The Hawks had shown their appreciation on the stairs, the kitchen island, and in the work room.
Jagger and I made our way toward the charter terminal in a formation that seemed intuitive: Vigo at the front, Jagger and I behind him, Hawk behind us, like he was watching our backs.
Probably not a bad idea under the circumstances.
We walked under a sign readingExecutive Terminaland I took a deep breath as the glass doors slid open.
We entered a climate-controlled terminal Daisy probably would have called Generic Luxe: wood floors, white walls, beige furniture, glass cocktail tables, and a handful of potted plants.
Jagger took off his sunglasses and looked around like a king looking for his valet, and like magic a young man in a suit appeared from a door behind a counter marked Concierge.
“Welcome! You must be Mr. Ashford.” The beaming man turned his gaze on me. “And Ms. Sinclair, of course. I’m Martin Ellery, Client Services Manager. Welcome to the Carlton Executive Terminal.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The names were aliases of course, backed up by some quick work by Aloha who planted a few articles in online business magazines and on fabricated websites. There was even a Wikipedia page with Jagger’s picture under the name Julian Ashford, a member of a prestige 30 under 30 entrepreneurial list and official multimillionaire, engaged to a socialite named Vivian Sinclair.
Martin Ellery didn’t acknowledge Vigo or Hawk, which told me he was used to this kind of thing: rich people with private security touring the airport as a potential home base for their private jets.
“Can I get you anything?” Martin asked. “Coffee? Tea? Champagne?”
I understood why he was being so solicitous. A new client in the executive terminal meant money for the airport: hangar fees, fuel, plus food, drinks, and other luxury items — like Sobranie cigarettes — when said client came and went.
“Champagne.” Jagger looked around imperiously. “Krug Clos du Mesnil, if you have it.”
It was the first time I’d seen poor Martin blink.
“I'm afraid we don't currently stock Clos du Mesnil, Mr. Ashford. We do keep Krug Grande Cuvée on hand, and I'd be happy to have Clos du Mesnil ordered and chilled before your next arrival.”
Jagger looked down at me. “Will the Cuvée do, love bug?”
I had to force myself not to cough at the nickname.
“The Cuvée is fine.” I tried to look slightly disappointed even though I didn’t have the slightest idea of the difference between Clos du Mesnil and Grand Cuvée.
“Please, take a seat.” Martin gestured to one of the beige sofas in front of a picture window that highlighted a view of the airfield, the wild grass on all sides already turning brown under the early November sun.
I sat next to Jagger and I leaned back, trying to look bored even though my heart was hammering in my chest.
This was what we’d been waiting for: a chance for Vigo and Hawk to peel off, do some exploring. It was why Jagger had asked for the champagne.
“Enjoy the view,” Martin said. “I’ll be right back.”
Jagger leaned back, stretching his arms over the back of the sofa. “Come here, love bug.” He’d removed his eyebrow piercing, but his shaved brow somehow looked even more rakish set against the luxury of his tailored suit, and there was a glint of wicked mischief in his blue eyes. “Why are you so far away?”
I scooted closer and he draped one arm over my shoulder, then slid his hand into the plunging neckline of my dress.
“What are you doing, pookie?” The nickname was absurd but what can I say?
I was trying to stay in character.
“Just having a little fun, love bug.” He slipped his hand into my bra and fondled my nipple. Heat rushed between my thighs. “You don’t mind a little fun, do you?”
“Fun is… good.”
Jagger glanced up at Hawk and Vigo, whose eyes were locked on Jagger’s hand under my dress. “What are you doing? Check the place out.”
Hawk’s right eye twitched, the only sign that he was about to blow a gasket from being ordered around by Jagger, but he andVigo moved out and I knew they’d spend the time mapping the place, figuring out where we could find what we’d come for.
