Page 85 of Spooked

THE ASSISTANT

He’d really done it. Brax had really arranged a private jet. The gleaming white bird was parked on the tarmac outside the executive terminal, so near and yet so far. Would we make it on board? Because there was a man in a uniform waiting ahead of us, and the police thought I was a freaking criminal. I’d always assumed that Vimal would abuse the privileges of his job to find me, but I hadn’t dreamed he’d actually try to have me arrested.

“Let me do the talking,” Brax said under his breath. “You’re the trophy girlfriend of a wealthy businessman—act entitled.”

I’d always tried not to do that. And would it be enough, anyway? I had “guilty” written all over my face, and I hadn’t even done anything. Well, except for walking into Brax’s life and turning it upside down. He’d just gotten free from one troublesome woman, only to get tangled up with another one.

“Good morning, sir. Ma’am.” The man nodded to both of us. His uniform said he held some kind of authority, but he wasn’t a cop.

“Morning.” Brax had our passports in his hand, but he didn’t offer them.

“Do you need a ride to your plane?”

A ride? Why would we need a ride? The plane was right there, and a porter was taking care of our bags.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Uniform Guy opened the door for us.

“The other members of your party are already on board. Have a good flight, sir. Mind the step, ma’am.”

That was it? No rifling through my suitcase? No removal of shoes? No awkward pat-down? This was my dream life, apart from my best friend being missing, obviously.

Brax gripped my hand as we walked to the plane, and I thought the gesture was part of the act, that he’d drop it as soon as Uniform Guy was out of sight, but no, he didn’t let go until we reached the bottom of the stairs. My father used to march onto planes while my mom struggled with the bags, but with one of those weirdly intimate touches to my lower back, Brax signalled that I should go first.

“Youarea gentleman.”

He’d claimed that a while ago, and at the time, I hadn’t believed him. But now I knew he spoke the truth.

“No, my queen. I just want to admire your ass.”

Now he was lying. Brax might have a dirty mind, but chivalry was ingrained in his DNA. Still, I put a little wiggle on as I climbed up the steps, then stopped short at the top when I realised the pilot was watching me.

“Welcome aboard, ma’am. I’m Brett, and I’ll be your pilot for this trip.”

“Nice to meet you, Brett.” I didn’t have to act entitled anymore, right? That was just for the security guy? “This plane is much bigger than I thought it would be.”

“We need the range,” a voice said from my right. “We’ll be flying almost six thousand miles today.”

I turned to find an older man lounging against the wall, early forties at a guess, although the weathered face combined with an obviously toned body made it hard to tell. A lecture about sunblock was on the tip of my tongue, but I held back. In any case, the creases only made him look more appealing, handsome in a James Bond, battles-hard-fought kind of way. But his fashion sense didn’t come close to 007’s. This guy wore a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. At least he’d forgone the socks.

He gave me a lazy salute. “Priest. Co-pilot.”

“Mr. Priest?”

“No, just Priest.”

Okay, there were some definite downsides to flying private. This guy looked as if he’d be more at home on a surfboard than in a cockpit. Which, coincidentally, was what I tripped over when we walked farther through the plane. The surfboard had been abandoned in the aisle, propped against a seat.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart. I’ll stow it properly once we have your luggage on board.”

I’d almost landed in a woman’s lap, but thanks to the quick reflexes of the man sitting opposite her, who grabbed my arm, I stayed more or less on my feet.

“You must be Indi? I’m Dawson.”

It was strange hearing people use my real name again. “Thank you for coming.”

He was an old friend of Brax’s; I knew that much. He was also big. Tall, broad, muscular, and definitely more polished than Priest. Dawson’s chocolate-brown hair was close-cropped, and he’d remembered to shave.

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