by SR Jones
I stare at her for a long moment. The planes of her face are lit by the sparkling lights from the terraces of the cafes, and she looks beautiful.
“I like being out on boats too,” I tell her. “What level are you?” I ask.
She beams at me, and my heart lurches. I look away from her and start the engine. As we pull out of the spot we’re parked in and turn to take the road back up the hill, she starts talking.
“Well, I got my coastal certificate a year ago. I’m due to take an offshore Yacht master qualification in a month. Or I was.”
“I have my offshore.” I glance at her and smile.
A vision hits me hard. Me and her, on a yacht. No worries. No world to think about other than the blue ocean. She’s in a plain swimsuit, cut high on her legs, and I’m wearing shorts. It’s a sunny day, and we’re both tan from the wind and sun. I blink as if to dispel it.
I thought her soul matched mine, and each time I find something new about her it convinces me of the fact more.
She’s too young, I remind myself that she’s over a decade younger than me.
I remind myself she’s just hero worshiping me, and it will fade.
I remind myself that I am paid to protect her and that overstepping a professional line would be amoral.
I remind myself that I have a nice life now with my meditation, my exercise, my many ways of dealing, and I don’t need to throw a grenade into all of that.
None of it works. I can’t stop thinking about her. I know sooner or later that grenade will most definitely be thrown and all hell will break loose.
Chapter 14
The ocean is zipping by, and we’re bouncing as we hit the small waves and then smack back down on the other side. I love it.
My hair is blowing, and saltwater sprays my face every few seconds. It’s so damn liberating.
I love this. My friends call me a secret adrenaline junkie. It’s not really a secret. I don’t like the things they do. Drinking too much. Hooking up with random guys. That kind of stuff. But give me a boat and the open ocean, or a deep dive, maybe a bungie jump over a river, and I’m there. I love this stuff.
“You seem the happiest I’ve seen you,” Priest says from my right.
I laugh as I look at him. “Tell me this isn’t a rush.”
“Not gonna lie, it’s a rush. Feels like it does when I’m on my bike.”
“You have a bike? Why am I not surprised?” I laugh. “I presume you mean a motorbike, not a pedal bike?”
“Yeah, the kind with the engine.” He grins at me, and my heart skips a beat.
God, he’s damned gorgeous. His face is mostly shadow, but I can see the bright of his smile, and the light of his eyes, and it’s all so pretty in the moonlight.
“I’ve never ridden a bike. Would love to, though.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I love stuff like that. Like this. I like the thrill, you know?”
“An adrenaline junkie?”
“Yes, I suppose I am. As are you?”
He frowns. “Nah. I’m the opposite. I try to lower the old adrenaline. I meditate. Do yoga. That kind of stuff.”
I think about his words, but they don’t add up with what I know of him. “You were in the Special Forces. You like to sail. You own a bike. A fast one I’m presuming. You do this kind of crazy for a living. You’re an adrenaline junkie, Priest. Take it from me. You’re just one who needs to calm down sometimes or you’d burn out, and you recognize that. It’s healthy. Nothing wrong with mixing in the thrills and spills with some good old-fashioned parietal lobe calming.”
“Pari what?”
“Your parietal lobe,” I say. We’re talking quite loudly to get over the sound of the engine and the wind our speed has whipped up around us. “It’s calmed when you meditate. Slows all the information bombarding your brain and lets you think more clearly when you’re done.”
“You meditate?”
“Sometimes. I prefer things like yoga or Pilates. It’s what I do, though. I study psychology, and mindfulness is a big thing amongst a lot of psychologists these days.”
I shrug and watch him. “So, you…you need to calm down, but you also like the high, the rush, like on your bike.”
“I don’t like the rush, Roze. I like the control.”
“Of the bike.”
He pauses, a long beat as the wind whips our hair.
“No, of me.”
Those words resonate and I realize I don’t know him at all the way I so cavalierly thought I did.
He frowns and nods, and then he narrows his eyes as if focusing. “Can you see lights?” he asks.
I look to where he’s pointing and there, faint, but definitely there, are dancing lights in the distance.
“Only twenty minutes now,” our skipper shouts.
I’m glad because although I love this, my ass is getting sore on the hard bench.
“Once we get there, we’ll grab the bags, and hail a cab, then go straight to the airport. There’s a private jet waiting for us. I’m going to call Damen when we get there and ask him to organize us some paperwork for you. I want you to have a passport in case you need to get out of the country.”
“We’re going to be in Dubrovnik in twenty minutes,” I tell him. “Why not just go to my place, and I can pick stuff up?”
He frowns and shakes his head. “They’ll be watching it, I’m sure.”
“Really? You made it sound like there’s only a few of them?”
“It only takes one guy that they’ve paid to sit on your place. Right now, I’m hoping they have no idea where we are. Once they do? They won’t find where we’ve gone because we’re boarding a private flight, and the people organizing it have given us different names on the manifest.”
“They can do that?”
He shrugs. “I think this man who has offered us his home for the next few days can do a lot of things.”
He doesn’t sound entirely comfortable with the idea. “Is he a bad guy?” I ask naively.
“Bad? No. Not so far as the intel Reece has on him goes. I’d bet money he’s not good, though.”
As we approach the city I know and love so well, my heart constricts. I don’t think this will be my home moving forward. I don’t want to live under protection all the time, and I’m starting to think the only way to not do that is to move somewhere new and start afresh. Maybe I need a new name permanently?
“Is your friend Reece good?”
“Not my friend, but yes, he’s good. So is the Greek guy, Damen. He can do anything almost from what I hear. Dig into people’s pasts. Hack them. Give them a new identity.”
“Wait. What?”
He turns to me. “What, what?”
“The last bit. He can give people new identities?”
His jaw tenses, and he’s cautious when he says, “Yes, why?”
“Can he do that for me? I don’t want to stay guarded in my apartment. I don’t want to become even more of a prisoner than I have been. I haven’t been living, Priest. I want to start. Now. If Damen can get me new ID, I could start over somewhere like America or maybe Canada.”
“You can’t simply move to the US, honey,” he says softly.
Oh, I wish he’d call me that more often. I don’t think he even realizes he’s said it. “No, but if Damen can give me a new identity, couldn’t he help get me in?”
“No. You’re talking a whole other level there. Plus, it’s wrong.”
“It’s my life,” I say, getting angry with him.
How can he kiss me the way he did and then go back to being so… Not cold, but, businesslike?
“Listen, princess.”
Oooh, no he didn’t.
“I’m not down with helping someone get into my country illegally.”
I bite my tongue, but I’m a moment away from losing it with him.
“However, given the situation you’re in… Cole knows people at the FBI. He could always see if there’s a way for you to get residence the
re. Legal asylum.”
“My university is an international business school, so I bet I could transfer my course to online or use the credits to enroll somewhere else. But you know? I might simply jack it all in and finish my yachting course wherever it is I end up and do that instead.”
The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals.
When I’m out on the ocean is when I feel truly free. I do like Priest’s idea, though, of giving back to victims. Maybe there’s a way to combine the two? I doubt it, though. Unless… Yachting holidays, women only, for women who have been abused and victimized. I could have an all-female staff. Set the business up as a charity and get donations to help set things in motion. Dubrovnik would be an ideal place to run the business from, but I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s a bone-deep realization hitting me as we reach the jetty.
I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.
Too many bad memories. Too much pain. I’ll always see those men breaking into my room, coming for me. It’s too close to Korcula. It’s all too much.
I want a fresh start, but what?
We dock and I sigh, preparing myself for what’s to come. I might be an adrenaline junkie, but I hate flying. A private jet might sound nice and all, but is it safe? What if it’s tiny? I’m somewhat claustrophobic. It was my biggest issue to overcome when I learned to dive. The wonders of the ocean, however, provide a great distraction. Not sure the dark night outside and tiny plane windows will be enough to focus my mind away from my fear.
When we get off the boat, Priest hands a massive envelope to the man who brought us here and thanks him as I shiver and wrap my arms around myself.
“Now she’s cold?” Priest laughs. “We’ve been out on the water where it’s a lot fresher.”
I don’t tell him it’s not the cold. More, it’s a tired out weariness and lack of enthusiasm for the up-coming plane ride.
It takes Priest moments to find us a cab. He ushers me into the back, and we head off to the airport. “I’m going to be mortified, having to get on a private jet looking like this.” I sweep my hands down my body.
“You look great,” he says. All non-committal as he messes on his phone.
I wish he meant those words. Wish he really saw me. I don’t say anything; instead, I stare out the window as the familiar city passes by.
Dubrovnik is beautiful. Truly beautiful, but it has a sadness about it too. It is scarred. Marks of the past are everywhere if you know where to look. The terracotta roofs are a mixture of old and new. The new roofs are repairs made after the siege. There are bullet holes in the walls. Plaques on buildings signifying those that were destroyed and had to be rebuilt. Dubrovnik is a testament to the determination and spirit of people to overcome. Maybe, in some ways, it’s the ideal place for me, but my gut is telling me to leave. To start over.
We reach the airport, and the cab lets us out.
“Here, put this on.” Priest takes the baseball cap I wore earlier out of his back pocket and hands it to me. “Hair up,” he orders.
Marvelous. More glamour.
I twist my hair up and shove the baseball cap on. Then I follow him as we head into the airport. He glances at his phone and turns to the right. I struggle to keep up, and a big, warm hand engulfs mine as he pulls me along with him.
Soon, we’re away from the main concourse and the busy crowds, and in an area with a plush carpet and a hushed atmosphere. I glance at the few people sitting around, and they scream wealth. Lots of camel sweaters, white polo shirts, and expensive bags and shoes. All of it discreet and classy. I hate camel sweaters and white polo shirts. I like bright colors. Cheerful clothes.
A man steps out of the shadows. He’s wearing a dark gray suit. “Priest?” he asks in an accented voice.
“Yep.”
“I’m Matteo. I’m Mr. Bianchi’s manager.”
“Thanks for this,” Priest says.
“Thank Mr. Bianchi when we arrive. If you’ll both come this way, we can board immediately. We have a wait for our slot, but you can relax with a drink.”
We follow him through the lounge, and people openly stare at me. No wonder. I’m wearing ill-fitting track pants. A baggy top and have a baseball cap pulled down low on my head. They’re either thinking I’m some urchin daring to trespass in their rarified world, or a movie star going incognito. I decide to go with the latter and put a little swagger in my step. Let them think I’m world famous. Too famous and rich to even care.
I smile at them all as we step out of a door and down a narrow corridor before we enter one of those boarding tunnels you get at some airports. I walk into the plane and stop, making Priest bang into me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, sorry.” I make my feet move, but this is not what I expected.
I’d expected a small plane, which this is, with maybe four or five rows of seats. This is more like a living room. A very glamorous living room. There are large, oversized chairs with tables between them, all with different seating configurations.
“Mr. Bianchi took the liberty of ordering some clothing for you, Miss,” the gray suited Matteo says to me.
“How did he know my size?” I ask.
“He asked Mr. Silvanov, who asked your father.”
“Mr. Silvanov?”
“Konstantin,” Priest provides.
“There are more clothes at the house, but we were told you had very little with you, and so he suggested some for you to change into during our flight.”
I smile. Not sure what to say to this level of pre-planned organization. I bet Mr. Bianchi is one anal man.
“There’s a changing area. Miss Clements will show you the way.”
A stunning blonde steps forward. Wow, Miss Clements is drop-dead beautiful. I mean, truly out of this world gorgeous. She’s tall, like a model, willowy too, with her icy blonde hair swept back from her head with a headband. She’s wearing a royal blue outfit. A uniform, I think. Her make up is immaculate.
“Come this way, if you please, Miss.” She gestures for me to follow her.
I do, with a mumbled, “Please call me Roze.”
She gives a demure nod and pulls back a curtain. We enter a closed off area of the plane. There’s a bathroom, the door slightly open, and a pouffe style seat with a rack next to it containing clothes.
“These are some of the clothes Mr. Bianchi ordered for you. Please take your pick and feel free to get changed. There are also toiletries in the bathroom, as well as a basket of makeup. It’s all new. We change it every flight.”
“You change the makeup basket every flight?” I stare at her.
“We often have ladies traveling with us who want to freshen up and might not have everything they need with them.”
What sort of ladies, I wonder?
“There are hair products, and perfume too.”
“Okay, erm thank you.” I stare at the clothes as she leaves me. There are shoes too. Heels, both high and low, and a pair of brown leather brogues.
I finger a shirt and the thick, supple material glides through my fingers. I glance at the label and my jaw drops. Damn.
Finally, I pull out a plain t-shirt, a navy wool, sweater, and some dark trousers, and head into the bathroom. I get changed first, and gladly use some of the perfume to spritz over myself. It’s a gorgeous scent. There are five different ones to choose from, and this one is fresh, oceanic almost.
Then, when I’m dressed and perfumed, I pull a comb through my unruly hair, and use some serum that I find to shine it a little. Finally, I dab on some blush, a coat of mascara, and some natural lipstick. I smack my lips together and stare at myself a moment.
Suddenly, I could cry. After thinking he must be anal, I truly appreciate Mr. Bianchi.
For days, I’ve felt unmoored. Like nothing but a victim. On the run. Unsafe. A moving target. Now, with the clothes, the makeup and a dash of perfume, I feel like me.
“Head high, Roze,” I tell myself. “You can do this. You’re going to be f
ine. It’s one more stop for a few days, and then you can start planning your new life, whatever that may be.”
I take in a deep breath and exit the bathroom. I almost walk straight into Miss Clements. I straighten my shoulders and smile at her. She holds out her hand and I see a glass of champagne in it. “We understand it was your birthday recently,” she says with a smile.
“Oh, yes.” I had forgotten in all the excitement. I take the glass gratefully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says.
I move past her and head back to the sitting area. I spy Priest straight away. He’s in a chair with two others next to it, and a table in the middle of the three. His legs are slightly splayed, and he’s tapping furiously on his phone.
Approaching him, I slow down as I near. He looks pissed. Oh crap, are we in danger again?
“What is it?” I slide into the seat next to his, marveling at how soft the leather is. “Are we in trouble?”
“No,” he says. “We aren’t. I’m just not happy with all this fifty shades crap that Bianchi is pulling. You didn’t need clothes. I’d have organized getting you some clothes when we arrived.”
“You know what Fifty Shades of Grey is?” I ask him. A laugh bubbles out of my throat.
He shoots me an annoyed glance, turns back to his phone, then double takes.
For a moment, we simply look at one another.
“Do I scrub up okay?” I ask him, batting my eyelashes.
“You looked beautiful before the war paint, and you look beautiful now.”
God, he’s such an ass. He even manages to turn a compliment into a condemnation of sorts.
“I think I know why they really call you Priest,” I say as I take another big sip of the champagne, enjoying the way it feels in my stomach.
“Why?” he deadpans.
“Because you’re judgey and holier than thou. Get over yourself, Priest. Oh, and by the way, the first time I saw you, you were wearing more war paint than any woman ever has.”
He shakes his head and goes back to his phone, but his lips twitch.
“Tell me,” I ask him. “Did you read it or watch the films?”
“What?”