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A short while later, when the car stopped and the purr of the engine ceased, Emily realised she’d lost track of time as well as their whereabouts. She glanced out through the tinted window beside her, expecting to see the night-time bustle of London’s vibrant West End, and stilled.
She snapped her head back around to look at Ramon. Anger vibrated in her voice when she spoke. ‘You have exactly three seconds to explain why we’re sitting on a runway next to a plane.’
His expression was calm. ‘I’m taking you to Saphir.’
Confusion blanked her mind for a moment, then understanding crashed in.
‘We’re having dinner in Paris?’
Three things seemed to converge on Emily at once. Shock, panic and a tiny, treacherous streak of excitement.
She shook her head. ‘That’s crazy. I... I can’t.’
‘Are you afraid of flying?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
She sent him a fur
ious look. ‘The problem is that travelling to another country for dinner is...is insane.’
‘The flight is less than an hour.’
She gripped her clutch tightly in her lap. ‘I don’t care. You misled me. You said we were having dinner at your club.’
‘I didn’t say which one.’
‘Lying by omission doesn’t excuse you.’ She set her jaw. ‘Anyway, this is all pointless. I don’t have my passport.’
He reached inside his jacket and withdrew something.
Eyes widening, heart pumping hard, she snatched the passport off him and checked inside it. She looked up, incredulous. ‘How on earth did you get this?’ It should have been sitting in a safe in her office.
‘Marsha,’ he said.
Emily threw him an appalled look. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
No doubt he had layered on the charm in order to coerce young Marsha’s help. The poor girl wouldn’t have stood a chance in the path of all that concentrated testosterone.
Emily shoved the passport into her clutch, snapped it closed and stared straight ahead. She could see the back of the driver’s head through the glass partition, but if he’d overheard their conversation he gave no sign. ‘Take me home.’
‘After dinner.’
Ramon climbed out and walked around the car to her side. When he opened the door and stared down at her, she crossed her arms and refused to budge. He waited, and the seconds ticked by until she started to feel childish. Finally, muttering a curse under her breath, she got out. ‘For the record, I don’t like surprises.’
‘Everyone likes surprises.’
The amusement in his tone grated. ‘I don’t. And I still think this is crazy.’
He closed the door and she leaned against the car for support, as if it were an anchor in a choppy sea—a safe, solid object that would keep her grounded, and stop her doing something stupid. Something she might regret. Like getting on that damned plane.
‘It’s just dinner, Emily.’
His voice had a deep, soothing quality, but it didn’t help, because it wasn’t just dinner. Not for her. Not when she stood there contemplating a giant leap out of her neatly ordered comfort zone. She eyed the plane. It was a small, sleek private jet. ‘Is that yours or did you charter it for the evening?’
‘I bought it yesterday.’
