Chapter 11 #3
I don't look away from her.
“What?”
“Think very carefully about what you're doing.”
I already have.
For once, perhaps not carefully enough.
But clearly.
I squeeze Sabine's hand.
Her eyes search mine.
Confused.
Suspicious.
Sleepy.
Beautiful.
My father asked where his cold son went.
He’s still here.
He simply found something worth setting the world on fire to keep.
“Meeting over.”
I kill the connection.
The wall goes black.
Silence fills the study.
Sabine stares at the empty screen.
Then slowly turns toward me.
“You'll marry who?”
I exhale.
“You.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
“Apparently.”
She pulls her hand from mine.
“Apparently?”
“I hadn't workshopped the phrasing.”
“Xavier Blackwell.”
“Yes.”
“I was asleep.”
“I noticed.”
“I wake up, walk down a hallway, and discover you're arranging our marriage as a corporate countermeasure.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds impersonal.”
She stares at me.
“It was not meant to sound better.”
I almost smile.
She does not.
Right.
Probably inappropriate.
Sabine tightens the robe around herself.
“You cannot simply announce that you're marrying me.”
“Technically, I just did.”
“Xavier.”
“I know.”
“No. I don't think you do.”
She points toward the black conference screen.
“Your father thinks I am some sort of honey trap.”
“He's wrong.”
“He wants me interrogated.”
“Not happening.”
“He thinks I seduced you.”
I say nothing.
Her eyes narrow.
“Why are you looking like that?”
“Because technically—”
“Do not.”
I close my mouth.
Smart.
She paces once across the study.
Then turns.
“You would marry me to stop him from taking me?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that?”
No.
Not just like that.
Because I'm already in love with you.
Because I was halfway there before I knew your name.
Because last night I learned the woman I've wanted for years curls against me when she sleeps and snores softly into my pillow.
Because I would rather blow apart half my inheritance than watch Blackwell make you afraid again.
I say none of it.
Instead:
“It solves several immediate problems.”
Sabine's mouth drops open.
Wrong answer.
Very wrong answer.
“Several immediate—”
“I heard it.”
“Do you propose often?”
“Never.”
“That explains a great deal.”
“Sabine.”
She points at me.
“No. You do not get to turn marriage into cybersecurity.”
“It's more legal architecture.”
Her eyes close.
I may be making this worse.
Then something unexpected happens.
Her shoulders begin to shake.
I move toward her.
“What?”
She covers her mouth.
And laughs.
Not politely.
Not delicately.
Full laughter that bends her forward until one hand braces against the desk.
I stare.
“I'm glad this is entertaining.”
She looks up, eyes watering.
“I was kidnapped yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“I discovered my anonymous internet obsession is Xavier Blackwell.”
“Yes.”
“He rescued me.”
“Yes.”
“We kissed.”
My attention drops to her mouth.
“Yes.”
“I slept in his bed.”
“Also yes.”
“And now his father wants me imprisoned while he wants to marry me.”
“Interrogated. Not imprisoned.”
She stares.
“Important distinction.”
“Apparently not.”
She starts laughing again.
I wait.
Eventually it fades.
She wipes beneath one eye.
Then she looks at me.
Really looks.
The laughter leaves.
Her voice becomes soft.
“Why?”
I know what she's asking.
Not legal status.
Not Blackwell.
Why me?
I could lie.
Give her the clean strategic answer.
Instead I walk toward her.
Stop close.
Take one loose caramel curl between my fingers.
Her breathing changes.
Mine does too.
“You really want that answer?”
“Yes.”
Not yet.
Not when she's standing barefoot in my shirt after one of the worst nights of her life.
But soon.
My thumb brushes her cheek.
“For now, let's say my father made the mistake of telling me I couldn't have something.”
Her eyes narrow.
“That sounds much more like you.”
“Thought you'd appreciate it.”
“And later?”
I look into those impossible blue eyes.
“Later I'll give you the answer that scares me.”
Her expression changes.
Just slightly.
Enough.
I let the curl slip from my fingers.
“Tea?”
She blinks.
“After proposing?”
“I didn't propose.”
“You announced.”
“Correct.”
“That might actually be worse.”
“Tea?”
A pause.
Then her mouth curves.
“Organic honey?”
“Always.”
She looks toward the black screen where my father disappeared.
Then back at me.
“I am not marrying you today, Xavier Blackwell.”
“I didn't say today.”
Her eyes widen.
I turn toward the kitchen before she can throw something.
Behind me:
“Ghost.”
I stop.
“What?”
Her voice carries a smile now.
“You're insane.”
I look back.
Caramel hair.
Bare legs.
My shirt.
My Vesper.
My Juliet.
Still here.
“Probably.”
Then I go make my future maybe-wife tea.
Eight days after someone tied Sabine Beaumont to a chair and demanded a key she swears she has never seen, I put her on an airplane.
It takes nearly all eight days.
Not because of the investigation.
That part moves quickly once I stop allowing Blackwell to control the information.
The men who took her were contractors. Former military, Eastern European, expensive enough to understand compartmentalization and disposable enough that whoever hired them never expected them to know much.
They don't.
What they do give me is useful.
Money moved through three shell companies before reaching them.
One of those companies touched the same offshore infrastructure used during the deeper ARGUS penetration.
Not Sabine's breach.
The other one.
Someone else has been inside Blackwell.
Someone who knew about Adrien Beaumont.
Someone who knew about a second key.
And someone willing to kidnap his daughter to find it.
That is enough for me.
The marriage idea stops being something I threw at my father in anger.
It becomes strategy.
A dangerous one.
Possibly insane.
Still strategy.
Marriage won't erase anything Sabine has done. It won't make her immune from investigators or magically grant her access to Blackwell systems.
What it does is make one fact extraordinarily clear.
She is under my protection.
My attorneys.
My security.
My name.
Anyone trying to quietly move her into a Blackwell interrogation facility will now have to explain why they're detaining Xavier Blackwell's wife without counsel.
My father hates this.
That improves the plan considerably.
Sabine hates that I phrase it as a plan.
That improves my mood considerably.
The real difficulty is getting her to France.
I don't discover the problem until we are standing in the private terminal outside London and Sabine stops at the bottom of the aircraft stairs.
She doesn't move.
I look at her.
She looks at the jet.
Then at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Sabine.”
“I'm looking.”
“You've seen aircraft before.”
“From the ground.”
I wait.
She adjusts the strap of the small bag on her shoulder.
Her caramel hair is loose today. No wig. No contacts. She has allowed herself sunglasses, but I can still see the faint blue of her eyes behind them.
Something about her has changed since London.
Not softer.
Never that.
Less hidden.
At least with me.
“What are you not telling me?”
She exhales.
“I have never flown.”
I stare at her.
She lifts her chin.
“Don't.”
“You crossed the Atlantic to infiltrate Haverhill's wedding.”
“Yes.”
“By boat.”
“Yes.”
“You followed me back across Europe.”
“Also mostly by boat.”
“You have worked for governments.”
“Near governments.”
“Broken into defense systems.”
“Allegedly.”
I look toward the aircraft.
Then back at her.
“But you've never been on a plane.”
“How do you think I stayed under the radar?”
“You're serious.”
“I don't have a normal passport, Xavier.”
I knew that.
I didn't know the extent of it.
She starts counting on her fingers.
“No current photo identification anyone useful can search. No driver's license. No passport trail. My birth certificate existed mostly as a piece of paper in an old municipal office until your terrifying lawyers resurrected it.”
“They confirmed it.”
“They invaded France.”
“They called the consulate.”
“With Blackwell lawyers. Same difference.”
My mouth nearly moves.
She catches it.
“Do not laugh.”
“I'm not.”
“You're amused.”
“Slightly.”
“I could still leave.”
I take her hand.
She stops.
The smile leaves me.
“You could.”
That matters.
I want her on the plane.
I want her in France.
I want her married to me badly enough that I am deliberately refusing to examine why the thought no longer feels remotely practical.
But she gets the choice.
Always.
Sabine looks down at our hands.
Then toward the aircraft.
“Does it shake?”
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Very reassuring.”
“It flies.”
“That is the part I find concerning.”
I lead her toward the stairs.
Her grip tightens with each step.
By the time we reach the cabin, she is crushing three of my fingers.
I say nothing.
The interior has been stripped of anything unnecessary for this flight. My security team is forward. One lawyer. One pilot team.
No staff circulating around her.
No strangers.
Sabine looks around slowly.
Cream leather.
Dark wood.
A sofa.
Conference table.
Bedroom behind a closed door.
Then her gaze fixes on the windows.
“They're small.”
“That's your complaint?”
“I like exits.”
“I know.”
She sits beside me.
Not across the aisle.
Beside.
Progress.
The aircraft doors close.
Sabine stiffens.
I reach for her hand again.
She immediately gives it to me.
No teasing this time.
I lace our fingers.
“Look at me.”
“I would rather monitor the wing.”
“The wing is fine.”
“You don't know.”
“I own the plane.”
“That does not make you an aeronautical engineer.”
“No, but the people flying it are.”
The engines rise.
Her fingers tighten.
I rub my thumb slowly across her knuckles.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Violently.”
She turns those cornflower eyes on me.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don't.”
Her expression falters.
Still too soon.
I change direction.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Anything.”
The plane begins moving.
She grips harder.
I start talking before she can decide.
“Travers once tried to convince Vale that a private aircraft could land on a polo field.”
Sabine glances at me.
“Could it?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He found a pilot drunk enough to discuss it.”
The aircraft turns.
Her shoulders climb.
I keep going.