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My head aches so badly. “No.”
He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “Baltimore. Jordans.” He waits for something, but I have nothing to say. “Ray. I’m the Jordan heir. Don’t you know who the Jordans are?”
I swallow. “… Rich people? Sorry, I stay offline to avoid leaving tracks, and I rarely buy magazines.”
He chuckles, and for the first time in what feels like days, a real smile spreads on his handsome face. “Very rich. Jordan Enterprises. Developers and Investors.”
That definitely rings a bell.
“You’re their son?” I remember a scandal some years back. The only son and heir to the Jordan Enterprises seen in seedy bar. Bad boy Troy skips town.
Troy Jordan. Heir to millions.
Holy shit.
“When my parents died, my uncle took over until I turned twenty-one. He died before I reached that age, but now I’m twenty-one, as of last week, and I can claim my inheritance.” He pauses. “I can pay your father’s debt. And I will. Because I want you to be safe.”
“This is nuts,” I mutter, my breath hitching, my brain aching as it tries to wrap around this. “Totally nuts.”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you from the start,” he says. “I guess my trust issues are bigger than yours. But this is the truth.”
“If you’re telling the truth, then...” Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. “Why say you’ll help me out? You can have anything and anyone you wish for. You don’t need me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He leans in, his breath caressing the shell of my ear. “I need you, Raylin O’Brien. You’re my one bright light, the only person I can trust in the whole world right now. Even more than myself.”
PART II: BULLETS
Chapter Twelve
STORM
We’re flying back to Baltimore. My private jet, a Gulfstream G450, is waiting for us at the Boca Raton airport, notified by Hawk to come pick us up.
I get out of the limo and go around to open Raylin’s door. She climbs out and stands on the tarmac, in her torn shorts and blouse, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.
Alive. Unharmed. Unbearably beautiful.
“You okay, Ray?”
She nods. She hasn’t spoken a word to me since our little talk. I think she’s in shock. I take her hand, and she lets me guide her to the plane. A flight attendant is standing on the ground, waiting for us, dressed in a formal skirt and jacket.
Going back home.
Swallowing my reluctance, I help Raylin up into the dimness of the plane. We take our seats around a table, and the attendant comes to see what we would like to have a drink. Raylin just shakes her head, so I ask for juice. Despite drinking a whole bottle of champagne in the car, I’m parched.
And famished.
The attendant—Sondra, according to her name tag—brings us blueberry juice and a tray of warm prosciutto-and-fig sandwiches and lobster rolls with fresh chives and tarragon. She has barely set it down when I’m stuffing my face with everything, barely tasting it.
Takes me a while to realize Raylin is just staring at the tray, frowning.
I sigh and swallow the rest of my sandwich. “Come on, Ray. Eat. It’s good. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
She picks a roll, sniffs it. “I’m not…”
I wait, but she never finishes what she was about to say. She looks… nervous.
No, scared. She’s fucking scared.
