I’m hoping the stubborn part of her—the part that built ten schools in a year in Africa even though everyone told her it was an impossible goal—is still inside somewhere. That she isn’t going to starve herself over some sick punk.
“What do you have?” she says, finally sitting up.
The cabin attendant, not missing the opportunity, gives her three options—a roast beef sandwich, fettuccine in butter cream sauce or a grilled chicken breast with green salad and soup. Elizabeth selects the chicken and soup, and I choose the sandwich.
After lunch, which Elizabeth washes down with a mimosa, she promptly goes back to her fake sleep. I let her be, satisfied that she’s been fed, even if she managed to eat only half the portion.
Although I have a document opened on my laptop, I can’t focus on it. My attention is on Elizabeth. She’s changed so much more than I thought in the last ten years. I expected her to be mature, cunning and devious. But instead, she’s polished and careful. She doesn’t bubble with excitement, she doesn’t raise her voice, and she doesn’t lean on anybody, as though that’s a weakness.
Controlled.
That’s the only way to describe Elizabeth now. Self-controlled.
Except in bed. In bed, she’s still wild, still passionate.
But it bothers me. How can anybody be so locked down, so rigidly disciplined all the time? It’s as though she’s sacrificed all the ups and downs of life for some weirdly artificial perpetual calm. What the hell kind of existence is that?
I can’t imagine it. Life is supposed to be lived full-spectrum, with lots of vivid emotion and drive. People think that those who succeed are icily controlled. But people who make something of their lives tend to be the ones who feel the most—who have the most passion for what they do.
Half an hour from landing, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Antoine.
I have the area secured. To be honest, I don’t think a coward like that’s going to show his face in a crowd. They generally prefer one on one in private.
I agree, but this is Elizabeth’s safety. I’m not taking any chances. The fucker’s a total sociopath. He sent her a vacuum-sealed puppy, I text back.
Jesus. Antoine adores dogs. Says they’re better than most humans. If I get my hands on him, he’s dead.
You and me both.
Elizabeth sits up in preparation for landing and checks her phone, which beeps twice. She taps it a few times, then slips it back into her purse with a sigh.
When we deplane, Antoine’s waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. He’s six two, his body large and honed from martial arts training. He’s in a suit, no tie, his green eyes behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses. His mouth is set flat and unsmiling, and he points his unshaven chin almost imperceptibly at a black Mercedes next to mine.
Then I see… An enormous man, both tall and wide, stands by the Mercedes in a white shirt, dark gray slacks and boots that look hard and tough enough to stomp through a manhole cover. A charcoal-gray blazer drapes over his huge body, cut to conceal a weapon. A pair of sunglasses covers his eyes, but I feel his gaze like a laser.
I escort Elizabeth to the car, and he doesn’t nod or acknowledge the men placing her suitcases in the trunk. He squeezes her shoulder with a big, scarred hand, the familiar gesture annoying.
“I’ll take it from here,” he says with a slight accent, his voice managing to convey calm and menace at the same time.
My hold tightens a notch, and he glances at my hand at her elbow, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“You aren’t following her home, are you?” he says, stepping closer and invading my personal space. “Like I said, I got it.”
She squeezes his forearm. “Tolyan.”
Tolyan?
I blink once. Isn’t he supposed to be Elizabeth’s assistant? How in the world did this guy manage to fool people into thinking that he’s some admin flunky? Nothing about him says he’s capable of sitting behind a desk. And her foundation doesn’t do the kind of work that requires a man like this on its payroll.
Elizabeth turns to me. “Thank you for the flight, Dominic.”
He takes her to the passenger side, his big body shielding her. As he walks around the front of the car to the driver’s seat, he looks back, a small sneer twisting his mouth.
The sight makes my hackles rise. It isn’t something he’s tossing out because he’s an asshole or wants to rile me. It’s a sneer that says, “You’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t know shit about anything and never will.”
The car pulls away.
Antoine stands next to me. “That’s Tolyan?”