"There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror." – Orson Wells

Belle had never been on a flight before, but she was fairly certain that bees did not belong in the cabin of an aircraft.

Blessedly distracted by a commotion, she looked on as a small, indignant, bespectacled man argued with the flight attendant that he could not simple check his precious honeybees into the cargo bay. No, he preferred to carry them onto the plane. Bee Guy was told he could either surrender his winged companions or be escorted off the flight. He gave up the bee-filled case with an angry glare and stomped to his aisle seat in Belle's row.

She sighed in disappointment as Bee Guy settled down and the issue came to an abrupt close. Now that the drama was over, where would she focus to stop her racing thoughts? Looking out the window, she tried to self-soothe by counting the suitcases the baggage handlers hefted onto the conveyor belt. Bolstered by the calming activity, she reminded herself what she was doing on an international flight to Paris in the first place: she was going to win Victor back.

Under her breath, Belle began to sing. "One - We were meant to be; Two - It's what you said to me; Three - Now we've lost our way; Got to work to make love stay..."

Her "fight" song was interrupted by the arrival of a leather-clad man with brown hair to his shoulders easing into the middle seat. Belle rolled her eyes heavenward. Bee Guy on the aisle and Leather Guy in the center? She had really been hoping that the middle seat would remain empty so she would have more space, but no such luck. It was a full flight.

Belle slammed the window shade shut and dragged her fingernails over her arms, puckering her flesh into ugly, reddish scratches.

Leather Guy looked at the marks on her forearms and twisted his mouth into an unreadable expression. Already on edge, Belle went immediately on the offensive.

"You think this is funny?" Her voice was shrill and loud in the quietly humming aircraft. "You think someone's fear is funny? This is my first time on a plane," she said, holding her index finger in front of her pale face. "First. Time."

"What do you think, the plane is going to crash and we are all on the ground in a thousand pieces, dead? I promise you if it happens, you won't feel a thing." His accented voice was even, melodic and very, very French.

Belle stared at him, her blue eyes widening in horror. "You're French, aren't you?"

"Luc d'Or," he said, extending his hand with a smirk. "That's French for Gold."

"Oh my God, you are French!" she said. Ignoring his proffered hand, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock slowly to and fro. "I'm on a plane to France. Sitting next to a French guy. This isn't happening. Ok, Belle, breathe. Breathe."

"Oui, sitting next to a Frenchman on an airplane to Paris," he said. "Imagine that. Though I am curious, how did you get around your whole life? Or are you some kind of hermit that just stays in your house with all the doors locked?"

Her startled gaze locked with his whiskey brown eyes—sharp, intelligent, and haughty in his angular face. He wasn't conventionally handsome, no, but there was something arresting about him. Surveying the attractive laugh lines bracketing his mouth, she guessed him to be in his late forties.

As she tried to find a flaw in his features, he eyed her expectantly, awaiting an answer to his question. Caught staring, Belle flushed and snapped back. "I get around as nature intended—in a car!"

Over the intercom, a woman delivered information in rapid, cultured French. The voice sounded suspiciously like that Blue Fairy person from Belle's nightmare two evenings ago, which only heightened her anxiety.

"What did she say?" Belle demanded of Luc. "That sounded serious!"

"Oui, the pilot says there is a crack in the engine but it's no matter, he take off anyway," he said.

Before Belle could react to this alarming news, the message was repeated in English: "Please remember that the use of mobile phones and other electronic devices is strictly forbidden during takeoff."

Belle glared at her travel companion. "I don't know what they teach you in France, but rude and interesting are not the same thing!"

He merely chuckled, then leaned across her to slide open the window shade. Belle clenched her arms against her sides as the smell of arrogance and money invading her personal space.

The televisions blinked to life with a subtitled emergency procedures video and around the cabin several flight attendants were demonstrating the use of the oxygen masks and pointing toward the exits. Torn between watching the video and the rapid motions of the airplane staff, Belle whined, then raised her hand, frantic with questions. All too soon the demonstration finished, and the pilot was addressing the passengers.

"Folks, this is your pilot speaking. Welcome to Air Canada, nonstop service from Toronto to Paris. My name is Captain James Cogsworth. Our flying time today is an estimated 7 hours and 15 minutes. We're third in line for takeoff and should be in the air in just a few minutes. Have a pleasant flight."

"Ok, ok, ok." Belle whimpered, smoothing her shaking hands over her hair.

Luc had been observing her with casual interest, but her dramatics were beginning to annoy him. He had heard of aerophobia, but watching this young woman panic on an airplane was unnerving even him. As she closed her eyes and her head lolled back against the seat, he scowled, his gaze heavy on her sweat-sheened face.

"Look," she said, not opening her eyes. "I've almost got the stone castle going, so could you please just stop staring at me?"

"It is incredible," he said.

"What is?"

"Every muscle in your body is tense. Even the lids of your eyes. Your nostrils are closing up. How do you do that?" he asked.

Taking out her phone to send an SOS text to Ariel, Belle turned her head toward the window, willing this bizarre man to stop staring, stop talking, stop the damn plane!

"Come pick me up," she typed to Ariel. "There's a crazy French guy on the plane badgering me." She tapped the screen, impatient for her best friend's response. "Undeliverable," the message read. Great. Cell service was out already? Even Belle's phone was mocking her.

Despite her valiant attempts to ignore him he persisted. "Me? I love to fly. Especially this moment. The plane getting ready to charge the runway. The engines screaming. The pressure building. The force of it slams you back in the seat," he said. "Then whoosh, you are in the air. Everything else is behind you.

"There is only one other place in life where I feel this kind of exhilaration." He waggled his dark eyebrows.

"Where's that?" She relented, finally giving up on ignoring him.

"It is…"

"Never mind," she said, holding up a hand to quiet him. "Don't tell me, just let me guess."

Captain Cogsworth chimed in again over the intercom: "Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff."

"Oh God, I don't think I can do this." Belle began to pray, then moved to unbuckle her seatbelt. "I think it's time for me to leave."

Feeling sorry for her but not wanting her to realize it, Luc laid his arm protectively across her lap to keep her from rising. "We're about to take off, cherie," he warned. "Move now and you might get sucked out of the airplane."

She pinched his arm through the leather of his jacket and tossed the offending limb back in his own lap.

He gave her another contemptuous smile. Yes, he knew exactly how much he flustered her and was enjoying her discomfiture immensely. "Have you ever considered that maybe it is not the airplane?"

"What's not the airplane?"

"Maybe it is something else you fear?" he suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to say it?" he asked.

"Will I be able to stop you?"

"Because it is obvious to me it is not the plane you fear."

"Obvious to you. Obvious to you. I'm sorry, are you a psychiatrist?"

"Psychiatrists. Bah," he said, waving his hand with a dismissive flourish. "I don't need an ugly couch and a wood-paneled office to see what is right in front of my face, cherie. I know your type."

"Oh, really?" she drawled. "And what type is that?"

"You are afraid to live."

"Excusez-moi? What?"

"Oui, you are afraid of life, you are afraid of intimacy, you are afraid of love."

"Well, that is ridiculous," she scoffed.

"Ridicule? Non. I can tell from looking at your face, the way you dress, with your petite white shirt and cardigan sweater, your bag full of books." When he reached for her knapsack, overflowing with romantic novels, travel guides, and self-help books, he was rewarded with a smack on the hand.

Absorbed in the argument, Belle didn't even notice that the plane was now airborne. She was tired of being insulted by this infuriating stranger. Her fiancé had ditched her for another woman and she was in no mood for games and petty fights. She rounded on him. "Now you have a problem with reading? Don't they have libraries and bookstores in France? Or do people just sit in cafés smoking, drinking coffee, and stuffing their faces with cheese?"

"Ah, but you are obsessed with reading, non? You're the type of woman who wanders around with your nose stuck in a book, dreaming of life rather than living it!"

"What is the matter with you?"

"I know this type…"

"You don't know me! You don't know anything about me! And Victor never complained," Belle said, her voice rising with every word.

"You are afraid."

"I am not afraid! And for you to sit there with that smug expression on your face and tell me that I have a problem with my life and my Victor is insane!"

"Oui, cherie, you are very excitable," he murmured over her yelling. His amused countenance pissed her off even more.

"Because look at you, you're just some ignorant, nicotine-saturated and—I'm sorry to say—hygiene deficient, Frenchman!"

He snorted, and she saw that he was trying to conceal his laughter. "Mmmm, yes, je suis desolé. I'm sorry I brought it up," he said, holding his hand over his heart.

As she opened her mouth to retaliate, he directed her attention out the window with a low whistle. "Look. What a fantastic view."

They were soaring high above the cloud line, and Belle caught her breath. She was flying! The setting sun reflected off the expansive sea of whipped cream clouds, kissing the sky with glorious streaks of orange, mauve, and yellow. She was so high she had to look down to see the horizon. A surge of triumph rose in her breast. In that moment Belle French had never felt more powerful.

"Better now?" Luc asked, a bit more gently.

Unable to tear her gaze away from the splendor of the skies, she simply nodded.

"Excellent," he said. "You know, you haven't told me your name."

"That's because you didn't ask," Belle said primly.

"Oui, but I'm asking now. Or perhaps you don't want to share?" he teased. "Names have power."

Did the man mock everything? She sighed. "I'm Belle."

"Belle," he repeated, testing the name on his lips. "And your surname, Belle?"

"French."

"French?" Vraiment?" He was laughing at her again. "Your surname is French and you hate French people. Don't you think that is a bit, how do you say it in English…ironic?"

"I don't hate French people," she said, defensive. "Besides, soon my surname will be Whale." She held out the small diamond Victor had given her for inspection.

He gave the ring a dismissive glance. "Belle Whale. How…flattering."

What was wrong with her engagement ring? Insufferable bastard, Belle fumed. "You are so arrogant…"

"I did not say anything!"

But their bickering was interrupted by another announcement from Captain Cogsworth. "Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you are enjoying a pleasant flight. We invite you to relax, sit back, as our flight attendants proudly present…your dinner."

"Excuse moi, Belle," he said, rising from his seat. "I must find the washroom before dinner."

Belle closed her eyes. Pompous jerk. She wasn't going to look at him for the rest of the flight. Ok, maybe just to sneak a couple more looks at his backside. She groaned. Luc d'Or was impossible. It was going to be a very long flight.

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Up Next: Luc and Belle clash on the flight, Belle gets a little bit tipsy, and we find out that Luc has a big fat secret.