17. Brooke
A private jet waits on the runway for us. The giant man hands over the car keys to another man, and the three of us climb aboard. For a split second, I forget the reason I am on this plane and look around at the luxurious interior in awe. Plump leather seats. Velvety soft sofas. Plush carpet. Gleaming chrome. A ceiling backlit by rope lights. It doesn’t look like a plane. It looks like a luxury suite in a five-star hotel.
Shrugging off the touch of Lev’s hand at my elbow, I shrink into one of the gorgeously soft leather seats and stare out the window into the darkness, refusing to look at Lev and the giant as they take their seats beside me and behind me, respectively. The mood on the plane is tight. This isn’t a fun trip. This is me being kidnapped.
Yet, to my surprise, there is service during the flight. A stunning brunette in a white silk blouse and black pencil skirt offers me everything from sparkling water and champagne to a full-course meal with options that include chicken poulet de bresse a la crème or beef tagliata with a creamy cavolo nero dressing, despite it being close to midnight and from what I can tell, a last-minute flight.
Or was this Lev’s plan all along? Break into my apartment and steal me out of my life for seven days. But then it occurs to me that perhaps it was Wilson he was going to abduct back to New York so he could make good use of the gun he keeps secured in his suit jacket. But why kidnap Wilson only to kill him in New York City? It doesn’t make sense.
Oh my God.Gun. Kidnap. Am I really having this conversation with myself?
My mind ticks over every detail of what happened in my living room a mere hour ago, trying to make sense of what is happening to me and who the hell Lev Zarkov really is.
I feel his piercing gaze on me, and it only makes me shrink deeper into the seat, as if those inches further away from him were the most precious thing in the world.
How could I have let this monster put his hands on me? The thought brings on a new wave of nausea, and I have to run to the bathroom toward the back of the plane, where I bring up the water Lev gave me in the car.
Oh fuck, was there something in that water?
Has the sonofabitch drugged me?
Another spasm hits my stomach, and I wretch into the bowl, then sag against the marble wall and cover my face until the nausea passes.
The flight attendant raps on the door. “Are you okay, Miss Masters? Do you require some assistance?”
Yes, please call the NYC SWAT team to meet us on the tarmac when we land.
“I’m fine,” I reply, forcing myself to my feet.
When I open the door, she gives me an empathetic look. “We’re about to take off. Do you need assistance back to your seat?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I’m not a very good flyer.”
“Mr. Zarkov mentioned that, so I have arranged some Dramamine for you,” she says. I pause, surprised by Lev’s acknowledgment of my fear of flying. Ah, but how different things are since our last flight together. On that flight, he kissed me through the fear. This time, he’s arranged medication and my abduction.
“Feeling better, Miss Masters?” he asks as I pass by him.
But I ignore the question and purposely don’t look at him as I take my seat.
The flight attendant returns with water, crackers, a Dramamine pill, and a sick bag. Great. Not only am I being used as insurance so the asshole criminal who arranged all of this gets his money back, but I have to suffer the indignity of not having control over my own body in front of him thanks to my fear of flying. I down the pill and half the bottle of water and try to shut him out.
“Good, perhaps now we can get on with it,” he says coldly. I throw him a blistering look, which only causes those gorgeous lips to twitch in amusement.
Oh, how I hate him.
The jet starts up, and my fear ramps up a notch, and I let out a gasp. My hands grip the armrest, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to be calm but failing. We start to move down the runway, and I let out another pitiful wince. Why couldn’t he have just shot me instead of forcing me to do this? But then I feel Lev’s hand on top of mine, and I’m too damn afraid of the takeoff that I don’t bother to knock it away. His hand is warm and oddly comforting on top of mine, and as we lift off the ground, I grab onto his strong fingers and squeeze tight.
When the jet levels off, it’s so smooth it’s like we’re not flying, and I am able to release the breath I’ve been holding. I realize I am still gripping Lev’s hand and let go quickly, pushing it away like it burns.
He chuckles. “Like they say, Miss Masters, sometimes it’s better the devil you know.”
I turn away from him to stare out the window at the midnight sky.
“Devil is right,” I mutter in disgust.
Forty-five minutes later, we land in New York, where a black Rolls-Royce Phantom waits for us on the tarmac. Again, I am hustled into the vehicle, and Lev climbs in beside me, and the giant man, who I now know is named Igor, drives.
I expect to be taken to the penthouse in Manhattan where I spent the night with the asshole who is sitting in the back of the car with me. But instead of heading toward Manhattan, the car leaves the city behind us, and we drive for about half an hour before Igor pulls over and stops in front of two massive wrought-iron gates. When they open, we move slowly along a long white driveway toward a palatial mansion lit up by floodlights.
My mouth drops open. The home and its immaculately landscaped grounds are magnificent. Not the monster’s lair I was picturing at all.
Igor stops at the front entrance, and Lev and I climb out. Lev speaks to Igor in what I assume is Russian, and the giant man drives off and out of view.
I stare up at the grand house towering above me and pull my arms around my waist, not knowing what my fate will be once I am inside its walls. Fear swells in my stomach as I follow Lev up the stairs and through the large wrought-iron doors.
“Welcome to my home,” Lev says.
And it’s the last thing I hear.
Because it’s then my world turns black, and I faint.