I’m going to have to ask you to buckle up.” Lucas opened one eye lazily and looked up at the stewardess. She was young and pretty, but her looks were ruined by the drag-queen makeup that airlines seemed to insist upon nowadays—thick brown lip-liner filled in with pink shimmer gloss, too-dark foundation that stopped with an abrupt tidemark at the jaw line, and mascara so thickly caked it was a wonder the poor girl could open her eyelids at all. Combined with her severely pulled-back hair and starched orange-and-white uniform, the overall look was more dental hygienist than sex siren. Pity. He could have done with the distraction. “How long till we land?” he asked, running a hand through his thick curls. One of the few good things about his ignominious firing from the Herrick was that he no longer had to keep the hated Matt Lauer buzz cut and could revert to his favored disheveled look. For the flight back to Ibiza he was wearing battered jeans and a faded blue open shirt with a string of worry beads underneath.
