My lips part on a shuddering breath as I press harder into my tit with my arm, trying to feel the little pebble-shaped tracking device.
What the fuck?
I shift beneath the jacket, making sure it's covering my chest fully before I go spelunking in my bra for a fucking tracking device.
But there's nothing there.
Did I move it?
No.
No, I didn't. I definitely didn't. I remember how annoying it felt there while I was dozing off after we ate.
Fuck.
It couldn't have fallen out, could it?
My pulse picks up, and I work to control my breathing, but when Ambrose reaches a hand out to clutch my shoulder, I jerk back.
"Is everything all right?"
I snap my mouth closed and force a pleasant smile as Ambrose's gaze narrows on my face.
"Yeah." I lick my dry lips, swallow. "Yeah, fine. Just tired. I'm not great with planes."
"Oh, yes. I remember. You mentioned before." He sets his phone down, and without its light, the back of the car darkens. "My staff should have a meal prepared and your room ready by the time we arrive."
He flips down the middle seat between us, revealing a panel that opens, spilling light into the cabin from a tiny hidden refrigerator. It has several bottles of water and champagne…because rich people.
He hands me a bottle of water. "Flying can be dehydrating, here."
I take the water, but when I go to open it, I note how the seal is already broken, and my blood goes cold.
Why isn't it sealed? My mind races, thinking back to the plane. How I didn't mean to fall asleep, but I did, anyway.
I check in with myself, pulse thrumming in my ears. I've been drugged before. I know the feeling. The hangover-like effects of it, but there are none of those. I've been groggy since I woke up, but not sleeping at all last night could be the reason.
It could've fallen out of my bra. It might be on the seat.
I console myself with the thought that if Ambrose had found it, he wouldn't be making sure I'm warm and hydrated. He'd be asking his armed driver to feed me a bullet.
Ambrose cocks his head at me, but I twist the cap back on the water and set the bottle down on my lap, casting my attention back to the dark Spanish countryside.
When I'm sure he's back to being busy with his phone, I start a slow search of the seat around me, carefully feeling for the tracker, panic rising with every sweep of my fingers over luxury leather.
But it's not here.
It's gone.
As promised, less than an hour later, we arrive.
Without the tracking device, I've been memorizing every road sign. It wasn't hard since there were only two, and in the last thirty minutes, none at all. I know we're at least generally near someplace called Cadaques.
I know that the estate, a gated, sprawling ivory mansion with a brown clay roof and arched terraces, is set on the edge of a jagged cliffside over the sea.
It's too dark to make out more than the small whitecaps in the distance as the moonlight hits them. It smells of salt and earth and the flowers growing on spindly vines up the walls of the villa.
"Welcome home," Ambrose says as I step out of the car in the private motor court and stare up at the nine-foot-tall wooden entry door. It does seem somehow…familiar.
