Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“And what work is that, exactly?”
“Sorry, love,” he said. “Even I don’t know that answer.”
“But you two work together?”
“On occasion. But we don’t work for the same people.”
What did that mean? He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he hurried us to a dark sedan, where he pulled open the back door and wordlessly asked me to get in.
When I hesitated, the mischievous glint grew in his eyes. “Trying to figure him out, are you? Good luck with that.”
I frowned, got into the back seat, and tried not to think about what he’d revealed, but it buzzed in my mind regardless. I see why he fancies you.
Fletcher shut my door then moved to get settled into the driver’s seat. “Do you speak German?”
“No. Why?”
“One of Ethan’s friends lives in Munich. He’s asked me to—”
An electronic trill came from his pocket, and rather than finish his sentence, he dug the phone out.
“We’re about to leave.” No greeting. That was how he answered it. His gaze flicked to mine in the mirror. “She’s fine.”
He turned in the seat and extended the phone to me. He didn’t bother to tell me who it was because it was unnecessary.
“Hello, Ethan.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, and I had to check in with Gio.”
It was strange to hear his deep voice unaccompanied by that intense gaze.
“That’s all right,” I replied. “You said it yourself. You don’t owe me anything.”
I kept it as professional as I could, trying to mask the sting of hurt. He was doing his job after all, I assumed, but once again, I’d lost out to the murderous Gio.
There was a long pause. “Are you okay? Your hand?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be long, but I’ll let Fletcher know not to wait for me if the situation changes.”
“You’re . . . you’re coming back?” Why the hell did my pulse quicken at the idea of that?
“That’s the plan. I’ll see you soon.”
“Ethan, wait.” I wasn’t really sure what to say next, but the words spilled from me just as unsteadily as I felt. “I’m sorry about what I did on the plane.”
There was no response. Had I not caught him in time?
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” he replied, his voice hushed.
It only made me feel more out of control. “Thank you,” I matched his low voice, “for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome. Stay safe.”
The call ended immediately, but I remained still, the phone pressed to my ear. What had just happened? I’d been so angry at him for leaving, and yet I was relieved to know I’d see him again.
When I went to pass the phone back, Fletcher shook his head. “It’s yours. His number’s programmed.”
There was only one number in the contacts list, and I felt both weightless and heavy when I read the name. Unfinished Business. My face heated.
The drive to the airport seemed shorter from this back seat. Again, I kept my head down since I was supposed to be dead.
There was a Gulfstream parked outside the hangar, only a few years old and in excellent condition. Nicer, faster, slicker than Vitale’s Bombardier. We didn’t linger in the car. Fletcher led me up the metal stairs and into the safety of the cabin.
The interior of the plane was nicer than the Bombardier, too. Captain chairs in white leather and rich mahogany panels that wrapped around the galley and obscured the attendant from passenger view. A large desk sat mid-plane, and in the rear there was a sliding couch for when passengers wanted to sleep.
I wouldn’t have minded a peek at the cockpit and a chance to talk shop with the pilots, but I didn’t want to bother them. This wasn’t my plane; it was theirs. Not to mention, I needed some damn answers from the Englishman.
A pretty, young woman in a uniform came out of the attendant station and smiled. “Guten Tag.”
“We’ll use English if you don’t mind, Victoria,” Fletcher said. “Can you serve lunch before we depart?”
The cabin attendant nodded and swished away in her pencil skirt.
“Explain,” I said, “what you meant about Ethan’s actions speaking volumes.”
He took a seat and pointed to one for me. “This is rather out of character for him. Quite shocking, really.”
The frustration swelled inside me. “Out with it already.”
“Risking his cover that took fucking months to build, to get you out? Brilliantly stupid. And now, tucking you away in Munich, when you should be on the first flight back to America.” His blue eyes filled with amusement. “You’ve heard my theory about his motive.”
My gaze fell to the phone in my hand, the contact name repeated in my mind. I didn’t want to admit to myself that excitement had flashed through me. I glanced away, focusing in on a logo on one of the TV screens. Osterhägen Beverage.
Oh. My. God.
That was why the name was familiar. The press coverage of the CEO of Osterhägen had faded from the news cycle, but it had been a huge story when it happened. The brewery bombing. The American hostage. This was Ethan’s friend?