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‘If you don’t want to rot in this God-forsaken place,’ he said briskly, as he turned away, ‘you’d better get a move on. I want to be airborne in five minutes.’
‘You’re the most—the most horrible…’ She caught her breath. You’d better get a move on. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘You’ll—you’ll take me with you?’
He turned, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell me how to avoid it,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘and I’ll be happy to oblige.’
Dorian nodded, trying not to let herself look as surprised—and relieved—as she felt.
‘You’re quite right. Deserting me here would only be bad publicity for—’
She gasped as he caught hold of her wrist. ‘Just remember something. This is no cushy chartered flight.’
‘Let go of me, please.’
‘And I am not a steward, or one of your fellow reporters.’ His eyes swept across her face. ‘It would be a waste of time to try using that pretty face to get what you want, Miss Oliver. I’m not about to fall for the same nonsense you use on everybody else.’
‘I get the message,’ she said stiffly. ‘Now, if you’d let go—’
‘Just remember something. Once you set foot in that plane, you’re nothing but an unwelcome passenger.’
Dorian stared at him, enraged. What a cold, unforgiving bastard he was. But what choice did she have?
‘As I said before, Mr Prince,’ she said finally, ‘you’re a true gentleman.’
He stared into her eyes while the seconds ticked away, and then he let go of her.
‘Let’s get started, then.’
He turned towards the boarding stairs. Dorian made a face at his retreating back as she massaged her aching wrist.
There were certain irrefutable truths about Jake Prince. He had lots of money. He could, when the occasion demanded it, turn on the charm. And he was, without question, the best-looking man she’d ever met.
But none of that was enough to make up for the fact that he was, first and foremost, an insolent, egotistical son of a bitch—and she could hardly wait for the moment she could shove that fact directly under his handsome, arrogant nose.
CHAPTER FOUR
SUNRISE was different when you saw it from the cockpit of a jet streaking across the sky. Dorian had seen the rising sun paint the towers of Manhattan in pale gold; she’d watched it blaze across the wheaten plains of her native Minnesota. But nothing had prepared her for the transfiguring glory of morning viewed from this lofty height.
The sun was a fierce golden ball, burning away the last remnants of the night. Below, mountain peaks burst into flames that spilled down into the valleys and banished darkness.
Dorian sighed. It was a breathtaking way to greet the day. It was just too bad that she had to share it seated beside Jake Prince—however, considering the circumstances, she supposed she had to be grateful she was sitting here at all.
He had not said a word to her since they’d left the ground, but then, he didn’t have to. The set of his jaw, the stiffness of his spine spoke volumes. He resented her presence, and he had no intention of pretending otherwise.
She thought of those last moments in the hangar and how it had seemed he might leave her behind.
It hadn’t been such an unreasonable fear. The truth was, she had no way of knowing what this man would do. He was not only a stranger, he was an absolute enigma, the more so as time passed. Each time she thought she had him figured out, he changed—almost before her very eyes—into someone else.
Who was Jake Prince, really?
Initially, Dorian would have had no difficulty describing him. He was a man used to money. The car, the clothes, the pricey watch were clearly all second nature. He had a smooth, sexy line and dark good looks that had to be appealing to many women. He was a man who had been handed all of life’s goodies on a silver platter.
But there was, it seemed, quite another side to him. He was a man of influence and power in the Barovnian delegation. What she’d witnessed on the runway was proof enough of that. As for that easy charm he’d used on her when they’d first met—it gave way quickly enough to a steely determination.
He was not a man to be crossed, she thought, remembering again those moments in his car and the hangar.
She gave him a quick glance from under the dark sweep of her lashes. What was the great secret he’d been afraid she might know? What was he doing, making this very private flight to Barovnia? She had asked him about it the moment they were airborne, and his response had been direct, cold, and condescending.
‘Don’t waste your breath and my time, Miss Oliver. I’ve no intention of providing you or your magazine with bits of titillating gossip.’
Dorian’s reply had been as swift as his. ‘WorldWeek doesn’t deal in gossip, Mr Prince,’ she’d said. ‘We’re a news magazine. We provide information to our readers. If you’d ever bothered reading an issue, you’d know that.’
‘Your publication is like every other glossy scandal sheet, Miss Oliver. It’s not interested in fact.’ His lips curled with distaste. ‘You start out with preconceived notions, and you look around until you find something to support them. Then you print some trivia you label significant—and God knows how many fools rush out to plunk down their money just to be misinformed.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ Dorian demanded, ‘that you might be the one who’s misinformed? I’m a reporter, Mr Prince, not a—a scandal columnist. And my magazine—’
‘There’s nothing to debate. I am not going to be interviewed.’
Lord, the arrogance of the man! Dorian swung towards him. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Mr Prince,’ she said with saccharine sweetness, ‘but I’m not interested in interviewing you, necessarily. I’m only interested in…’ Dorian frowned. ‘Which reminds me—what’s your relationship to Jaacov Alexandrei, anyway?’
‘Perhaps you didn’t understand me, Miss Oliver. I’m not going to give you any information at all.’
‘But that’s—that’s ridiculous! Surely you can tell me what part you play in the delegation. Are you one of his American advisers? Are you an old friend? Are you some sort of Barovnian representative?’
Prince ignored her questions. ‘As for this little trip of ours,’ he said coldly, ‘I wouldn’t waste time planning on ways to work it into your dispatches to your magazine.’
‘And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.
‘It means that this flight—and my part in it—are, for the moment, not for publication for WorldWeek’s eager readers.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life. This flight is strictly off the record.’
‘This may come as a surprise to you,’ she said through her teeth, ‘but there are laws about a free Press.’
‘In the United States, yes. But—in case you haven’t noticed—you’re not in the United States any more.’ He’d looked directly at her then, his face a hostile mask. ‘I suggest you spend the rest of the flight thinking about what that means.’
And Dorian had done just that as the plane droned through the sky. Could he really keep her from filing whatever story she chose? At first, she assured herself that he could not. Barovnia might be still languishing in the Middle Ages, but she was an American citizen and a member of the Press, at that. She’d write what she damned well wanted.
But could she file it? She shifted uneasily in her seat. She had no idea what kinds of facilities she’d find in Barovnia, but if the Press’s access to telephones and telegraphs was controlled or limited by the government it might be impossible to send stuff back to New York without interference.
What was so hush-hush about this flight, anyway? Dorian glanced at the man seated beside her. Why was Jake Prince at the controls of this little jet instead of in the cabin of the Barovnian charter?
She blew out her breath. And yet those weren’t the million-dollar questions. The big one—the one that really needed answe
ring—was the one that was at the heart of everything that had happened in the past hour.
What part did Jake Prince play in this story?
Dorian had come up with some theories, but each had holes.
Was he a Barovnian diplomat?
It hardly seemed likely. No diplomat would behave with as little tact as this man.
He might be one of Alexander’s American advisers. But what American adviser would be powerful enough to say that he’d be the one to decide what a member of the Press could write?
And he really didn’t seem terribly American. There was something about him, an air of masculine insolence he wore like a badge of honour, that suggested he hadn’t come of age on the same side of the Atlantic as she had.
Dorian frowned. Jake Prince was an enigma. What sort of man could command a clutch of diplomats with a look? Or climb aboard a sleek, fast-moving plane and handle it with the same nonchalant ease he’d handled his sports car? Whatever he was, he was certainly not simply the rich, handsome playboy she’d written him off as at first.
Dorian’s heartbeat stuttered. Prince. Jake Prince…
No. No, he couldn’t be. It was impossible. She couldn’t have got so lucky.
‘…belt secured?’
She looked up, startled. ‘Did you—did you say something?’
He nodded. ‘I asked if your belt was secured.’
Her brain was spinning. Prince, she thought, Prince…
‘Dammit, lady, it’s not a very difficult question. Is the belt closed?’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. There had to be a way to keep the conversation going. ‘Uh, why do you ask?’
He gave a negligible shrug. ‘Just a precaution.’
‘Just a precaution,’ she repeated foolishly. Later, she would remember that simple statement and wonder at her inability to pick up on the meaning hidden within it. But just now she was too busy concentrating on what fate might have dropped into her lap to pay attention to reality.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Miss Oliver. Just sit back and relax.’
Silence filled the cockpit again. Think, Dorian told herself, think! Keep him talking. There’s got to be something…
She cleared her throat. ‘I—uh—I suppose flying a plane like this takes a lot of training?’
Prince nodded. ‘Yes.’
