“Bella!” the other woman cried, broke free from her escort, and ran toward us.
They collided in a fierce embrace, clinging to each other, whispering rapid Italian too low for me to catch.
I stood, watching them, my certainty suddenly crumbling. Bella. She’d called her Bella, not Mira. But both names could be shortened to Bella.
The women pulled apart, hands still clasped, and I found myself looking from one to the other, searching for any tell that would confirm who was Isabella and who was Mirabella.
For the first time in years, I felt something I rarely experienced—uncertainty. I couldn’t say who was who, couldn’t distinguish them by anything other than their clothes. Which one had been with me all night? And which one was Grey actually after?
I watched the twins whisper to each other as we boarded the Gulfstream. The way they moved in sync was fascinating—like mirror images sharing the same thoughts. I’d need to keep them separated if I wanted to maintain control of the situation.
“Ladies, if you’ll take your seats.” I gestured to the plush leather chairs facing each other in the main cabin. “We have a long flight ahead.”
They exchanged a glance before they chose to sit side by side instead of across from each other. Smart move—maintaining a united front, minimizing my ability to get near one or the other.
I took the seat across from them, across from Isabella, specifically, and studied their identical faces side by side. Mirabella, the one I’d spent the night with—the fighter, the one who’d started a fire to escape—sat slightly more rigid, her eyes constantly scanning the cabin for potential weapons or exits. The other seemed more withdrawn, shoulders curved inward protectively. Scared.
Funnily enough, the image she presented now didn’t gel at all with the impression she’d made when I met her at her brother’s estate. From that brief encounter, I’d expected Isabella to be the stronger, the protective one, the more interesting twin.
But now, I was thoroughly confused. Or maybe something had happened to her since yesterday that had made her this scared.
Wasn’t the number one priority to not harm them? Where did that feisty girl from the garden go?
Once we were airborne and on cruising altitude, I decided to test my theory. I turned my attention to the quieter twin—Isabella.
“So, Isabella,” I said smoothly, leaning forward with a deliberately charming smile. “You’re quite the person of interest.”
Her eyes widened slightly before she controlled her expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There it was again—that spark. I’d seen it before, in the garden when she hid the sharp intelligence in her eyes behind a practiced mask of casual indifference.
“No?” I kept my voice light, watched her body language. While keeping her sister, who, again, glared at me in my peripheral vision. “I think we both know that’s not true. What is it that makes you so…precious to a lot of people?”
I reached across and grabbed her hand lightly, expecting either an outburst or a show of that false sweetness. “There’s no need for pretense. Your reputation precedes you.” And I would find out exactly why Grey wanted her over her sister.
Before she could respond, Shorty lunged between us and slapped my hand away.
“Don’t fucking touch her,” she snarled, eyes blazing. “Leave her the fuck alone, you weasel.”
Interesting. Very interesting. So Mirabella was the protective one and the feistier one. Who would’ve thought? And Isabella was the brainy one? Was that what had caught Grey’s interest?
“I’m just making conversation,” I said, maintaining my calm façade despite the surge of adrenaline her fierceness triggered. “No need for hostilities.”
“Fuck off,” she said, way more riled up than during the last twelve hours when it was only me and her.
Mirabella positioned herself protectively in front of her sister and even made her scoot over, so she was sitting opposite me now. “Your ‘conversation’ isn’t welcome.”
I raised an eyebrow, reassessing everything I thought I knew. “And here I thought we’d bonded last night, sharing a bed and all.”
Shorty’s sister’s eyes went wide, and she inhaled sharply, and I was so focused on her that I missed Shorty’s response, which was immediate and physical—a sharp, well-aimed kick that caught me in the shin. Not enough to do real damage without shoes but enough to make a point.
In one fluid motion, I grabbed her wrist and stood, pulling her up with me.
“Excuse us,” I said to the wide-eyed twin still seated. “Your sister and I need to have a private conversation about appropriate behavior and air safety.”
I dragged the struggling woman toward the bathroom at the rear of the plane, ignoring her creative Italian curses and the way she tried to dig her heels into the carpet.
I slammed the bathroom door shut behind us and lifted her onto the small counter in one fluid motion. The space was cramped, forcing me to stand between her legs, my body pressed against hers, not unlike our position in the cabin when I took care of her wound.
