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Trap texts me mid-morning.
Trap ZZZ
Be ready to leave at 2. Dress casual. Comfortable shoes.
I send back a row of question marks, but I don’t get a reply, not even three floating bubbles. I call Susan, to see if she knows what’s going on. She gives me the sort of cagey non-reply that says she knowsexactlywhat’s going on, but it’s not worth her job to share that information with me.
I put on jeans, the ones with strategically fashionable holes torn across the knees. I worry they’retoocasual and swap them out for khakis. I try on seven different tops, not sure if I should go with knit or woven, with buttons or over-the-head. I start with low heels but decide I should take Trap’s warning seriously if he’s actually bothering to say something about footwear. Walking shoes it is, then, with thick socks.
At least my hair’s still too short to worry about.
I should be focused on the freeport. We’ve got less than forty-eight hours until the Herzog brothers’ deadline. I should be writing down succession plans, telling people how to manage the work I’ve taken on, making recommendations for auctioneers and caterers and the other outside staff I’ve been managing.
But if Trap wanted me to handle all that, he would have said so. That’s one of the best things about Trap Prince. He says exactly what he means. And he means every word he says.
I never have to play guessing games with him.
He comes back from the office building at 1:45. A quick change upstairs, and he joins me in the kitchen. He’s wearing black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, the exact outfit he had on the first night we met. Something deep inside mepings.
He looks at my purse, a strappy little backpack just big enough for my phone, my wallet, a tube of ChapStick, and my keys. “You can leave that behind.”
“But…” It feels strange to leave the house without a thing. Trap just gives methatlook, the one that says he knows I’m questioning him, and he knows I’ll give in, so why don’t we just skip to the good part anyway.
I leave my purse on the kitchen counter.
In the garage, Trap walks us to his electric blue Porsche. Again, that’s the car he drove the night we met.
He holds the door for me, and I slide into the low passenger seat. After we leave the freeport’s front gate, I half-expect him to turn toward Dover, toward the bar where I first saw him. I could use an evening out on the town. Just the thing to take my mind off the looming threat of Jonas and Ansel.
But he turns right out of the gate. Away from town.
And he drives us to the airfield.
The private jet is waiting. We’re greeted by a uniformed attendant who rapidly serves up a cheese board and champagne. The pilot comes back to greet Trap and knows him well enough not to shake his hand.
Within minutes, we’ve taxied down the runway, and we’re airborne.
“Now do I get to know where we’re going?”
“Nope.” Trap smiles as he says it, but he’s enjoying his control.
I realize the window shades are down throughout the cabin. He’s not taking a chance that I’ll recognize landmarks from the air. “Give me a hint,” I say.
“Not gonna happen.”
“Three guesses?”
He doesn’t deign to answer.
“How about a card game? Gin rummy? If I win, you tell me.”
“And when I win?”
I shouldn’t be this turned on by his arrogant assumption that he’ll get the best of me. But I am. “I’ll take off an article of clothing.”
His eyebrows arch. “Shoes count as one thing?”
