Chapter Thirteen
It took Melinda a moment to recognize where she was.
On a private jet, bound for San Francisco.
With two drop-dead gorgeous twins. One of whose bare chest she still had her face smooshed up against. Another moment to collect herself and remember what had happened, what she’d done—what they’d done, all three of them—before she’d fallen asleep.
Oh hell. She’d pleaded for it. For sex. On her hands and knees, let Louis take her from behind, as she took Pierre…
She clamped her thighs at the memory.
“You’re awake, chouquette.”
She raised her head to a blur of dark hair and white teeth. “Louis? Pierre?”
She scrambled around, searching for her glasses.
With gentle hands, he slid them on her face.
Hazel eyes and a cheeky grin greeted her.
Louis. Despite his smile, there was something mournful in his eyes, a dance of dark shadows within his irises.
It made her long to reach out and touch him, comfort him. Stupid idea.
She pushed at his chest and he released her, and she rolled away from him, dragging the sheet with her to hide her nakedness. He let her take it without comment, but it left him lying there in all his bare glory. Heat rose up her neck and face. She should have kept her glasses off.
Melinda turned her back on Louis, snatched her clothes from the floor, left Louis sprawled on the bed and shut herself in the cramped toilet cubicle.
Flipping the toilet lid down, she sat, her head in hands, letting her clothes fall to the floor.
Through the gap in her fingers, she spied her ruined knickers.
She held them up. The waistband was torn in two places.
Useless, except to remind her that in a moment of weakness, she’d sought comfort in their arms. They’d been happy to oblige. Two men in her bed. At the same time.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and wished she hadn’t.
Staring back at her were her mother’s eyes.
It reminded her of why she was here. Of the woman—the eighty-something-year-old woman—whose life was in danger.
And while she couldn’t do a lot from forty-five-thousand feet in the air, she couldn’t afford to waste time dwelling on what was a one-time thing.
The twins wouldn’t make a big deal of it.
She suspected they’d been here before. Why should she react any differently?
Avoiding the mirror, she dressed minus her knickers, washed her face and combed her fingers through her hair.
When she stepped out of the cubicle and into the main cabin, bright daylight streamed through the jet’s windows.
She’d been too tired, too emotionally drained to take it all in last night, but now, in the clear light of the morning, what she’d begun to suspect was abundantly clear.
Wolf Enterprises, the twins, had money. Serious money.
This wasn’t your standard private jet. This was top of the line, no expense spared luxury.
From the leather armchairs to the black-accented paneling.
The plush carpet beneath her shoes and the galley with crystal glassware and bottles of top-end liquor.
That it had a private bedroom suite should have clued her in.
There was no sign of Louis, but Pierre sat at the front of the plane with his back to her, tapping away on a laptop. She ignored the little flutter in her stomach at the sight of his bare torso.
“Morning, Melinda.”
He didn’t lift his head from his work, and it gave her a brief reprieve. A moment to get her wayward libido under control.
“Morning,” she said, walking down the aisle toward him.
He looked up, concern in his eyes. “Did you sleep all right, chouquette?”
There was that word again. “Chouquette?”
“Mm. Louis’ choice.” A bemused smile played across his lips. “It is more common to say mon chou, but—”
“Chouquettes are my favorite pastry,” said Louis, striding out of the bedroom, black jeans slung low on his hips, his chest bare. “Small, but sweet and oh, so tasty. Like you.”
Melinda ducked her head. In the bright light of day, one half naked man was enough. Two, almost more than she could bear. It made her long for a repeat of last night.
Louis held out her overnight bag. “I thought you might like a fresh change of clothes.” He smirked. “And a new pair of panties.”
“Stop teasing her, Louis. She’s had a rough night, not least because the two of us pounced on her.”
Nice of him to lay the blame on themselves. She knew—they all did—that wasn’t what had happened.
Melinda grabbed her bag from Louis and pushed past him.
With these two around, knickers were a must. At the bedroom door she turned, the twins hunched over, deep in quiet conversation.
About her? Or about the job they were leaving behind in London?
She’d like to know what that was. What type of security Wolf Enterprises undertook.
Celebrities? Government officials? Or did they stray into the darker side of society?
Clients like those she found on the dark web?
She ducked into the bedroom and changed, ignoring a set of red lacy underwear Pierre had packed in favor of a white cotton bra and panties. Much more together once she was no longer going commando, she returned to the main cabin. Louis was gone, leaving her alone with Pierre.
Melinda fussed over Manchu, giving him a cuddle, water and some cat biscuits before taking a seat opposite Pierre.
In front of him sat his laptop. To the side, pushed up against the wall of the jet, hers.
Had he…? Suspicion curled in her gut. What if…
? What if she’d made a terrible mistake?
Trusting them? They’d said they were taking her to California.
How would she know any different if they weren’t?
She swiveled in her seat, staring down the aisle toward the front of the plane. “Has Louis gone to talk to the pilot?”
“Oui. He’s checking that everything is fine with the flight plans we filed. That Buchanan Airfield is expecting us, and our contact is in place to make sure we get through customs smoothly.”
Oh. Buchanan Airfield. It sounded American. She reached for her laptop. “Does the jet have Wi-Fi?” She’d do a search, though there was nothing to stop Pierre from lying to her.
He cocked an eyebrow at her over his screen. “Of course it does. We’re hackers. What use would a jet be if we didn’t?”
Yeah. Stupid question. If she had a private jet, she’d make sure she had connectivity, too.
“Melinda, about last night…”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it. What happened between us was a one—”
“I meant in your apartment.”
Oh. She blinked. Well, that told her where she stood. Already forgotten.
He tapped a few keys on his laptop and swiveled it around to face her. On the screen, a photo of a man’s neck with a tattoo of an elaborate F. “Have you ever seen this tattoo before?”
It was pretty. The font stylized, interconnecting swirls curling around it, and two crossed swords suspended above it. She shook her head. “No. Why?”
“The man who attacked you had one.”
A chill ran down her spine. They’d taken a photo of it?
Or had they hacked into the police database?
But where was the blood? There would have had to have been blood.
Louis had… What? Ripped the man’s throat out with his bare teeth?
Had she imagined that part? Fabricated a kind of horror flick version of events as a way of dealing with what had happened?
It was all a blur, compounded by the darkness.
Her cowering in the closet, the wail of the alarm, the intruder standing over her holding a gun.
Louis returned to the cabin and threw himself into a chair next to Manchu. Her cat hissed. Like Melinda, the events in her flat were still too fresh in his mind. Louis grinned at her, and she tried to imagine those perfect white teeth being capable of ripping apart a man’s throat.
She raked her hands through her hair. These men didn’t deserve her suspicion.
Without them, she’d be dead. “I never said thank you for last night. In my flat. For being there. For stopping… Thank you.” She swept her gaze over the cabin.
“And for flying me all the way to California. In your company’s private jet, no less.
You must have a very understanding boss. ”
Leather squeaked as Pierre leaned back in his chair. “We wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Louis nodded, backing up his brother’s statement.
Melinda didn’t know what to make of the emotion that fluttered in her chest, so she ignored it and booted up her laptop.
The low battery warning lit up her screen.
Odd. Her battery had been full when the intruder had interrupted her, and though she’d just closed the lid, sending it into sleep mode, it shouldn’t have drained the battery completely.
Had Pierre been messing with her computer?
While she slept in his brother’s arms? The thought stung.
If he had, it wouldn’t take much for her to find out. But would she be happy with the answer? Despite Pierre’s brush off about their tango between the sheets, she really wanted them to be the good guys.