Gray Skies

Copyright © 2014 Elle Emtage.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3086-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3087-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3088-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908098

iUniverse rev. date: 06/23/2014

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Chapter 1

I shivered lightly and looked outside. We were in the middle of autumn, and chilly air greeted the curling smoke of the engine’s exhaust. The folder beside me was filled with invoices, receipts, schedules, and other documents. I took it up and studied the features of the young CEO emblazoned on the cover who seemed to glare right back at me. We had been on the train for the last seven weeks, prepping each stop for the arrival of his train, which was traveling two weeks behind us. I returned the folder beside me and snuggled into the down comforter and fell asleep almost immediately. Weird as it might seem, I actually liked sleeping on the train. For as long as I could remember, it felt as though I wasn’t getting enough sleep. My dreams were interlaced with people and places I didn’t know. In the last few weeks I’d begun having nightmares that all ended the same way—with me falling into a never-ending pool of white light. Often, the whole experience left me with a pounding headache when I awoke.

The hum of the train, however, lulled me to peaceful sleep on most occasions. On this occasion, the change of speed when the train came to a halt roused me from my dream of billowing clouds and dancing shadows. I quickly put on my jacket and steadied myself. I looked outside and was awed by the sight. We had arrived in Italy just after the summer tourist rush. It was the only place I knew that got greener as winter approached. I was pleasantly surprised by the lush landscape dotted with wild boars, hares, and pheasants, which I was sure were embracing the freedom of a tourist-free landscape. I briefly caught sight of worn cobblestone paths and structures which seemed to be lost in time, and in a few moments I felt an unexplained peace wash over me.

Around eight weeks ago, I had packed my bags, left Japan, and joined in on the bright idea of our public relations department: a ten-week stint aboard a train as a good way for the owner of the company to build relationships and foster employee relations. Because he employed just over thirty thousand, very few ever met Dunstan Moab in person. He shied away from the public eye, and his private life was very private. On the rare occasion that he was actually seen outside his corporate office, he seemed to be continuously shrouded in lawyers and administrative assistants.

I disembarked and picked up the nervous energy from my colleagues almost instantly. On the stop before this one, we had learned that he had joined my train, thus missing three stops. It was a logistics nightmare, but I had to admit that even I was a little giddy when I found out that he was on the same train, a giddiness that intensified when I caught a glimpse of him in the dining cabin once or twice. He was just as astonishingly good-looking in person as he was in every other medium that I had seen him in, dispelling any notions of falsity created by airbrushing.

Dunstan stood just over six feet with dark wavy hair. His eyebrows were perfectly arched over ash gray eyes, but there was a veil of sadness in the creases of his brow. His olive-hued skin was impossibly smooth. I surmised that this was a result of lavish massages, luxurious spa days, and a very balanced and catered diet. To me he seemed impossibly perfectly proportioned, and I couldn’t stop looking at his face. If he wasn’t a multimillionaire mega mogul, he easily could have been a poster boy for some obscure brand of jeans, designer cologne, or excessively expensive underwear.

We all bustled over to a temporary meeting room that had been converted for the operations team. I was in awe of the brand-new station, which was a close replica of the Riyadh metro station, right down its reflective canopies, steel and glass facades, and tree-lined central atrium. I found a quiet spot near one of the bars, away from the bustling operations team, to organize the rest of my day. In a few minutes I noticed raised voices of people around me and peeped around the beautifully potted plant to see what was happening. There he was, scanning the buzzing entourage of employees that fluttered around him, listening carefully with his head slightly tilted as he was briefed on his schedule. I didn’t think that he had any idea what his early visit had done to create total panic and chaos in my camp.

I moved to the executive lounge, one of fifteen that had been built at selected station stops, to meet with the chef of the restaurant that Mr. Moab would be visiting that night. I spoke quickly to the nervous chef in his native tongue instead of English, to get through the conversation quickly and more easily. I calmed him as best as I could and upon conclusion went on to take an incoming call from the Japanese office. They were stressing about the collapse of one of the real estate deals we’d left for them to seal. I ducked behind one of the larger pillars closer to the bar so that I could speak firmly yet kindly to the frantic Japanese. A bartender near me watched somewhat curiously with a boyish smile on his lips. People were sometimes curious about how quickly I could switch languages, though to me it was just natural. Or maybe he was working up the nerve to ask me something. He looked me over appreciatively and nodded toward the glasses of breakfast drinks waiting, to which I shook my head.

Like I could afford to drink right now, I thought, although a stiff shot of something bitter and potent might do me good right about now. I turned to face the bartender as I listened to the issues on the other line and became so absorbed in my conversation that I barely glimpsed his sudden change in stature as he looked over my shoulder at someone behind me. I whirled around and crashed into muscle and bone beneath taut skin and a wonderfully sweet but subtle musk.

I’m so sorry, I muttered. I looked up, and my heart came to a complete stop when I realized I had accidentally bumped into Dunstan himself.

It’s okay, he replied, his hand reaching out to steady me as I almost lost my balance. Somehow his voice matched his appearance. Dunstan Moab, he said with an outstretched hand. As I returned the gesture, I hoped that my palms weren’t sweaty. For a fleeting moment I could have sworn that his grasp was shaky, but surely that was my imagination.

Yes, yes, I know who you are. Those were the only words I could muster at first. My name is Destiny Tallum—I’m attached to Language and Logistics, I said after a pause, sounding much more confident than I felt.

Ah, yes, the language expert, he said more casually than I’d expected. I’ve heard good things about you and your team. Keep up the great work.

He ordered his drink, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. Thank God that my jacket hid the traces of perspiration threatening to stain the silk of my inner blouse just from the sound of his voice. It was commanding yet gentle and polite. He could make you want to do what he asked without being forceful. I took a sharp breath to counter the light-headedness that I felt. Apparently, I had forgotten to breathe. He had the scent of masculinity—that was the only way I could describe it. It was woodsy, mixed with a sprinkling of fresh linen. His lips parted slightly to reveal perfectly framed teeth, which seemed natural but impossibly white. A vein throbbed slightly in his defined neck, and as he swallowed, I noticed that it moved with the act. It was cute. His nose was perfectly proportioned, and his eyebrows looked as though they were etched in place. It was impossible for one being to be so perfectly made. His body was taut and lean, and although I could probably spend a night or two dreaming about what he looked like beneath the layers of clothing, it was his eyes that held me captive.

How are you coping on this trip? He asked. I mustered enough self-control to provide him with a response.

Everything is going according to plan. I was vaguely aware that despite my efforts to appear calm and collected, my heart was doing flip flops all over itself, and I was praying that he did not notice. Beneath striking long eyelashes lay pools of gray light shimmering in the morning sun. I felt lost in his eyes. There were no words to describe them. His eyes appeared almost transparent, yet they seemed to bore right through to my soul. His dark eyebrows arched perfectly away from his eyes, as if he wanted to know more about everything.

It’s different, but in a good way. I added. He simply nodded and turned his head back to the bartender, who served him, and, to my surprise Dunstan politely thanked him and dropped a tip in the tip jar before walking away, briefly stopping to nod to me as he turned. Within a few moments he was enveloped in his crowd of people, and I was left fanning the flames that leaped around my heart.

I finished the series of meetings that I had set for the day long after Dunstan had left the lounge, but I couldn’t get his face out of my mind. My head throbbed dully as I recounted the thirty-second encounter. How was it that impossibly rich people could also be so impossibly breathtaking? I had followed his movements throughout the evening and carefully observed his interactions with everyone he came into contact with. At moments, I worried he might think I was stalking him—well, to be truthful, I was—but I was sure that I’d camouflaged my efforts to the best of my ability.

Before meeting him, I had told myself that he was probably arrogant and self-centered, knowing that all these people were at his beck and call, yet his voice was surprisingly gentle, and he was pointedly polite as I watched him during one of his briefings during the day. He listened attentively when spoken to, although I could almost see the mechanisms in his mind whirring away in between conversations. His gray eyes would darken in concentration and become light in laughter. Surprisingly he did that too—laugh. I didn’t know what I expected of him, so I pocketed the memory of the day and headed back to the train to wrap things up with my team.

A few days later, we approached our next stop, the city of Milan. I was looking forward to that visit because it had been some time since I had been in the city. I had a few hours free in the morning, so I wandered the streets to the Civic Gallery of Modern Art. I spent an hour walking through the museum, enthralled by the pieces on display and admiring the great collections of paintings, mainly by Italians of the nineteenth century. But what I loved even more was the villa itself and the magnificent garden behind it. I absolutely adored this tiny bit of paradise in the buzzing city. A small falls with a pond was home to ducks and swans, and just being there made you feel rested. It was unseasonably warm, and there were several locals and tourists taking advantage of the huge lawn. Despite the beautiful surroundings I was blessed with, I couldn’t ignore the pang of loneliness I felt as I watched families huddling together while pointing at the city’s sights.

In the gardens I noticed two guys in animated conversation and found myself drawn to them. One of them held the hand of a bouncy blonde who seemed only partially interested in their conversation. She turned around, and for a brief moment, when our eyes met, I was certain that she smiled at me. I politely returned the gesture and found myself wandering toward them. However, before I got any farther than a few steps, another group joined them, and they headed away from me. They all seemed vaguely familiar, but they were too far away for me to figure out who they were. I continued walking with no real direction, and I could see them in the distance still engrossed in their conversations. Pretty soon the blonde who had smiled at me planted a long kiss on the lips of the one holding her hand, and I could feel a tug on my heart strings. This was met with some sort of playful banter directed to the one who had received the affection of the blonde. She turned around suddenly and looked in my direction once again before entering the building, and I was sure that she smiled at me once more.

The other group members now stopped and appeared to resume their conversation. I was drawn to them and couldn’t seem to stop staring at them. At one point one of the taller guys looked in my direction, even pausing long enough to shade his eyes against the sun. I wasn’t sure who or what he was looking at, and I couldn’t make out his features beneath the hat that was pulled low, almost covering his eyes. I quickly turned my head, and by the time I glanced back again, the group was gone. Why did I do that? I wondered. I just couldn’t seem to open up to anyone at all. As silly as I knew it would sound to others, I felt as though I belonged to someone, and fate just hadn’t drawn us together yet. I would like to belong to young Mr. Dunstan though! I thought. I giggled and walked back into the