Rox grabbed her purse. “Don’t you need, like, a veterinary passport and a whole bunch of paperwork to take cats on an airplane and travel internationally?”
“Sometimes. Not this time.” Casimir just continued to look at the window, watching.
More tremors started in Rox’s stomach. “Why not?”
Casimir continued to stare out the window. “We’ll talk about it later, in private.”
THE HUGGER
The cats hid under the seats of the SUV and yowled all the way to the airport, which was a mercifully short trip.
The last time Rox had flown through the private terminal, just a day and a little bit before, she had been so flustered at the idea of flying on a private jet and had been peering out the enormous wall of glass on the back side of the terminal at all the private planes coming and going that she hadn’t really looked around the building.
On the way back, she had been too shell-shocked to look around.
The terminal was nice.
Have you ever seen a movie that takes place in the 1800s, maybe in Africa, where the whole point of the ostentatious, sumptuous, disgusting setting is obviously social commentary to emphasize that the imperial empire in the movie is so decadent, so morally failing, that they must be raping the land and enslaving the people to make it look like that?
Yeah. That.
In the movie, shining and soft leather upholsters every chair and couch. Cut crystal glasses and stemware sparkle in the tropical sun, which must have been packed in straw and tissue and imported from somewhere far away at great expense. The waiters, who are bowing obsequiously while they bring people drinks that cost a hundred dollars a glass, are all beautiful specimens of humanity, as decorative as the real art on the walls, and huge vases of riotous flowers bloom on every table, and the thick rugs cushion your feet.
Yep.
Rox didn’t move her head, just her eyeballs, as she scanned the luxury that the rich people indulged in before they went out to their private jets.
She was torn between wanting it all for herself and wanting to burn it all down. People were starving. Dang, that champagne that the waiter offered her from a tray was delicious.
Hugo said, “This way, please.”
Casimir held her elbow and steered her through the airport terminal as if Rox didn’t know where to go.
The slim jet waiting outside the windows shone silver in the sunlight except for its tail, which was a grayed federal blue and emblazoned with three gold crowns. She hadn’t noticed the paint job the other night.
She didn’t even need to look at Casimir’s tattoo on his right forearm to see if the tail fin matched one of the three shields. It totally did.
They crossed the tarmac, Casimir’s hand still guiding her elbow, and climbed the stairway to the plane.
Inside, two security guys saw them and stood back, relaxing.
Maxence was sitting in one of the white leather recliners, his hands on his knees, eyes closed.
Arthur was standing in the aisle, bracing himself on two chairs, his back to them.
When they ducked to come in the doorway, Arthur’s head whipped around, and he strode down the aisle and grabbed them both around their necks in a headlock, dragging Casimir against his shoulder and short little Rox against his side.
Her face was smashed against Arthur’s dark blue suit and his ribs underneath.
She tried to push away, pressing her hand against his side, but Arthur’s elbow was cinched around her neck. Even though the fine fabric of his suit and shirt separated her palm from his body, muscles bulged under her hand. Yep, Arthur was ripped under there.
She pushed away a little harder because he was really hanging onto her.
Arthur whispered, his voice hoarse, “What the hell is going on with you two?”
From the other side of Arthur, Casimir said, his voice slightly strangled, “Rox, I forgot to mention that Arthur cannot keep it British when he’s upset. He becomes a hugger.”
Arthur shook them both, rattling them with his arms around their necks. “You two will stay in Amsterdam or London. You aren’t coming back to this hellhole. If you need security, Caz, I will supply it. Do you understand me?”
Casimir pounded Arthur on the back. “I assure you, once we get home to Amsterdam, my sister won’t let me take a piss without a team securing the facilities.”
Beyond Arthur’s arm, back in the seats, Maxence had opened his eyes and was staring at them. He blew out a very deliberate breath and slumped in his chair.
“You scared me shitless, you assholes.” Arthur jiggled them some more, as if ensuring they were real. “A sniper and firebombs in one damn day.”
Rox gave up and wrapped her arms around Arthur’s waist, hugging him back.
His arm loosened around her neck, and his hand relaxed down to the middle of her back. “I saw the footage. It looked like a coordinated terrorist attack. That’s what they’re calling it, you know. They’re denying that it was aimed at one person and are bringing in federal authorities.”