Chapter Six
“Maggie.” The voice was low and close and almost familiar. Like a dream she couldn’t quite remember but wanted to have again.
“Maggie... Margaret Catherine Chase, you’re going to be late!”
Maggie bolted upright and remembered: She was on an airplane. She was with Ethan Wyatt. But she was also possibly (probably)
covered in drool, and he was trying very, very hard not to laugh, so Maggie gave him a drooly scowl and told him, “That’s
not my name.”
“And a good morning to you too!” His hair was mussed and his grin was crooked as he stood above her, haloed by a bright, clear
light. The plane smelled like coffee and bacon, and out the window... “Welcome to England.”
She’d never been because there had never been money, and once there was money there wasn’t time. It was the catch-22 of her
life, and she felt a little naive as she looked down at the frosty hillsides.
“We’ll be landing soon.” Peter slid an omelet and a cup of coffee in front of her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Could I have—”
“Cream, two sugars?” he guessed, then gave her a wink. “Already in there.”
Wow. Whoever their mystery benefactor was, he’d done his homework.
“So on a scale of one to ten, how freaked out should I be that these people know how I take my...” Maggie trailed off when
she realized Ethan wasn’t beside her.
She turned to see him near the back of the plane, digging in a suitcase and pulling out a fresh shirt. When he grabbed his
old one by the collar and slid it over his head in one smooth motion, he looked like an ad for bodywash or body spray or just
bodies in general because the move revealed muscles she’d thought only existed on book covers. Killhaven was making a mistake,
Maggie realized, because it turned out Ethan Wyatt looked far better without his leather jacket.
Which he knew. Of course he knew. So she was going to turn around and stop staring. She had to. Any second now. The last thing
Ethan needed was another woman fawning over him, so she was going to turn around and eat her omelet. Yup. She was going to
get right on that. But then he bent to dig in the bag again, pivoting slightly.
And that was when she saw the scar—long and jagged, starting at his shoulder and then running down the right side of his back.
The wound was old and healed but still angry—as if something dangerous lived inside of Ethan and was still trying to claw
its way out. And none of it made any sense.
Ethan Wyatt was smooth perfection and effortless charm. Easy smiles and clever quips. The product of focus groups and Photoshop
and at least ten thousand dollars’ worth of high-end orthodontia.
Ethan Wyatt wasn’t real , but that scar was. Two minutes ago, she would have sworn he was the kind of guy who would tell everyone his war stories,
play them up for the ladies and the press, but Maggie had never heard a word about an injury. She’d only ever heard...
Come to think of it, Maggie had never heard anything about his past at all. And for the first time she had to wonder what
was the bigger mystery: this trip or the man who was taking it with her?
When he turned, Maggie whirled in her seat and went back to her omelet. She didn’t ask a single question. She didn’t say a
thing.
A Rolls-Royce was waiting on the tarmac and a hard wind was blowing off the sea as Maggie climbed down the jet stairs thirty
minutes later. They were somewhere in the country, surrounded by miles of rugged coastline and frothy water and Maggie couldn’t
help but shiver as she watched an older man climb out of the long black car and head toward them with a wave.
“Welcome!” He wore a tweed coat and a little tweed hat and looked like someone who would know what a marchioness was even
if he’d never read a romance novel in his life. “Glad you made it. Good thing too. Before it gets a wee bit chilly.”
“This is not chilly?” Maggie’s hair whipped wildly around her head and blew in her mouth. Even Ethan seemed disheveled, but with his collar
turned up and his hair mussed, he just looked a little extra roguish—like he’d had a rough night, but the good kind—while Maggie stood there, trying to peel her hair off her tongue.
She was still spitting and flailing when she heard a chuckle and felt a hand on the small of her back. “Come on, Margaret
Louise.”
The driver had gone for their luggage and Ethan was leaning around her, reaching for the door and pressing close enough to
block the wind. He hadn’t shaved and dark stubble covered his jaw. He smelled like peppermint and smooth, soft leather, and
even after she heard the click and felt a rush of warm air at her back, Maggie just stood there, frozen.
“What?” Ethan looked like he didn’t know if? he should be amused or afraid.
“That’s not my name,” she said, because it was safer than admitting that she wanted to feel his stubble to see if it was as
soft as it looked. She wanted to ask about his scar and his past and his secrets. She wanted to know how someone like Ethan
was spending Christmas with someone like her, but the words froze on the wind, and all she could do was shake her head and
crawl inside, then watch in confusion as he bent down to carefully tuck the hem of her coat where it wouldn’t slam in the
door.
He started to rise, but stopped midway when he realized Maggie was staring. “You know, some women think I’m chivalrous.”
“Some women think the earth is flat.”
“Oh.” He bit back that million-dollar grin. “You wound me.”
Maggie smirked. “Is that an offer?”
A thousand scenarios flashed across his face when he said, “Maybe later.” And then he winked and slammed the door and Maggie
tried to stop herself from smiling.