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“Don’t worry,” he says. “My baby brother Santiago works there. That’s why it came into my mind when you asked if I had any ideas on where they may be going.”
“Seriously?” Excitement floods my body. “This must be kismet!”
“Kiss-what?” He laughs.
“Kismet,” I say. “It means ‘meant to be’—us running into one another tonight, it was destined by the stars.”
We follow a dark road, dense forest on our right, a tall fence on our left. The space is like a dark tunnel, save for the soft yellow glow of intermittent streetlights.
Enrico gives a shrug, his hands tight on the wheel. “All I know about the kissing-met-stars is that I’m an Aquarius. My sister Lana says I show all the classic signs. She’s into all that star sign stuff.”
“I’m a Virgo,” I say. “Your total opposite. I’m type A and you’re an idea person. You need someone like me in your life to keep your head on straight.”
He laughs. “I have been told I’m a bit of a loner, but I like connecting with people, chatting and such. I think that’s how I came to love being a driver.”
The black sedan pulls up to a small stone gatehouse.
I try to get a glimpse of him, but the windows are tinted too dark.
We bypass the sedan, following the line of fencing toward the back of the airport. I watch through the metal and greenery to see what I can. There are several white, gleaming, smaller aircraft parked or circling the tarmac.
I crane my neck to get a better look out Enrico’s window at the planes. “One of those must be waiting for him.”
“Yeah. The owners can call up at the drop of a hat and my brother and his guys will have the plane scrubbed up and ready for their pilot to board.” He pulls up to a smaller stone gatehouse at the back of the property.
“It’s the employee entrance,” Enrico says. He puts down his window, reaches his arm out, and presses a button.
We wait.
A moment later, a head pops out of the open archway. The face of a mini-Enrico smiles at us. “Hey bro! Whatcha doing here?”
“How’s it going, San?” Enrico leans out of the car window. “Got a friend here who needs to see about a jet.”
I give San a quick rundown of the situation, sharing as few details as possible. I am undercover after all. San gives us the okay to pull onto the tarmac.
“But don’t bother the owners,” he said. “I’ll get canned if there’s so much as a complaint attached to my name.”
“I won’t, I promise. I—” The threat of risking another person’s job worries me. What am I doing? I paste on a professional air. “I just need to confirm the man I’m following gets on one of the jets.”
Is this really my plan?
I suddenly realize—I don’t have one.
Heck, I don’t even have my coat, my purse, my phone.
I have nothing.
It’s just me and Enrico on a tarmac, me waiting for Damian to board his private jet. What am I doing? I swallow back my nerves. You’ve got to be tough to be a real journalist. Got to have grit to get the story.
What am I hoping for?
Anything. Any tidbit of gossip I can stow away for my piece. A good journalist knows when it comes to a family that generates as much social intrigue as the Bachmans, any bit of information is worth the chase.
Trying to get as close to my target as possible, I release my seat belt and slide to the front edge of my seat, craning my neck, even though I have a clear view. Forgetting to be cool, I pop up in my seat like an uncoiling spring. “There he is!” Damian steps out of the car, headed toward the biggest jet that’s waiting.
Enrico lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn. No wonder you’re interested in this guy. He looks like one of those models in the cologne ads they paste on the side of the bus. I mean, I like girls, but even I have to stare.”
“Totally,” I say, picturing Damian in a bathing suit. “His body does have sexy model written all over it. He probably has those V-things that go down by their hipbones.”
