Almost a day passes before I see Declan again.
In the meantime, I sleep. I shower. I dress. I eat the food Kieran delivers. We don’t speak to each other, I simply open the door to his knock and watch as he sets the tray on the coffee table. He leaves without meeting my eyes.
I have no idea what’s happening, except that Declan is taking care of whatever needs to be taken care of. I know the message I was trying to transmit was received loud and clear.
If it wasn’t, he never would’ve agreed to let me go so quickly. There would have been a fight, long and loud.
Because he’s as stubborn as I am, the beautiful bastard.
On the morning of the second day, he appears in the doorway to the bedroom after a light knock. Dressed in his customary black Armani suit, he looks somber and so handsome it hurts.
“The flight to New York leaves in ninety minutes. We need to leave here within fifteen.”
“I’m ready. I packed a bag. I hope it’s all right that I’m taking some of the clothes you bought me. I left all the jewelry.”
His eyes flash. They flash again when I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and the diamond tennis bracelet he gave me sparkles on my wrist. I smile and pull the sleeve of my sweater down to hide it.
“It’s fine,” he says, his voice tranquil. “Shall we go?”
“Let’s.”
I don’t know who we’re playing this polite pantomime for, or if the black-haired man telling me he’d know if I told Declan about our conversation was only a hollow threat. But every game has its rules. I’m sure the spy game has plenty that involve covert surveillance. Better to play the part to a T than be caught unprepared.
We take the helicopter to the private terminal at the airport. Declan’s jet waits on the tarmac, the engines already running. He whisks me from one to the other with emotionless efficiency, like he’s delivering a package for UPS.
At the bottom of the airstairs of his jet, he kisses me formally on both cheeks.
“Goodbye, Sloane.”
He turns and walks away without a glance.
Pretending his cool demeanor doesn’t hurt, even though it’s a ruse, I trudge up the airstairs and take a seat in one of the big captain’s chairs in front near the galley. On the table between the chairs is a book.
The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. One of the pages is dog-eared. When I turn to it, a single passage is highlighted.
“Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.”
My throat constricted, I whisper, “Me, too, gangster. Me, too.”
The cabin door closes. The plane takes off. I buckle my lap belt, close my eyes, and do box breathing until I realize that stupid shit never works.
Then I raid the booze cabinet in the galley and get drunk on a five-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne, because I miss him already.
