This Man Confessed(111)

“Ava, there’s no place you’re safer than in a car with me. What’s the matter?”

“My passport,” I say, diving into my bag, looking in complete vain because I know it’s not in here. I didn’t put it in here, and my rummaging slows when I realize exactly where my passport is. He’ll go spare. “I’ve left my passport in my box of junk,” I tell him, mentally cursing myself for not sorting that box out yet.

He reaches forward and flips the glove compartment open. “No, you haven’t, but you have forgotten to get your name changed, Miss O’Shea.” He drops it on my lap and tosses me a reproachful look.

“So I’m traveling a single?” I ask, opening it up and admiring my maiden name.

“Shut up, Ava.” He screeches to a stop and jumps out, making quick work of getting around to my side and opening my door. I would have done it myself, but I’m just staring out of the windscreen with my mouth slightly agape. “Come on.”

I look up as a well-suited and booted man approaches with a man in a captain’s uniform. My passport is whipped from my grasp, hands are shaken, paperwork and signatures are exchanged, and then our luggage is removed from the boot.

“Are you going to sit there all day, lady?” He holds his hand out to me, and I take it automatically, letting him pull me from the car.

“What’s that?” I ask, nodding at the toylike plane sitting a few yards away from us.

“That’s a plane.” There is humor in his voice. I’m pulled toward the jet, not feeling any more enthusiastic as we get closer because it’s not getting any bigger, and I’m not filled with any further confidence when Jesse has to dip to enter the damn thing to avoid smacking his head. I halt on the ridiculously small amount of steps that will have me boarding.

“I’m not getting on this thing.” I’m attacked by an unreasonable bout of fear. I’ve never been afraid of flying, but this little plane is really pumping the anxiety through my veins.

Jesse smiles, but frowns at the same time. “Of course you are.”

My arm is tugged gently, encouragingly, but I’m not shifting. In fact, I’m backing away.

“Ava, you’ve never said you’re scared of flying.” He redips and stands up straight, back on the outside of the jet.

“I’m not in big planes. Why are we not going on a big plane?” I look behind me and see heaps of big planes. “Why can’t we go on one of those?”

“Because they’re probably not going where we need them to,” he says softly. I feel my arm go lax in front of me from where he’s getting closer, and then his palm is on my cheek. “It’s perfectly safe,” he assures me, pulling my gaze away from all of the big planes that I’d like to board instead.

“It doesn’t look safe.” I glance past him and see a perfectly positioned woman with perfectly styled hair, perfect makeup, and a perfect smile. “It looks too small.”

“Ava.” His soft voice pulls my eyes back to his. He’s smiling down at me. “This is me, your possessive, unreasonable, overprotective control freak.” He kisses me gently. “Do you really think I’d willingly put you in danger?”

I shake my head, fully aware that I’m being a complete baby.

“Answer my question.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Good.” He rounds me and clasps my shoulders, pushing me gently up the steps. “You’ll love it; trust me.”

“Good morning!” The perfect woman, who’s still standing perfectly in place, greets us, holding her arm out in a signal of where to go. It’s really not necessary. There are one of two ways, and I’m not going anywhere near the cockpit.

Peering inside, I notice just a few chairs, all massive, all leather, all reclining, and just two rows of them—one on each side of the jet. I’m directed to the middle, turned around, and eased down into the soft plumpness. I keep quiet and resist the urge to bolt as Jesse secures my seatbelt and takes a seat opposite me. He immediately lifts my feet to his lap.

“Champagne, sir?” Perfect lady is back, and I spy her beaming at my god, but I’m too busy gathering my pathetic anxiousness to trample.

“Just water,” Jesse answers shortly, with no smile, no acknowledgment, and no “please.” She beats a hasty retreat, and Jesse slips my ballet pumps from my feet, dropping them carelessly to the floor before getting comfy and repositioning my feet so they’re at a good angle for him to massage. “Okay?” he asks.

“Not really.” I wiggle my toes. “I haven’t got swollen feet yet, you know.”