“Ethan,” I whispered. “Why am I not on a plane headed back to America?”
He froze. “Because we wouldn’t—” His expression was unreadable. “Is that what you want?”
My heart thumped faster than the engines spinning up. Blood rushed in my ears. Answering that honestly was a risk, but... it was one I was willing to take. Besides, he could tell when I was lying, anyway.
Did I want to be on a plane headed home and never see this man again? “No.”
He straightened, and his stare burned into me, making every cell in my body feel alive. He looked relieved, pleased. “Me neither.”
This thing between us, whatever it was, was powerfully strong. Terrifying and exhilarating.
The plane began to move, rolling toward runway alpha, where I usually got clearance to take off, and the spell was broken when Fletcher returned.
Ethan’s demeanor shifted into one that was pure business. He dug something out of the laptop bag he’d brought on board and handed it to me.
My logbook.
Anger flared, white-hot. That fucking family. They’d destroyed so much.
“How many people,” I asked, “are the Abramos responsible for killing?”
His expression hardened. “A lot. And more, if I don’t go back to them soon.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised he’d have to go back, but disappointment filled me. I had to ignore the feeling and refocus my thoughts. “All right. What can I do to help?”
“I didn’t have much time, but I flipped through it. You said you made notes?”
“Oh.” I had, only I’d done them in a shorthand system that probably made no sense to him.
He took what had been Fletcher’s seat across from me and buckled in, leaning forward while I explained the notes for destinations and times, weather conditions, and what he was most interested in—the passenger descriptions. I’d jotted down who I’d flown, when and where, plus any other details I had on the passengers other than the Abramos.
“I told you when we met that it’s my job to know what happens on my plane.”
He turned the pages, combing through my writing like it was fascinating, but he paused on the last entry. Curiosityflashed in his eyes. “Why is there an asterisk here?”
He didn’t have to show me the line scrawled in my writing for me to know what he was talking about.
“It’s not relevant,” I answered quickly, heat crawling up my neck.
The asterisk was beside the name Nathan on the flight down to South Africa. The curiosity intensified on his face. He wasn’t going to let it go.
“I thought you were interesting, all right?” I said. “I put that asterisk there so I would remember Nathan, the freakishly tall American who said he was dangerous.”
Fletcher’s chuckle rumbled from across the aisle, but it seemed to go unnoticed by Ethan. He blinked away his stunned look, and his gaze fell to the star beside his name. What was he thinking about?
Slowly, he shut the log and slipped it back into his bag, a hint of a smile on his lips.
The men had spent most of the flight discussing something in German, and we parted ways with the Englishman at the airport. Ethan hadn’t said much on the thirty-minute limo ride. He used most of his time on his phone, reading and tapping out messages.
A security guard in the lobby escorted us up the private elevator and to the front door of Shawn Dunn’s Munich penthouse. As soon as Ethan punched in a code on the keypad and the door swung open, the guard nodded his farewell.
My heart was in my throat as we moved inside.
The entryway led into an open, modern kitchen and sitting area, decorated with lavish furniture. Every inch boasted of expense and taste. The back wall was all windows, displaying a breathtaking view of downtown and the billowing smokestack of a factory off in the distance. The Osterhägenlogo gleamed in white lettering.
I recognized the woman in several of the photos that cycled through the digital picture frame on the counter. Kara Hayward. It was odd, the idea that I’d meet her. We had more in common besides Ethan, and I wondered if Ms. Hayward had the same disdain for media attention that I did.
The next picture in the slideshow was captivating. A brute of a man, a police badge slung around his neck and over a bulletproof vest, standing beside a younger woman, who wore a glittering white ballet costume. The juxtaposition of masculine and feminine was fascinating, but Ethan’s shoulders tensed at the image.
