37. Cassie
CASSIE
The Carlton Municipal Airport sat on a barren piece of land between the lush mountains of the Blackwell Preserve and the suburban jungle of Carlton’s mini-malls, fast food restaurants, and gas stations.
I was quiet as we approached the airport three days after the break-in at the house. I half expected the Hawks to change their mind about letting me come with them, half expected them to turn the car around and take me home, or more likely, to Bram’s.
That was really the only reason I was here: the Hawks weren’t willing to leave me home alone after the break-in, and deep down they weren’t willing to give in to Bram’s belief that they couldn’t keep me safe.
Vigo glanced at me in the rear view mirror of the G-Wagon. “Have I told you how hot you look in that dress, mouse?”
I was sitting in the back seat with Jagger while Hawk rode shotgun.
“Several times.” I said, smoothing the purple wrap dress over my thighs. “But thank you.”
Apparently even small airports had a lot of security.
Private jets used municipal airports to avoid the infrastructure around bigger international airports.
That meant millions of dollars worth of private planes sitting on the tarmac, to say nothing of the wealthy clientele, many of whom had their own security.
All of which was why the Hawks had decided the easiest way to gain access to the Carlton Municipal Airport was to claim to own a private jet.
Because of course they did.
Now we were pulling through the gates of the airport, Vigo flashing his ID to the guard on duty, all in keeping with Vigo’s and Hawk’s cover of private security to the wealthy young couple in the back seat, played by Jagger and yours truly.
Hence, the expensive dress and the makeup I’d carefully applied — thanks to a Youtube video — to make me look like the glamorous fiancé of a rich tech bro.
I looked over at Jagger and had to admit he looked the part in an expensive suit from his “bad old days” on Wall Street.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to give me a glimpse of the ink on his chest, and his cheekbones and jaw looked even sharper under his Gucci sunglasses.
He’d pulled on a Rolex like it was nothing, plus a couple of gold rings I’d never seen him wear, and I’d suddenly been able to imagine him as he’d once been: a wealthy bad boy raking in millions and throwing money off the roofs of buildings to feel alive.
It was probably insane to feel so turned on, but maybe I’d uncovered a new kink: roleplaying, Jagger as my rich fiancé, Vigo and Hawk as black-suited private security.
The guard at the gate waved us through and Vigo navigated the G-Wagon to the parking area for private clients where he parked between a limousine and a Bentley.
“Play your part,” Hawk said, opening my door. “Starting now.”
“I know.”
I forced myself not to look at him, not to acknowledge him, as I swung my legs out of the car because if you were rich and had private security all the time, I guessed you forgot they were there?
I obviously didn’t know, but I’d looked up some videos of celebrities walking through crowds and it kind of seemed like they just ignored their security.
Still, I knew Hawk looked sexy in the black suit because I’d gotten hot and bothered when I’d seen him in the kitchen, shirt unbuttoned, black jacket barely containing his shoulders.
I stepped onto the tarmac and was practically blinded by the sunlight hitting the massive “engagement ring” the Hawks had given me for our ruse.
“Where did you get this again?” I asked Hawk.
“You don’t want to know.”
Great.
I steadied myself on my black stilettos and walked around the car to join Jagger. I’d bought the shoes ages ago for a date (failed, obviously) and had only worn them a total of three times, but I’d practiced in the house over the last couple of days.
The Hawks had shown their appreciation on the stairs, the kitchen island, and in the work room.
Jagger and I made our way toward the charter terminal in a formation that seemed intuitive: Vigo at the front, Jagger and I behind him, Hawk behind us, like he was watching our backs.
Probably not a bad idea under the circumstances.
We walked under a sign reading Executive Terminal and I took a deep breath as the glass doors slid open.
We entered a climate-controlled terminal Daisy probably would have called Generic Luxe: wood floors, white walls, beige furniture, glass cocktail tables, and a handful of potted plants.
Jagger took off his sunglasses and looked around like a king looking for his valet, and like magic a young man in a suit appeared from a door behind a counter marked Concierge.
“Welcome! You must be Mr. Ashford.” The beaming man turned his gaze on me. “And Ms. Sinclair, of course. I’m Martin Ellery, Client Services Manager. Welcome to the Carlton Executive Terminal.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The names were aliases of course, backed up by some quick work by Aloha who planted a few articles in online business magazines and on fabricated websites.
There was even a Wikipedia page with Jagger’s picture under the name Julian Ashford, a member of a prestige 30 under 30 entrepreneurial list and official multimillionaire, engaged to a socialite named Vivian Sinclair.
Martin Ellery didn’t acknowledge Vigo or Hawk, which told me he was used to this kind of thing: rich people with private security touring the airport as a potential home base for their private jets.
“Can I get you anything?” Martin asked. “Coffee? Tea? Champagne?”
I understood why he was being so solicitous. A new client in the executive terminal meant money for the airport: hangar fees, fuel, plus food, drinks, and other luxury items — like Sobranie cigarettes — when said client came and went.
“Champagne.” Jagger looked around imperiously. “Krug Clos du Mesnil, if you have it.”
It was the first time I’d seen poor Martin blink.
“I'm afraid we don't currently stock Clos du Mesnil, Mr. Ashford. We do keep Krug Grande Cuvée on hand, and I'd be happy to have Clos du Mesnil ordered and chilled before your next arrival.”
Jagger looked down at me. “Will the Cuvée do, love bug?”
I had to force myself not to cough at the nickname.
“The Cuvée is fine.” I tried to look slightly disappointed even though I didn’t have the slightest idea of the difference between Clos du Mesnil and Grand Cuvée.
“Please, take a seat.” Martin gestured to one of the beige sofas in front of a picture window that highlighted a view of the airfield, the wild grass on all sides already turning brown under the early November sun.
I sat next to Jagger and I leaned back, trying to look bored even though my heart was hammering in my chest.
This was what we’d been waiting for: a chance for Vigo and Hawk to peel off, do some exploring. It was why Jagger had asked for the champagne.
“Enjoy the view,” Martin said. “I’ll be right back.”
Jagger leaned back, stretching his arms over the back of the sofa.
“Come here, love bug.” He’d removed his eyebrow piercing, but his shaved brow somehow looked even more rakish set against the luxury of his tailored suit, and there was a glint of wicked mischief in his blue eyes. “Why are you so far away?”
I scooted closer and he draped one arm over my shoulder, then slid his hand into the plunging neckline of my dress.
“What are you doing, pookie?” The nickname was absurd but what can I say?
I was trying to stay in character.
“Just having a little fun, love bug.” He slipped his hand into my bra and fondled my nipple. Heat rushed between my thighs. “You don’t mind a little fun, do you?”
“Fun is… good.”
Jagger glanced up at Hawk and Vigo, whose eyes were locked on Jagger’s hand under my dress. “What are you doing? Check the place out.”
Hawk’s right eye twitched, the only sign that he was about to blow a gasket from being ordered around by Jagger, but he and Vigo moved out and I knew they’d spend the time mapping the place, figuring out where we could find what we’d come for.
Jagger angled his body toward mine, his fingers still playing with my tit, and slid his other hand between my thighs.
“Stop it,” I hissed.
“I can’t help it.” he kissed my neck. “You look so fucking hot in that dress, and I’m turned the fuck on by the idea that you’re my fiancée.”
“Just for today.” I was more than a little breathless as his fingers crept into my underwear.
“Maybe.” His tongue darted out to tease the skin behind my ear. “Maybe not.”
I didn’t know if it was his words or his fingers that soaked my cunt.
“I need to concentrate.” I’d meant for it to be a complaint but it sounded weak even to my own ears.
“You don’t need to do anything but be my fiancée,” he murmured against my shoulder. “And I promise if you were my fiancée I’d be getting you off every damn day in every damn place.”
He pushed his fingers inside me. “On second thought, I can just do that now.”
“Here we are!”
Jagger’s fingers disappeared as Martin returned bearing a silver tray holding two champagne glasses fizzing with bubbly.
No champagne for security.
Sorry Vigo and Hawk.
I envied Jagger’s composure as he stood to remove the glasses from the tray. I felt flushed and off-balance as I got to my feet, the memory of his fingers working their magic on my pussy still fresh in my mind.
“I’ll show you around,” Martin said, setting the silver tray aside.
Jagger handed me one of the glasses and I wrapped my free hand around his arm in my best approximation of a rich lady fiancée.
“Let’s start outside,” Martin said. “I can show you the hangar accommodations.” He looked around. “Where are your men?”
Jagger didn’t miss a beat. “Scoping your security. Accommodations are important, but security more so, especially now.”
Martin nodded. “Of course.”
Jagger had set up the story in advance: a big acquisition that would bring us to and from London more frequently, the need for discretion, for an easy — and comfortable — entrance and exit point to the city
Martin was already talking as we headed for the doors that would take us out onto the tarmac. I only caught snippets: ten private hangars, two of which were currently available for full time lease, an around-the-clock crew, the VIP area — including the cigar lounge — also open around the clock.
I remembered Jagger’s instructions and waited until we were halfway across the tarmac to stop walking.
“Everything okay, love bug?” Jagger sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m bored. I’ll wait in the lounge.” I tried to send imperious, then glanced as dismissively as I could muster at Martin, trying to make my point clear: none of this was a request. “Thank you.”
I saw the hesitation in his eyes, the inner battle playing out between his desire to secure a VIP client and the airport’s security protocols, which probably dictated that random people shouldn’t be wandering around the airport.
I headed back toward the terminal without waiting for him to speak, holding my breath, waiting for him to stop me, to tell me I’d need an escort.
“I don’t suppose you’d have a recommendation on a pilot,” Jagger said behind me. “Mine isn’t working out. Might be good to have a local.”
“Oh… um…” I could almost see Martin looking after me, watching me get closer to the terminal, knowing his opportunity to stop me was dwindling with each passing second. “I can absolutely get you some names. So, as I was saying, the hangars are climate controlled and…”
Their voices disappeared behind me as I reached the building.
Inside, the place was quiet, which made sense if only eight of the private hangars were full. This terminal was for VIP clients only and not all of them would be traveling all the time.
I clutched the designer handbag Hawk had given me to use for the occasion and walked confidently past a young woman in black pants and a white shirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail.
She glanced up but quickly lowered her head, like she was afraid to be offensive by even looking at me.
A few seconds later a meaty security guard with thinning hair and the air of someone with a chip on his shoulder stepped into the hall.
I tried to ignore him too.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I kept walking, hoping he wouldn’t press, but this time it didn’t work.
“Miss?”
I turned around and tried to act surprised. “Yes?”
I forced myself not to focus on the gun in his holster.
“You can’t be in here without an escort.”
I raised my chin a notch. “Martin assured me I could wait in the lounge while my fiancée tours the facility.”
Was this how rich people acted? I had no idea — maybe they were mostly nice — but I didn’t have a lot to work with.
The guard frowned. “You’re supposed to have an escort.”
“You can take that up with Martin.”
My pulse raced but I kept going. I felt like a total asshole, but when I glanced back, the guard was gone.
I was halfway to the expansive glass room at the end of the hall, a sign marked Executive Lounge above the door, when a hand snaked out from behind a half-closed door and clamped down on my arm.
I teetered on my heels as I was pulled into a windowless, nondescript office.
Vigo pressed me against the wall and closed his mouth around mine, his tongue driving between my lips.
I melted against the wall, the tension of our mission momentarily disappearing as his hand snaked up my dress.
“Stop fucking around,” Hawk said, behind Vigo. “We don’t know how much time we have.”
Vigo tore his mouth from mine. “That’s part of the fun. Isn’t that right, mouse?”
I blinked but couldn’t come up with an answer.
Vigo stepped away and I saw that Hawk was sitting at the desk near one wall, his gaze trained on a computer monitor while he tapped at the keyboard.
“How did you get into the system?” I asked.
“Aloha,” Hawk said without looking away from the screen.
“Hey, Cass.” Aloha’s voice came from Hawk’s phone, sitting on the desk.
“Hey, Aloha,” I said weakly.
The whole scene was somehow both bland and terrifyingly real.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“Take that filing cabinet, will you?” Hawk asked. “This system is ancient. There may still be some paper records.”
“Shouldn’t someone keep a look out?” I asked.
“That’s my job, mouse.” Vigo’s mischievous grin did nothing to calm my nerves. “We might need a distraction.”
A Vigo distraction didn’t sound ideal for an undercover mission, but what did I know?
I set down my bag and opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet.