Page 279 of The Black Trilogy

“I hope I’ll get the right girl too,” Luke said.

“Is that all you wanted? I’m going out with Arabella in a minute.”

Luke handed over Tia’s gadgets. “Do you want to move back in with me?”

“Maybe.” Tia folded her arms. “I’ll think about it.”

Great. She was still angry. Should he push her or hope she got over it on her own? Being a big brother was hard, especially when their mother was so hands-off with parenting.

In the end, Luke decided to take the safe option and leave. At least he’d tried.

“Do you want me to drop you off at Arabella’s?”

“Would you mind?”

“Driving my favourite sister around? Of course not.”

“I’m your only sister.”

“Exactly.”

Well, at least she was smiling again.

He’d thought the talk with Tia would be his most difficult of the day, but as he pulled out of Arabella’s driveway in his Porsche, he knew a tougher conversation awaited.

Mack may have told him to leave, but he couldn’t stay away. Even if she only agreed to be friends, that would be better than nothing. The thought of going the rest of his life without seeing her secret smile again left him hollow inside.

Well, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

All he had to do was convince Mack to give him a chance, and then deal with whatever Emmy decided to throw at him. He recalled her deadly aim during the snowball fight they’d had when she was in England and groaned.

Great.

He’d better practise ducking.

CHAPTER 47

EIGHT MEN STAGGERED past me, singing a painful homage to Ol’ Blue Eyes at the tops of their voices. One of them dropped the blow-up donkey he was carrying and spilled half his pint as he stooped to pick it up.

“Stupid plane’s late,” he slurred at me.

“I got that.”

I hated the airport in Sharm el Sheikh. I’d asked Sloane to book me on a scheduled flight because it seemed more sensible than sending a private jet to Egypt for just one person, but having spent three hours sitting in the departure lounge as it became ever more chaotic, that was a decision I very much regretted. The first hour had passed quickly—I’d spent it people watching, and there were some very odd people going through Sharm airport, let me tell you—but after that, the lack of edible food and clean toilets began to irritate me no end.

Then the check-in staff went on strike, followed by half of the ground staff. Nobody seemed to understand why. When I eavesdropped on their conversations, it appeared not even the staff on strike knew. My flight to the States was already an hour late when a garbled announcement over the Tannoy informed me a technical problem with the plane meant further delays. Judging by the row of maintenance staff I could see out the window, who had all downed tools and started praying to Mecca, it wouldn’t be taking off any time soon.

But not to worry, staff would be stopping by with complimentary bottles of water.

Fantastic.

The mob around the ticket counter was getting angrier by the second, and the nervous-looking man behind it repeated over and over that there were no seats left on any flights, anywhere. I backed away, thinking up plan B. Call for my jet? Try to charter a plane?

My gaze alighted on a backpacker lazing on the floor beside the duty-free shop. He’d brought his own picnic, and a well-thumbed copy of Treasure Island lay in his lap. He appeared to be the only person in the airport not sick of the bedlam.

I wandered over, crouched down beside him, and smiled. “Hey, where are you off to?”

Half an hour and two thousand dollars later, I sat in economy class, trying not to murder the toddler screaming in the seat behind me. Swapping the name on the ticket online had proved easy enough, and the backpacker decided to spend an extra week at the beach with his windfall.

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