Maisie said it was karma for being a total dick about my paper, but I think it might've been something—or someone—a little more real. I'll have to ask him about it when it's safe to, though I can already picture Daddicus denying any and all allegations. He did say he works better from the shadows…
The mad rush started at 5:30 in the morning, and by 7:10, I was buckled into a seat on Ambrose De La Rosa's private jet. Six and a half hours and one accidental nap later, and here we are. Spain.
Costa Brava.
With the time difference, the sun has all but set as Ambrose's driver chauffeurs us from the airport. He answers emails on his phone, pausing every so often to point out landmarks and offer me empty reassurances that he's 'managing things'.
I barely have the energy to nod, much less reply, still so groggy from passing out on his jet that my eyes fight to stay open.
I don't start to worry too much until the city's lights have long faded behind us and the road becomes narrower and less populated. Then each mile starts to feel like another emergency exit door closing behind me.
Thinking that the guys should already be here, somewhere along this coast, maybe even a short distance from where I am right now, brings me some calm.
It takes a solid fifteen minutes for me to work up the resolve to ask, "Is your place very far from the city?"
"Hm?"
Illuminated by his phone screen on the other side of the long leather bench seat, I watch him carefully as he pulls his attention from whatever he'd been reading and his expression morphs. "It's another hour or so down the coast."
"So remote," I comment, trying not to let my discomfort show even though I think that would be at least somewhat reasonable given the nature of the situation.
"Hm, yes." He's back to his screen. "I like my privacy."
Privacy.
The word settles in my gut like a swallowed stone.
Out here, there would be no one but his driver to hear me scream.
I shiver and draw the jacket from the seat next to me, laying it over my lap like a blanket.
I understand why Linette sent me off with it, now. I wrongly assumed Spain would be hot all the time. But no. Apparently, at night it gets fuckingcold.And the later it gets and the farther north we go, the colder it seems to get.
Ambrose's brow wrinkles as he watches me pull it up to cover my arms.
"Are you cold?"
He doesn't wait for me to reply before uncovering a panel containing several buttons and dials.
"Only a little."
Heat gushes from a vent in the ceiling and one somewhere by my feet, pumping warm air into the cabin of the luxury car.
"Better?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Why don't you rest a little more? I can wake you when we arrive. You look tired."
I give him a grateful smile and lie back heavily in the seat. I have no intention of sleeping with him two feet away from me, but I can at least get comfortable if I'm going to be stuck in this car another hour.
I pull the jacket up higher, using it as a makeshift blanket as I settle in.
We pass a sign with the names of cities and towns with too many syllables for me to even attempt to pronounce, and I'm grateful that the tracker in my bra will provide all the coordinates the guys need to find out exactly where Ambrose's private villa is located.
But…wait. I don't feel it.
I shift my arm against the side of my left breast, where I put it after we bypassed security and before we got on the jet. It was uncomfortable as fuck. Like a hard little rock was stuck there. I almost went to the bathroom to move it somewhere else, but my options were limited, so I left it. And then after we had the breakfast service, I passed out and…
