Page 21 of Cruel Fate

I let him nudge me toward a leather loveseat, and I sink next to him and rest my head on his shoulder. He links our fingers together, and we sit in silence, the sun blazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I should—”

“Kiss me,” he says, and he covers my mouth with his.

His lips are firm and soft, and his tongue slips between my lips. Only moments later I’m slick and aroused, and mist covers my skin. Zane can do that to me. It’s scary how fast he can turn me on.

He does nothing more than kiss me, even though I widen my knees in invitation. I want him touching me. His fingers teasing me to orgasm. He leans away and unbiddingly, I groan. He chuckles, and I revel in the low, gravelly sound.

He’s lost so much in his life. I want to replace some of it—if I can.

Zane tugs me to my feet. “They should be here any minute.”

“Zane, I...” I don’t know what to say, how to comfort him without making promises I may not be able to keep. I’m twenty years old and have no family, no breeding, no skills besides being able to adjust a worksheet full of messed up debits and credits to make them match.

I feel woefully ill-equipped to give what a man like Zane Maddox needs to be whole.

“I’m falling in love with you, Stella,” he says.

My heart chills, even as it soars.

I don’t know how I can be enough, but maybe Zane doesn’t need me to be anything more than what I am.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zane

Ifeel like I’m going to throw up. Not because I told Stella I love her—though that may have been a little premature on my part. All I know is she gives me peace, and that weighs more with me than what her favorite food is or if she’s allergic to cats. She anchors me, and I clutch her hand under the table.

To her credit, she doesn’t flinch. I could break her fingers, and she wouldn’t cry out. She’s here to support me, and she’ll let me do whatever I need to do.

I have to be careful never to abuse that power.

In one of the smaller meeting rooms, Stella, who appears to be more my girlfriend than assistant, and I are sitting with an admiral of the United States Coast Guard, an FBI special agent, and an agent from Homeland Security. The National Transportation Safety Board, or the NTSB, dropped out of the meetings. Their job is to search for the black box, and that search slowed months ago as newer crashes and investigations pulled manpower away from my parents’ crash.

Pictures of the NTSB field officers salvaging the scant debris flash on the flat screen TV anchored to the wall in front of the conference table. My father’s corporate jet was an average-sized plane, and the storm had swept away most of the remains.

“While the NTSB is still searching for the cockpit voice recorder, we’ve moved on to investigating who was on board,” says Special Agent Banks, a greying man in his late forties or early fifties, if I had to guess. He wears fatigue well, and he sips a cup of coffee as if it’s a magic potion. An open file lays in front of him. “Unfortunately, because it was a private plane, those on board were not required to sign in on the flight manifest. We have a list of passengers, though it may be incomplete. Anyone could have boarded that aircraft if they cleared security with a valid passport.”

This is new information, and I straighten. “Are you saying the storm may not have caused the crash?” I thought they were going to update me on the search for my parents’ bodies, the debris, and the black box, not turn this into a homicide investigation.

“We’re looking into every possible angle, and we haven’t ruled out simple pilot error during the storm. You may have to reconcile with the fact the weather caused spatial disorientation, but if the CVR is never recovered—and at this point we may have to consider it never will be—it will entail months of investigation before we reach a definitive conclusion. We’re looking into Lark and Kagan as well. Do you know if they had any enemies?”

My answer is immediate and firm. “No. I don’t know anyone who would have wanted my parents dead.”

Banks squints. He doesn’t believe me. You don’t make the kind of money my dad did without stepping on toes, and lots of them. I understand that—I’m prepared to do it myself—but he didn’t run his company the way the Blacks run theirs.Aggressive. Cut-throat. Needing to win at any cost. Kagan Maddox wasn’t that kind of man, and neither am I.

“We need to be sure. Otherwise, someone may have had a vendetta against a passenger flying on that plane. We’ve been working with the French police and interviewing staff at the airport, viewing tapes, that kind of thing,” Special Agent Banks continues, but he’s distracted, looking around the meeting room.

He’s searching for more coffee, and I nod at Stella who rises and retrieves a full carafe off the sideboard. She pours, her hand steady, and Banks looks at her as if she were a goddess conjured out of thin air. The expression on his face matches how my heart flutters when she’s near.

She refreshes my mug as well and pushes the cream and sugar to me. She doesn’t know yet how I drink my coffee.

I control the trembling in my hand and add cream.

The guy from Homeland Security chimes in—I didn’t bother to remember his name. I found it unlikely my parents’ deaths were linked to a terrorist attack and didn’t understand why he was involved. My father kept his nose out of political affairs and never publicly supported a presidential campaign with either his influence or monetary assistance. Up until this meeting, I hadn’t considered another passenger on the plane could have been a target. My parents didn’t tell me they were traveling with anyone, but this proves how short-sighted I am, how buried under grief I’ve been. “Because a US senator is listed on the manifest, we have not ruled out the possibility of this being a terrorist attack against the United States of America.”

I’m frustrated, and I’m not afraid to let them know it. “If it’s that serious, then why is it taking so long to make any headway?”

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