Page 38 of Gabriel: Duke of Bencalor

The plane piv­oted around one wing tip, tilt­ing her to­ward the win­dow where she could see a con­tainer ship head­ing to­ward the mouth of Port San Ig­na­cio del Sur. Then the jet rolled in the op­po­site di­rec­tion so all she could see was sky. Her stom­ach tried to climb into her throat.

“Jeez, this is worse than a roller coaster.”

Gabriel shifted his hand to cover hers where she clutched the chair arm with white-knuck­led fe­roc­ity. “Blame it on Raul. They don’t do such in­tense aer­o­bat­ics when it’s just me on the plane.”

She let the warmth and strength of his touch soothe her. “I’ll bet the pi­lot is en­joy­ing this.”

“I don’t know. She has to walk a fine line be­tween dodg­ing po­ten­tial mis­siles and not caus­ing the prince to vomit.”

That wrung a laugh from her. Gabriel looked pleased. “It will be over soon,” he promised as the jet seemed to carve fig­ure eights in the air.

Quinn turned her hand up to grip Gabriel’s while her stom­ach lurched in uni­son with the plane’s mo­tion.

Fly­ing had never both­ered her un­til her stint be­hind bars. Af­ter a year of hav­ing no con­trol over her life, she strug­gled in any sit­u­a­tion where she had to cede au­thor­ity to some­one else. Even be­ing called for jury duty had thrown her into a panic.

Gabriel gave her fin­gers a re­as­sur­ing squeeze when she closed her eyes and swal­lowed hard.

Sud­denly, the jet lev­eled off and glided along as though skat­ing on glass-smooth ice.

“Thank God!” Quinn mur­mured, open­ing her eyes and ex­tract­ing her hand from Gabriel’s. “That didn’t bother you?”

“I’m used to it, al­though this as­cent was a lit­tle live­lier than most.”

“I hate to think what it’s like when the king is on board.”

“He would never be on the same plane with Raul,” Gabriel said. “In fact, it’s un­usual for Raul and me to fly to­gether.”

Right. Un­til Raul had chil­dren, Gabriel was third in line for the throne. He went by the ti­tle of duke, but he was a prince in ac­tu­al­ity. She tried to imag­ine his dark hair flow­ing out from un­der the heavy gold crown the king wore for cer­e­mo­nial oc­ca­sions. Gabriel would look like a me­dieval war­rior king. Her pulse jumped.

“Quinn, Gabriel, come join us.” Raul spoke through the gap be­tween his seat and Mikel’s.

As Gabriel let Quinn pre­cede him up the aisle, Mikel moved to a back­ward-fac­ing seat across the ta­ble. Quinn was headed to­ward the one next to him when Gabriel grasped her wrist to stop her be­side the for­ward-fac­ing seat. “You should sit here, just in case there are any more aer­o­bat­ics.”

“I don’t think I’m al­lowed to,” she said, even as she was touched by his con­cern. She tugged her wrist free and plunked into the seat be­side Mikel.

Gabriel frowned. “Why not?”

“I’m just a com­moner.”

“Por el amor de Dios,” he mut­tered in ex­as­per­a­tion as he sat next to his cousin.

Raul looked as though he was fight­ing a smile.

“Shall I serve break­fast?” The stew­ard hov­ered be­side their ta­ble. Now that Quinn’s stom­ach wasn’t try­ing to keep up with the plane, she no­ticed the mouth­wa­ter­ing aroma of ba­con cir­cu­lat­ing through the cabin.

“Please,” Raul said, let­ting a smile break out as he nod­ded. His charisma was on track to ri­val his fa­ther’s but per­haps with a touch more charm than com­mand.

Isaac rolled a warm­ing cart along­side the ta­ble and served ev­ery­one thick, pow­dered-sugar-dusted French toast, fresh fruit and juices, gra­nola, yo­gurt, a dizzy­ing ar­ray of pas­tries, Span­ish jamón, smoked ba­con, and var­i­ously cooked eggs.

“But where are the stale peanuts?” Quinn said as she eyed the pile of food on her plate.

Raul and Gabriel looked blank, but Mikel’s lips twitched. “Isaac will be happy to get you some.”

Quinn laughed and took a bite of French toast. “Oh. My. God.” The bread was loaded with but­ter and vanilla and had a cit­rus ac­cent. She’d never tasted any­thing so good.

“That’s Marta—the palace chef’s—sig­na­ture break­fast dish,” Gabriel said. “She won’t share the recipe with any­one.”

“Do you get to eat this ev­ery morn­ing?” Quinn asked be­fore she closed her eyes to sa­vor the next bite.

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