Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(146)
The landscape came into view: a strangely arranged map of roads and houses in crooked rays and imperfect circles, lit up by street and house lights. Somehow I could tell this wasn’t an American city, and then remembered Amsterdam was hundreds of years older than the first American settlements. It was such a simple revelation: the organic growth of a very old city looks different than the planned grids of a new one. This city was sinuous, undulating, gathered around the waterways like it was begging for a sip.
The sky lightened to grey all over while the horizon brightened and caught fire. As the jet banked smoothly to the left, Jackson shifted and stirred.
“Sleep OK?” he asked through a smile, his forearm flung over his eyes.
“Like I was born in a jet,” I grinned.
He nodded sleepily, arching his back in a luxurious stretch. Across the aisle, Declan sat up in his reclined captain’s chair and snapped the footrest back, then ran his fingers through the magically still magazine-quality tousle on top of his head.
“Hey,” he said, grinning.
“Hey yourself,” I muttered, squinting as the first rays of sunlight cut through the cabin.
Jennifer/Amber sat up with a start in the chair across from Declan, dropping a blanket under the table. She lunged after it, grabbing her shoes from the floor and clutching them to her chest. I scowled at the lace camisole that spilled out from her unbuttoned uniform top as she darted out of the cabin and through the curtain.
“I guess I missed dinner,” I said with a scowl, noting the dishes still on the tablecloth, the bottle of Elijah Craig bourbon and the toppled glasses that rolled in the tray.
“What?” Declan called out over the cabin noise.
I shook my head. Nothing.
No, I corrected myself. That was definitely something. But what? And would he tell me if I asked?
No.
Don’t ask.
Definitely do not ask.
“We’re landing,” Jackson said to no one, looking out the window at the now-rosy sky striped with smears of lavender clouds. “Hey, you OK?”
“What?” I said, catching my sour expression and replacing it with something more appropriate to the kickass adventure I was surely about to be having. “I am totally OK,” I said, basking in the European dawn that poured through the windows and the sky-blue stare of my billionaire lover.
“Outstanding,” he grinned, pulling his t-shirt and jeans off the sofa.
“You bet,” I agreed, and sounded very convincing.
I watched the city swoop below us, closer and closer as the jet approached the airfield. The dawn seemed to accelerate as we neared landing, and the sun was full-force when our wheels touched gently on the foreign airstrip. I glanced at Jackson, excitement percolating so intensely in my chest that I had to bite my lips closed to keep anything from spilling out. He winked at me and nodded as though he understood.
When the jet braked to a stop in front of the hanger, we stood, stretching, and grabbed our respective bags and belongings. A sleepy silence still hung over us all as we shuffled toward the open stairway.
I saw the blue flash of Jennifer/Amber’s uniform behind another curtain in the utility area behind the cockpit and was both irritated that I couldn’t scour her expression for clues and glad I didn’t have to meet her eyes. Declan appeared to have no visible signs of guilt or shame, but that didn’t really comfort me any. I couldn’t imagine him ever feeling guilty about anything.
A uniformed customs agent stood in front of the violet-black sedan that idled at the foot of the stairs as we deplaned. He greeted us with a friendly nod and held out his hand officiously.
“Your passport,” Jackson murmured behind me.
“Oh right,” I said as I carefully negotiated the stairs, thanking myself for not tumbling to the asphalt at my first act on foreign soil.
When I reached the ground level, I dug in the front pocket of my bag and presented the agent with my passport. He held it up beside my face to check my identity and then smiled broadly, displaying great white slabs of horsey teeth.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of the Netherlands,” he said in a suave, clipped accent as I suppressed the urge to curtsy or something.
The driver rolled up a large cart of our luggage and transferred it all to the trunk as a narrow, black container van pulled up behind us.
“Everything looks so familiar, but just a little strange,” I mused, looking at the van. The driver got out and met a workman with a cart full of crates that had come from the plane’s cargo.
“This is a purple car,” I observed.
“This is a purple Bentley,” Jackson chuckled, handing his bag to the driver.
“And what’s that there?” I asked, pointing at the cargo van.