“Should have aimed three inches to the left!” Callum shouts as they join me in the helicopter.
“Apparently, I need some time at the gun range,” Alastair says sourly.
“Your arm!” Blood is streaming from his right arm; his expensive jacket is ripped from his shoulder. “We have to stop the bleeding, you-”
“I’m fine,” he interrupts me. “There’s a substantial first aid kit on the jet. I’ll take care of it there.”
I know right when it happened. Alastair moved behind me to shield me from the gunfire and lift me into the cabin. He took a bullet for me.
I know I’m going to hell for this, but I am so turned on right now.
***
It comes as no surprise that the biggest, sleekest jet at the private airfield near Heathrow belongs to my husband. The Gulfstream’s engines are already warming up as we land next to it. Alastair hustles me up the jet stairs, blood still flowing from the bullet hole.
“Strap in,” he tells me, “I’ve told the pilot to take off immediately.”
“What about your men back on the ground?” I ask, “Are they going to be all right?”
He looks slightly surprised, as if he dinna expect me to care. I dinna know if his guards like me or not, but they put their lives on the line today to save mine.
Callum answers me. “Two injuries, no fatalities,” he tells us. “Zhang’s men can’t shoot for shite.”
“That will change when he brings in a strike team,” Alastair says grimly, “and he will.”
My family has private jets, of course. Each of my brothers has one. Alastair’s plane is next level, just like everything else about the man. There are polished oak floors and pale leather seats. Behind us, I can see several couches and sectionals, a long table that can seat at least twenty, a screening room and beyond that section, the open door shows a massive bed.
When the pilot announces that we’re at cruising level, I find the suspiciously well-stocked first aid kit.
“Come on, take off your jacket, husband. I’ll fix you right up.” I bare my teeth at him.
“If you intended that to sound reassuring, I assure you that your tone spoiled the effect,” he says dryly.
“All the same…” I’m rooting around in the first aid kit, finding the bandages and tweezers I need. When I look up, Alastair’s taken off his tuxedo jacket and his shirt. All that tanned skin is on display, along with his beautifully sculpted muscles. And his tattoos…
Damn him!
“Uh… well then,” I stammer.
So smooth, Sorcha.
“Let’s get started,” I say, trying to sound more authoritative and less like a simpering fan girl, though my ovaries are fighting this.“I was worried the bullet was still in your arm…”
Your perfectly sculpted bicep,slutty and desperate Sorcha adds.
“There’s an exit wound, though.” I lean around him to check it. “I’ll rinse it with sterile solution and make sure you dinna have any fragments in your arm.”
“As you wish.” He’s looking out the window as if the clouds are more interesting than his bullet hole.
I cringe as the blood streams down his arm and onto his pristine cream-colored couch, though given that this is the outrageously fancy private jet of a crime lord, it’s likely not the first blood this beauty has seen.
“The entry wound is pretty big,” I say, “it’s gonna need stitches. The back will be fine with some steri-strips.”
“Go ahead.”
My sewing skills - on people, anyway - are not good. I sewed up Dougal’s shoulder once and the sensation of pushing a needle through skin made me throw up in the bathroom afterward. But I manage ten somewhat shaky stitches and tie it off, snipping the thread loose.
I winced more than he did.
