I try a different tactic. "I'm going to be sick."
His eyes narrow. "Are you?"
"The motion of the car…"
He reaches into a compartment and pulls out a bottle of water, offering it to me. "Drink this. Small sips."
I don't want to take anything from him, but my throat is desert-dry from fear. I accept the bottle with shaking hands and take a sip. The cold water actually helps, but only a little.
"Good girl."
I glare at him. "Stop calling me that."
"But you are being good. Smarter than I expected, actually. You understand that running right now would be suicide."
"Is that what you want? My submission?"
His eyes go dark, and that look—that hungry, dangerous look—is back. "Don't put ideas in my head, Holly."
Heat floods my face. I look away and focus on the passing landscape, but I can feel him still watching me.
We pull through a gate marked ‘Private Aviation’, and my worst fears are confirmed. A sleek black jet sits on the tarmac, the stairs extended, lights glowing warmly from inside.
The car stops at the base of the stairs, and the driver gets out and opens my door. Cold air rushes in, along with the distant roar of jet engines.
My captor emerges from his side and comes around to me, offering his hand like we're on a date instead of him kidnapping me.
I ignore it and climb out on my own.
"This way," my kidnapper says, his hand returning to the small of my back.
I want to run. There are other planes, other people. Surely someone would help me.
But the driver and another man in a suit are behind us, and my captor's hand on my back is firm. And I realize with sinking certainty that even if I screamed, even if I ran, his reach extends here too. Private terminals. Private security. Money and power that can make a woman disappear.
“I’m not a very good flyer,” I say, my hands shaking at the idea of being stuck on a plane with this madman.
“Now is the time to overcome that fear, Holly,” he says simply.
“I’m not kidding, we’ll get thirty thousand feet in the air and who knows what I’ll do once my anxiety takes over.”
“You’ll do as you’re told. That’s what you will do.”
It’s a command. Not a suggestion.
So I do as I am told and walk up the stairs.
The interior of the jet is obscenely luxurious. Cream leather seats, polished wood, soft lighting. It smells like leather and expensive cologne. An elegant flight attendant greets us with a beauty-queen smile.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. Morozov. We're cleared for takeoff whenever you're ready."
Morozov.Finally, a name.
He guides me to one of the large seats and waits until I sit before taking the seat across from me. Close enough to reach me, far enough to give me breathing room.
"Champagne, Mr. Morozov?" the attendant asks.
"Vodka. Neat. For both me and the lady."
