of Claire Larkin's lesbian awakening. They spent two full days exploring each other. That experience had reawakened Melina's own sexual hunger—so much so that she hadn't spent more than two full days without sex since her interlude with Claire.
A steady diet of women and climaxes produced enough residual energy in her that she felt she could have flown twice around the world. But she wouldn't risk it. The sirens never flew across wide oceans or inhospitable terrain. They had no way of knowing how long their wings would last after any given interlude.
On this trip, moreover, Melina had to conserve her wings for the foes she would be facing in the Emerald Isle. That was the other reason she had resigned herself to the ten-hour trans-Atlantic flight inside an aluminum tube.
She hoped the drive from Dublin to Kenmare would hold more amusement for her. She didn't mind the current wait at the limousine rental office. It felt good to stand and stretch. And she was enjoying the altercation between the harried clerk and his haughty client.
"Why am I still waiting?" the customer asked. Her overly patient cadence implied she was anything but.
The clerk recognized the tone as well. "I'll just see about the delay, ma'am," he said before escaping.
His tormentor was an expensively dressed woman in a cream colored blazer with dark piping that matched the deep grey of her tailored skirt. A black scarf with white polka dots accented her ensemble. Melina loathed polka dots. They were unimaginative and hard on the eyes. The small circles on this pattern made it only slightly tolerable.
The woman's brown hair was done up in a French twist that aged her. But when she removed her sunglasses, only a few lines were visible around her eyes. Melina decided she was somewhere in her thirties. She was conventionally beautiful, to be sure. Melina would have been attracted to her, if not for the persistent disapproval in the woman's pursed red lips. They seemed to tighten further when the clerk returned with a young female chauffeur in tow.
"Apologies, Lady Beatrix," he began. "I've just gotten word that one of the two vehicles we had available has broken down and won't be repaired until this afternoon."
"Well, as I am only one passenger, I only need the one vehicle," she replied.
"But this lady also needs a vehicle," he said indicating Melina, "and she booked our limousine service in advance. You are Miss Wilder, are you not?" he asked her.
"I am," she replied with a smile.
"So you're giving this woman my car?" Lady Beatrix challenged.
"Actually, ma'am, Quinn here has a suggestion."
He tipped his head toward the twenty-something red-haired woman. Her attire was uniform—a black suit, white shirt, dark-green tie, white gloves, and a black chauffeur's cap. Darts in the garments cinched them in all the right places, showing off her feminine curves to flattering effect. Black pumps completed the ensemble, the low heels attesting to the young woman's skill at balancing sense and fashion.
Melina studied her face. She noticed an irresistible dusting of light freckles across the bridge of her pert nose, which was itself framed by alert blue eyes and friendly, bright pink lips. She found her quite simply adorable. She noticed that Quinn's hair was done up, too. French twists were apparently all the rage in Dublin.
"And what is Quinn's suggestion?" Lady Beatrix asked skeptically.
"Well," the clerk continued, "since Miss Wilder is on her way to Kenmare, and you are destined for Cork, which is on the way, Quinn wonders if the two of you wouldn't mind sharing."
"Oh, she does, does she?"
Melina detected the sharp edge of disapproval in Lady Beatrix's tone and in her head-to-toe scrutiny of Quinn. She decided to step in before the woman could dig her lacquered talons into their winsome driver.
"What a marvelous idea!" she said.
She was lying, of course. She couldn't think of anything worse than spending three hours with the abrasive Lady What's-Her-Name. But she knew that if the woman became insufferable, she could turn on her charm, un-purse those lips, and have fun with her. Melina was, after all, a striking woman. She had powers of persuasion that had nothing to do with being a siren. She flipped her long brown hair back, turned her blue-green eyes on the woman, and arched her back seductively, a gesture that pulled on the silk of her shirt to reveal some of that charm.
"It would give us a chance to get to know each other," she added rather intimately.
That got Lady Beatrix's attention. Her eyes landed on Melina's cleavage and then roamed down her curves. The survey nudged the condescension from her face and replaced it with curiosity.
Melina glanced over at the driver and was thrilled to see the young woman looking at her breasts, too. Her eyes then darted up to Melina's and remained there unabashed. The small smile on her face indicated she understood what Melina was doing. There was evident appreciation in her expression, for both the gesture and the cleavage.
The clerk failed to notice any of these exchanges. "Naturally, we would discount each of your bills by fifty percent," he said.
"Let's keep this simple," Melina replied. "Just put the entire expense on this," she added, handing him her charge card.
It was the exclusive Centurion Card, more famously known as the Black Card, an invitation-only, no-limit American Express. It was a symbol of wealth and privilege that Melina rarely flashed about, but she sensed it would impress Lady Beatrix. Judging from the woman's raised brow and half smile, she was right.
"As you wish, Miss Wilder," the clerk said taking her card. "Quinn can stow your luggage in the boot while I process this."
The driver began placing the bags on a cart to take them outside.
"Mind you don't scuff them," Lady Beatrix instructed. She trailed after Quinn leaving Melina alone with the clerk to settle the bill.
*****
When Melina got to the vehicle, she was pleased to see it had a traditional styling. The exterior was black on the sides and top with a steel grey front and back end. The six-passenger interior space had two banks of grey leather seating running the width of the vehicle and facing each other. There was ample carpeted leg room between them, enough to accommodate the addition of a small round wooden table with inserts for six flute glasses and a filled ice bucket in the middle. She recognized the yellow label on the bottle as a Veuve Clicquot.
The side panels were wood accented with nooks for more glasses, bottles, and snacks. Push-buttons in the recesses by each corner seat provided passengers with controls for the glass and privacy dividers, the intercom, the sunroof, and the interior lights. The limo was also outfitted with displays and speakers for personal entertainment. Melina doubted she would need them. She always found interesting ways to entertain herself.
She could tell already that the seating arrangements were going to provide a bit of fun. The Irish, like their British neighbors, still had the quaint custom of driving on the left side of the road—something having to do with keeping your sword arm nearer to potential oncoming opponents. A nearly universal custom for limousine travel, moreover, was that the position of privilege was the curbside back seat, also on the left side in Ireland. That's where the boss would sit. His second in command would sit to his right. Assorted minions and underlings sat opposite them in the rear facing middle seats. This was the seating that abutted the partition between the driver's area in front and the passenger compartment in back.
By the time Melina reached the limo, Lady Beatrix had already commandeered the privileged spot for herself. Evidently, she was intending to assume command of the rental that Melina was paying for. The cheek on that woman, Melina thought. Centuries of dealing with other egos, however, had taught her to avoid squabbling over minutia, so she accepted the rear facing seat with unflappable grace.
By way of counter strategy, however, she sat on the left side, too, which afforded her two advantages. She could angle sideways later and ogle the lovely Quinn through the glass partition. And by sitting directly across from Lady Beatrix, she closed the physical and social distance between them, a message that she knew her worthy opponent would receive.
The curbside door where they entered was still open. Quinn leaned in through it to speak with them.
"Excuse me, ladies," she said. "We'll be getting started shortly. We have a planned stopped at the halfway mark to Cork, about 90 minutes into the first leg of our journey. But please let me know if you need to stop sooner. The controls for the intercom and such are by your hands."
Quinn's lilting Irish brogue charmed Melina to no end. She wanted to hear more, but it was Lady Beatrix's stuffy British voice that nosed in.
