Chapter 18
OLIVIA
I turned on the unforgiving mattress, the throbbing pain in my hand waking me. Where was I, again?
The sight of the crooked curtains reminded me.
The tiny, shitty hotel room where I was sharing a bed with a massive man who’d cut me—and saved my life.
Even after I’d nearly killed him. I’d curled up in his embrace, letting him hold me close, and to my shock, I didn’t mind.
Maybe I even liked his strong arm clasped around me, just a little.
But something was wrong. I bolted upright on the bed when I realized the place beside me was empty. “Ethan?”
There was no response from the bathroom, and I could see the light was off in there.
“Ethan?”
The room stayed quiet.
Had he stepped outside to make a call, worried he might wake me? Gone to pick up something for us to eat?
No, he hadn’t. His suitcase was gone.
He’d left me.
I kicked down the covers and leaped from the bed. The bathroom tile was cold on the soles of my feet, and my stomach was colder still when I realized my uniform was gone. He’d left my bra and shoes, but I had no pants. Only the oversized white shirt he’d lent me, the one that smelled like him.
Bastard. I was going to give him a gigantic piece of my mind next time I—
Oh. All the air left the room, and my knees folded so I sat on the edge of the bed. There wouldn’t be a next time. He’d said it himself. I don’t owe you anything.
There was a dull pain sinking inside me. Wasn’t this what I wanted? I was always the one who did the brushing off to avoid clingy complications or the threat of a relationship. Ethan had saved me the trouble.
So why did I have this stinging disappointment?
I’d fallen asleep in his arms, and he hadn’t even said goodbye. Confusion and anger fogged my thoughts, and my gaze drifted down to my left hand. It rested palm up on my knee so as not to aggravate the aching wound. At least he’d left me something to remember him by.
Asshole.
There was a brief knock at the door, followed by the sound of metal sliding into metal. A key unlocking the door. I launched to my feet once again, relieved the asshole had returned—
Except he hadn’t. It was the man from this morning, the British one we’d traded cars with. It took me a moment to realize it. He’d had a rough and rugged look about him then, but now he was all polished and wearing a suit.
His gaze slid over me while I was clad in the enormous t-shirt that was almost long enough to be a dress, but he didn’t seem fazed. He peered at me with only curiosity.
“Olivia,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you, love. My name’s Fletcher.” He tossed a backpack on the bed beside me. “Clothes for you. Can you be quick about it? We’ve got a plane waiting on standby.”
“Where’s Ethan?”
Fletcher’s mouth opened but nothing came out.
Oh, holy fuck. My heart tripped over my mistake, making me blurt, “I mean, where’s Nathan?”
A slow, reassuring smile tilted his lips. “Ethan,” he clarified, “had to go. I’ll explain on the way to the airport. You should get dressed.”
Before I could say anything else, he stepped out and shut the door.
I pressed my lips together, and my focus turned to the backpack. There didn’t seem to be any other option. I yanked on the pair of black sweatpants and gray t-shirt that were inside, then stuffed Ethan’s white shirt into the main compartment. The intent was to keep it, although I had no idea why.
Two minutes later, I was out in the hall.
Fletcher had been curious of me before, but now he outright studied me. Had I sprouted a second head? Because that was how he looked at me, assessing every inch as if I were a puzzle he needed to solve.
We seemed to be close in age, although perhaps he was a few years older. Maybe he was even pushing forty. There was mischief in his bright blue eyes, and cunning too.
“We’re getting you out of Italy immediately. It’s not safe for either of you if you stay.” And then in direct conflict with what he’d just said, he approached and urged me back through the open doorway into the room. “But I need to see your hand first. I’d prefer not to do stitches in-flight.”
“I don’t need stitches.”
“Had extensive medical training, have we? Give it here.”
He held out his hand, demanding I show him. I turned my palm up and sucked in a breath through clenched teeth as he gently examined it.
He said it almost begrudgingly. “You don’t need stitches.”
Even though he was a stranger and looked like he could overpower me easily, annoyance seeped into my voice. “Like I told you.”
Rather than get mad, a lazy smile widened on his face. “I see why he fancies you.”
My breath caught, and everything in the room went still. “He said that?”
Fletcher seemed to enjoy my shocked reaction. “Not with words, but his actions do. In fact, they speak volumes.”
“What the hell are you talking about? He left me here.”
“Only because he had to. He rather gave me the impression he was reluctant about that.”
The mischief in his eyes made me want to tap my internal horizon gauge to ensure it was working. I felt wildly off-kilter.
“Ready to shove off?” he asked.
I followed him down the stairs, toward the parking lot.
“He had to return to his cover,” he explained. “You’ll need to lay low until his work there is wrapped up.”
“And what work is that, exactly?”
“Sorry, love,” he said. “Even I don’t know that answer.”
“But you two work together?”
“On occasion. But we don’t work for the same people.”
What did that mean? He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he hurried us to a dark sedan, where he pulled open the back door and wordlessly asked me to get in.
When I hesitated, the mischievous glint grew in his eyes. “Trying to figure him out, are you? Good luck with that.”
I frowned, got into the back seat, and tried not to think about what he’d revealed, but it buzzed in my mind regardless. I see why he fancies you.
Fletcher shut my door then moved to get settled into the driver’s seat. “Do you speak German?”
“No. Why?”
“One of Ethan’s friends lives in Munich. He’s asked me to—”
An electronic trill came from his pocket, and rather than finish his sentence, he dug the phone out.
“We’re about to leave.” No greeting. That was how he answered it. His gaze flicked to mine in the mirror. “She’s fine.”
He turned in the seat and extended the phone to me. He didn’t bother to tell me who it was because it was unnecessary.
“Hello, Ethan.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, and I had to check in with Gio.”
It was strange to hear his deep voice unaccompanied by that intense gaze.
“That’s all right,” I replied. “You said it yourself. You don’t owe me anything.”
I kept it as professional as I could, trying to mask the sting of hurt. He was doing his job after all, I assumed, but once again, I’d lost out to the murderous Gio.
There was a long pause. “Are you okay? Your hand?”
“It’s fine.”
“Good. I shouldn’t be long, but I’ll let Fletcher know not to wait for me if the situation changes.”
“You’re . . . you’re coming back?” Why the hell did my pulse quicken at the idea of that?
“That’s the plan. I’ll see you soon.”
“Ethan, wait.” I wasn’t really sure what to say next, but the words spilled from me just as unsteadily as I felt. “I’m sorry about what I did on the plane.”
There was no response. Had I not caught him in time?
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” he replied, his voice hushed.
It only made me feel more out of control. “Thank you,” I matched his low voice, “for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome. Stay safe.”
The call ended immediately, but I remained still, the phone pressed to my ear. What had just happened? I’d been so angry at him for leaving, and yet I was relieved to know I’d see him again.
When I went to pass the phone back, Fletcher shook his head. “It’s yours. His number’s programmed.”
There was only one number in the contacts list, and I felt both weightless and heavy when I read the name. Unfinished Business. My face heated.
The drive to the airport seemed shorter from this back seat. Again, I kept my head down since I was supposed to be dead.
There was a Gulfstream parked outside the hangar, only a few years old and in excellent condition. Nicer, faster, slicker than Vitale’s Bombardier. We didn’t linger in the car. Fletcher led me up the metal stairs and into the safety of the cabin.
The interior of the plane was nicer than the Bombardier, too.
Captain chairs in white leather and rich mahogany panels that wrapped around the galley and obscured the attendant from passenger view.
A large desk sat mid-plane, and in the rear there was a sliding couch for when passengers wanted to sleep.
I wouldn’t have minded a peek at the cockpit and a chance to talk shop with the pilots, but I didn’t want to bother them. This wasn’t my plane; it was theirs. Not to mention, I needed some damn answers from the Englishman.
A pretty, young woman in a uniform came out of the attendant station and smiled. “Guten Tag.”
“We’ll use English if you don’t mind, Victoria,” Fletcher said. “Can you serve lunch before we depart?”
The cabin attendant nodded and swished away in her pencil skirt.
“Explain,” I said, “what you meant about Ethan’s actions speaking volumes.”
He took a seat and pointed to one for me. “This is rather out of character for him. Quite shocking, really.”
The frustration swelled inside me. “Out with it already.”
“Risking his cover that took fucking months to build, to get you out? Brilliantly stupid. And now, tucking you away in Munich, when you should be on the first flight back to America.” His blue eyes filled with amusement. “You’ve heard my theory about his motive.”
My gaze fell to the phone in my hand, the contact name repeated in my mind. I didn’t want to admit to myself that excitement had flashed through me. I glanced away, focusing in on a logo on one of the TV screens. Osterh?gen Beverage.
Oh. My. God.
That was why the name was familiar. The press coverage of the CEO of Osterh?gen had faded from the news cycle, but it had been a huge story when it happened. The brewery bombing. The American hostage. This was Ethan’s friend?
“How do you know Shawn Dunn?” I asked.
“I was part of the team that rescued his fiancée.”
Holy shit. “Was Ethan on the team, too? Is that how you two met?”
“He was the one who got her out of the house, but no, that’s not how we met.” Fletcher’s head tilted with an evaluating look. “Tell me, what happened between the two of you in South Africa?”
I pressed my lips together, not sure if I should answer.
“How about an exchange of information?” he suggested. “I have the sense we’re both rather curious about the other.”
Red flags went up. I wasn’t nearly as interested in the Englishman as I was in Ethan. My expression must have hinted at my reluctance because he leaned forward.
“We each answer only what we feel comfortable revealing.”
“All right,” I replied. “Who do you work for?”
He gave me a smug look, his eyes shining. I’d reached too far and he wasn’t going to answer.
“Do you work for criminals like he does?” I continued.
“No.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced out the portside window. “How did you get him to tell you his real name?”
I wasn’t one to get shy or embarrassed about sex. After the mountain, I tried to live with no regrets. But Ethan was guarded, and I felt compelled to leave it on the down-low. “It wasn’t easy. I had to torture it out of him.”
It was a humorless joke, but his face turned to stone. “Who do you work for?”
“No one now.” It came out fast and honest, because his harsh expression made me nervous. “Before the Abramos, I flew a regional route in Spain.”
He blinked and softened. “You were having a laugh.”
“About torturing him? Well, yeah.”
This reaction told me both men encountered torture in their line of work, the same work that had him undercover. The man sitting across from me . . . was he a spy?
“Who do you work for?” I asked again. “MI-6?”
The mischievous look in his eyes was replaced with one I couldn’t put a label on. “Who told you I’m British?” His accent vanished, and the voice of a Midwesterner emerged. “Maybe I’m only talking like that to mess with a woman who’s gotten too close to my friend.”
My breath became trapped in my throat. “What are you? CIA?”
A small, tight laugh escaped him. “No, love. Definitely not.” It was like he had a switch for the accent, and he’d just reactivated it. “Where, pray tell, did such a big man stay in that tiny room with you this morning? Did he sleep in the bathtub?”
“If you’re asking if we slept together, the answer is yes.” But before Fletcher’s eyes could grow too big, I continued, “With our clothes on, facing away from each other.”
His grin was frustrating because it said he didn’t believe my lie. “Well, unfinished business, indeed.”
I hated flying as a passenger. I needed to have the yoke in my hands and the control that went with it. The flight to Munich wouldn’t be more than ninety minutes, but I worried I was going to spend every moment of it on edge, all because of the man across from me.
“This exchange of information is getting me nowhere,” I grumbled. “I only have more questions.”
“Pity for you, as you’ve answered most of mine.” After a long moment, his amusement drained and he turned serious. “Don’t know much about him, really, love, and even less I’m allowed to tell you.”
“But you can tell me about yourself. Are you some sort of spook? Do you work for a government or—?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t, and before you ask, I don’t work for Osterh?gen, either. You’ll have to trust me when I tell you that I work for the good guys.”
“And Ethan? Does he work for the good guys, too?”
His eyes sharpened, and it hinted that the trust between the two men only extended so far. “I have to believe so, yes.”