“Isabelle.” I shake her for the second time. When she remains incoherent, I raise my panicked eyes to the pilot. “Call for a medic.”
Mathers nods before removing his cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
“What’s going on?” Cormack asks after stopping at my side. He assists me in placing Isabelle onto the floor in the aisle before accepting the pillow Harlow is holding out for him. The bliss on Harlow’s face subsides the longer she glances down at her barely conscious friend.
“I don’t know,” I reply, truly lost. “Is she on any medication? Does she have any medical conditions?” I curse myself to hell for not following the protocol I generally do when inviting someone into my inner circle. If I had read the dossier Hunter compiled on Isabelle, I’d know the answers to the questions I’m asking.
Harlow’s eyes bounce between Cormack and me for several heart-thrashing seconds before she eventually shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think, or you don’t know? Those are two starkly contrasting concepts, Harlow.”
Cormack glares at me, silently advising he doesn’t appreciate my tone before he nudges his head to Isabelle’s purse. “Pass me that.”
While he rummages through Isabelle’s belongings, I gently tap her cheeks with the back of my hand, attempting to rile a response out of her. “Isabelle, baby, can you open your eyes for me?”
Flashbacks of Ophelia requesting the same from her brother within seconds of him lifelessly hitting the canvas burst into my head. It makes my mood unhinged, but it isn’t enough for me not to request for the airstrip’s on-site medic charging into the jet to hold back when Isabelle’s eyes slowly flutter open.
“Hey…” While pushing away the strands of dark hair hindering her eyes floating over my face, I suck in numerous relieved breaths. After she assesses my face in detail, she whispers my name, smiles like she’s dreaming, then falls back to sleep. “Isabelle…” When she fails to acknowledge the clipped command of my tone, I signal for the medic to hurry. My intuition is adamant her life isn’t in danger, but there’s too much murkiness surrounding her collapse to discount.
Just as the medic kneels next to Isabelle’s steadily rising and falling chest, Cormack unearths a possible cause of her unresponsiveness. There’s an open bottle of Xanax in her purse.
My hand shoots out to seize the medic’s wrist before he gets within an inch of Isabelle. Although my grip is weak compared to the fury flooding my senses, it leaves no doubt to my authority. “Could Xanax be responsible for her lack of lucidity?”
“It depends on how often the patient takes it.” He yanks his hand out of my hold, then flattens them on his knees, wordlessly announcing he won’t touch Isabelle without permission. It lowers my agitation by a smidge. “Unlike other drugs, Xanax doesn’t create a high or euphoric feeling. It generally makes patients calmer and at ease. Although some patients have reported blacking out for hours at a time, that is usually when they take too many tablets.”
When I stray my eyes to Harlow, who’s clutching the prescription bottle she snatched from Cormack’s grasp when he became distracted by something else in Isabelle’s purse, she reads the command in my eyes remarkably fast. While breathing through the panic clutching her throat, she upends Isabelle’s prescription onto the table housing my empty whiskey glass before she counts out the remaining tablets. “It isn’t an overdose. Only two tablets are gone.”
I drift my eyes back to the first responder. “Could two Xanax cause this response?”
He shakes his head for barely a second before he slings his eyes to my empty whiskey glass. “Depends. Did she have any of them?”
My voiceless denial is interrupted by Harlow holding her hand in the air like she’s a kindergarten student busting to use the bathroom. “We did have some wine before you guys arrived,” she announces when I grant her permission to speak.
“How much?” Cormack asks, his tone as tempered as the heat trekking through my veins.
Harlow swallows, wets her lips, then murmur, “Only a bottle…in twenty minutes.”
“There’s the cause for her blackout,” the medic chuckles out, his nature far too amused for my liking.
Not only is a prescription medication and alcohol concoction dangerous, I also don’t sleep with inebriated women. Furthermore, Harlow’s confession has me double-guessing Isabelle’s response to my touch and the revelation she blurted out to stop it from occurring. For all I know, she could have a boyfriend. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been caught out by that declaration. Although I do hope it is the last.
“Sir…” The medic garbles out when I lift Isabelle in my arms before sidestepping him. “I have medical reports I need to write up and vitals to take. You can’t just walk her out of the plane like nothing happened.”
“Watch me.” I dip my chin in farewell to Mathers, gallop down the jet’s stairs, then make my way to the idling limousine partway across the blacktop.
“Can I at least get her name for my report!” the medic begs when Cormack and Harlow slip into the limousine from the other side and slam the door shut.
“I guess that’s one benefit of having your own fleet of jets,” Harlow murmurs on a chuckle before she strays her eyes to Cormack. “You can do whatever the hell you like.”
Some of the panic etched on my face jumps onto hers when Cormack neglects to respond to her riling comment. He keeps his narrowed eyes on the scenery whizzing past his window and his hand wrapped around the cords of Isabelle’s purse for the entire forty-five-minute trip toMummo Koti. His detached behavior is unusual, but since my focus must remain on Isabelle, I don’t pay it much attention.
“Bring Isabelle’s bags to my room,” I instruct one of my many staff members atMummo Kotibefore I commence my trek through the monstrous-size property with Isabelle still slumbering in my arms.
Mummo Kotiis one of the largest residential estates this side of the continent. It has over two hundred guest bedrooms, multiple wings, four swimming pools, and miles of prime oceanfront land. It’s a playground for the rich and famous, but to Cormack, it’s his home. That’s why he brought Harlow here. He wants to introduce her to his family.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the gentleman in a crisp black suit who followed me to my room with my luggage. After signaling for him to wait so I can tip him, I place Isabelle onto the mattress in the middle of the room.
“Is she okay?” The stranger’s concern for Isabelle is undeniable in his voice.
