Of all the truths he’d told her in the last fifteen minutes, that one was the most undeniable.
Chapter 35
28,500 feet
Four hours later…
The inside of the private plane was bright and cramped. It was also colder than Sonya cared for. She wished she hadn’t given Angel—or Mark. Gah!—his jacket back. But after all the revelations, she hadn’t been able to wear it. It held the scent of his aftershave and reminded her that the man she knew ten years ago, the one who’d eschewed cologne or aftershave for simple lilac soap, had chosen to leave her behind.
Bolted into the middle of the aisle was a hospital gurney. On top of that gurney was Rusty Parker, a giant redhead whom she thought looked more like a Zeus or an Atlas than a Rusty. He needed an epithet worthy of his colossal size. Between him and Boss, it was a wonder there was room for anyone else on the plane.
Of course, Rusty didn’t look too mighty at the moment. Not with so many tubes and machines and drips hooked up to him. The only way she knew he was redheaded was because a tuft of hair had escaped his paper hospital cap to curl delicately against his beard-scruffy cheek.
A team of three doctors, who’d preferred not to introduce themselves—the CIA was funny that way—had been hovering around him the entire flight. Checking his vitals. Checking his lines. Checking his bandages. Luckily, there hadn’t been an emergency. Rusty had remained unconscious and blessedly stable.
For their part, the Black Knights had tried to stay out of the way, cramming themselves into the small seats at the back of the plane but never taking their eyes off their wounded friend.
She’d been introduced to Ozzie before takeoff, a devastatingly handsome man with flashing blue eyes, flyaway hair, and a Star Trek T-shirt that might have made her smile under different circumstances. Then there was Ace…an equally attractive man who was so wan-looking she feared for his health. He had tried to be polite upon introduction, but he’d barely spared her a glance before turning his attention back to Rusty.
It was obvious the Black Knights were a tight-knit group. Just as obvious was that they weren’t used to being helpless. For the entire flight, she’d watched emotions flicker across their faces. She saw fear for Rusty’s life. Guilt that they couldn’t do more to help him. And a bone-deep determination that he should live. They willed him to live. Ace more than any of them. The savage look in his eyes was sharp and bright, like a blade burned clean in a fire.
She was strapped into the jump seat attached to the wall behind the cockpit—the only free space on the plane and as good a place as any to remain out of the way. It had a nice view of the fuselage. As luck would have it, however, the gurney kept her from seeing Grafton and Angel—or Mark. Gah!—who were buckled into seats on the left side of the aircraft. Thankfully, Angel had done as she’d asked. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t prodded. Hadn’t actually said more than five words to her since she’d asked him for silence.
She still had trouble thinking of him as Mark. He didn’t look like Mark. He didn’t sound like Mark. But he was Mark, and so much of what had happened over the last day made sense. Like why he’d said “some things never change” when she’d made that quip about chocolate being the only thing capable of making everyone happy. He knew how much she loved chocolate. Also, it explained why he’d asked her about learning Italian. When he’d known her ten years ago, she hadn’t spoken the language. And last but certainly not least, it was now clear why he hadn’t gotten mad at her for calling Mark’s name when she’d climaxed that last time. How could he get mad when he was Mark?
He’s Mark. He’s Mark and yet—
The pilot came over the intercom, informing them they had started their initial decent. “We’ll be landing at Ramstein in approximately twenty minutes, folks,” he said in that homespun drawl all pilots seemed to adopt.
The thought of the plane her boss had promised would be waiting for her, the thought that she would be leaving Angel/Mark behind very soon had her throat closing up. There was a sharp, searing pain in her chest, like her heart had stepped on a Lego and then tripped over the coffee table to smash its head against the wall.
On the one hand, she could maybe, sorta, kinda, possibly understand why he’d done what he’d done. Had the president of Interpol come to her ten years ago, at the impressionable age of twenty-two, and asked her to save to the world, she might have agreed to it. Selflessness and sacrifice had been big, bright concepts back then.
On the other hand, why hadn’t he come to her after? Why had he let her go on without him all these years? All it would have taken was a quick Google search, and he could have seen she wasn’t married, could have discovered she’d never moved on.
Then there was the not-so-small issue of all the lies he’d fed her since coming to Grafton Manor, all the times he’d let her think she was crazy when something he said or did reminded her of Mark. If Rock hadn’t said that thing about appropriating Grafton’s car, would Angel still be lying to her?
There’d been plenty of opportunities for him to come clean, and he never had. Not until the evidence was too overwhelming to deny. That wasn’t like Mark. Backhanded trickery wasn’t a part of the man she’d known. It wasn’t the man she’d loved.
You need time and space, she told herself. You need to get away from him to sort out your feelings and decide what to do.
Right. She blew out a shaky breath. Okay, good. She had a plan. And now…
She’d had to pee for nearly two hours, but she’d forced herself to hold it for fear of actually having to walk by Angel—or Mark. Gah!—without first knowing what she’d say to him if he tried to stop her. Now that she had a plan, her screaming bladder told her in no uncertain terms that enough was enough.
Unbuckling her seat belt, she was careful to sidestep the doctors and the gurney, careful to keep her eyes steadfastly forward as she padded barefoot to the lavatory at the back of the private plane. After she’d relieved herself—imagining that her bladder sang her a rousing chorus of hallelujahs—she washed her hands in the little sink and took at hesitant peek at her reflection in the mirror.
She looked like an extra on The Walking Dead. She was so pale she was almost gray. All her makeup was gone, having been cried off or kissed off. And her hair was a rat’s nest.
No. That was an insult to rats’ nests. Her hair was the follicular equivalent of a preschool art class. It was chaos. It was anarchy. It was in serious need of a good shampooing.
Combing her fingers through the worst of the tangles, she studied her face, wondering if there was anything to be done there. She had no idea what had become of her purse after Angel hurled it into the circus arena, but she wished she’d at least had the wherewithal to take her compact powder out before he tossed it. The bags under her eyes were bigger than her carry-on luggage. Her nose was shiny but it didn’t hold a candle to her forehead, which was doing its best impression of a grease factory. Grabbing some tissues, she blotted her face and glanced back at her reflection.
Deciding that was as good as it got, she slid the lock on the little bifold door. Before she could leave the lavatory, however, a huge bulk of humanity squeezed in with her.
“What in the world?” she hissed, crowding against the sink.
