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She almost turned but stopped herself, curious. “Excuse me?”
The owner of the heavy voice continued. “You’ve changed the game, Ms. Vitalio.”
“Who are you?” Morana asked, her attention on the man sitting behind her, even as her eyes stayed glued to the Outfit men still outside.
The man ignored her question. “I’m not your enemy but I know the people who are. And I have an offer for you.”
Morana’s entire attention snapped to the man. “What do you mean?”
“You find out something for me, I’ll give you the information you need.”
Morana stayed silent.
“Remember me,” the man spoke. “We’ll talk later.”
Morana looked up and found her eyes snared in the gaze of a predator.
He stood near the door instead of where she’d seen him moments ago beside the plane, his blue eyes inflamed as they caught hers, held hers. In a split second, he took her apart and put her back together with that focused gaze. In a split second, her blood throbbed everywhere in her body, just by the touch of that gaze.
He held her eyes captive for a long second before glancing at the seat behind her. Morana turned, only to find it vacant.
Wordlessly, without looking at her again, he turned around and strode towards the waiting jet with long steps, and Morana followed, a confused frown on her face.
They covered the distance in seconds, reaching the stairs.
And then he did the craziest thing.
He took her hand and helped her up the first set of stairs. As though she was some medieval damsel in distress needing assistance to climb high stairs with a gazillion skirts and not a twenty-first-century woman wearing comfortable jeans and comfortable shoes, being very capable of climbing the low steps on her own.
Morana felt her eyebrows hit her hairline.
Tristan Caine did not open doors or help ladies up the stairs.
At least, he never had until then.
His hand - exactly as she’d known it would be, rough, big, consuming - held hers, as though replacing any other touch.
Just for a second. The gesture was just a split second long before he snatched his hand back, shoving it into his trouser pockets.
Morana didn’t say a word, just bit her lip and silently, quickly climbed up, finally entering the jet.
A thrill went through her.
She felt him hop on behind her, his presence huge right against her back as she moved forward, taking in the plush interior. This was her first time inside a private plane and she didn’t want to miss a second of it.
The area beyond the door opened up into a small but well-planned sitting space, with two couches nailed to the floor and two armchairs, surrounding a glass table in the center on three sides. There was a minibar behind one of the couches and a TV glued to the right wall, the entire interior in brown and cream overtones. Beyond the sitting area was a small door that was closed at the moment.
Spotting Dante on a couch, his tie loose and a tumbler of whiskey on the table, Morana made her way to the chair before his, placing her laptop on the table, aware the entire time of Tristan Caine ducking his head and moving behind her, his breath on her head due to the closed proximity of the narrow corridor.
“Get comfortable, Moran
a,” Dante invited. “It’s a long journey.”
Morana slipped off her shoes and sank into the plush armchair, tucking her legs under her.
“No air hostesses?” she asked, confused. Didn’t men like pretty women catering to them on these private planes?
Dante shook his head as Tristan Caine walked over to the closed door and disappeared behind it.
