by J. Kenner
I shake my head. “Not mad. I swear. But I am eager.”
“So am I. Or couldn’t you tell?”
I reach out to cup his erection, then smile innocently at him. “Shame you don’t have time to do something about that.”
He laughs, then lunges for me. I squeal and make a leap for the bed, but he’s faster and manages to grab me so that we both tumble onto the mattress, him on top of me.
“I could take what I want,” he says, his strong arms pinning my wrists down.
My heart pounds in my chest, excitement building. He could—and I so desperately want him to.
“You can’t take what I will always give you.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, Mrs. Stark.”
“But not today.”
He hesitates. “You’re serious?”
“Kiss me,” I say. “Then go. Because I want you back here by Christmas Eve. And then, I promise you, you can take whatever you want, however you want.”
He studies my face. “A kiss for the road?”
I nod, eager to get lost in the feel of his lips. But the kiss he brushes over my lips is almost chaste.
“No fair,” I protest, making him laugh.
“I’ll take the kiss I really want when I get back.”
“I look forward to it, Mr. Stark.”
He starts to stand, but I pull him to me again. “Damien?”
His smile is gentle. “I’ll be back in time. Trust me.”
“I do,” I assure him. “I trust you to the end of time. It’s the world I don’t trust. Not any more.”
“Oh, baby.”
I know he’s thinking of Anne’s kidnapping, and that wasn’t my intent. “I’m okay, really. It’s just that this was the second disappointment of the day. I had a picture of how this holiday season would go. And so far it’s not working out that way.”
He kisses me one more time. “That doesn’t mean that it won’t in the end.”
Chapter 8
“We’re going to have to make an emergency landing.” Grayson’s voice blasted over the jet’s loudspeaker. “Come up here and get strapped in.”
Damien allowed himself one moment of fear before he pushed back from the small table where he’d been working late into the night. This wasn’t a crisis. An emergency landing just meant emergency conditions. They were going to come to a stop on the ground, and they were going to walk away.
And soon he’d walk back to Nikki and the girls.
He repeated that over and over, because, goddammit, there was no way that he was missing Christmas. No way that he was going to end up in a twisted piece of metal in Mexico with his family crying for him and Nikki spending the rest of her life wishing she’d tried harder to make him stay.
No way this trip was going to turn out to be a mistake.
“You’re tense,” Grayson said, as Damien took the co-pilot seat.
“Can’t imagine why. What’s the situation?”
“Landing gear’s jammed.”
“Shit.”
“I know,” the older man said. “But it’s nothing we can’t handle.” Grayson had been Damien’s personal pilot for years and was in charge of overseeing the Stark fleet. He’d also taught Damien how to fly, and Damien knew that if Grayson said he could handle it, he meant it.
Still, the man was operating in an unfamiliar craft. This Gulfstream jet wasn’t part of Stark International’s regular fleet. All the Stark planes had been unavailable, either in for maintenance during the holiday or on the ground at another location. Damien had tasked Ryan to work with Grayson to find a rental, which they’d managed quickly enough.
They hadn’t, however, had time to find a crew. So Grayson was flying and Damien was the co-pilot. And the rest of the plane was as empty and silent as a coffin.
As a church, he corrected. As silent as a church.
Christ, he was on edge today.
Then again, why wouldn’t he be? He’d left his wife and children—hell, he’d left his heart—to go on a secret mission. Secret only because he’d made the executive decision not to tell Nikki about his plan to retrieve her father by coming to Mexico in a private jet. The idea being to avoid the country’s commercial airline pilot and maintenance strike altogether.
Maybe he should have told her. Hell, maybe he’d never know what the right decision was. All he knew was that he wanted to bring Frank home for Christmas. For Nikki. For the girls. For their family.
But he couldn’t stand the thought of Nikki getting her hopes up only to have them shattered again. And so he’d stayed silent.
At first, of course, he’d tried to find a pilot already in Mexico or nearby Guatemala who could fly Frank back, but because of the strike, every possible rental had been spoken for. And renting a car wasn’t an option since the drive was so long.
He could have sent someone in his place—hell, Ryan had offered—but why ask that of someone else, especially during the holiday? After all, Ryan hadn’t seen his wife for two weeks.
Ultimately, Damien had made the decision to come himself. In a jet, the trip there and back was only about ten hours in the air. Even with the additional drive time to and from the plantation where Frank was holed up, they should end up taxiing back to the rental jet’s hanger at LAX well before ten on the twenty-third.
Plenty of time, and with all of Christmas Eve still spread out in front of them like a bright, shiny blanket of stars.
This would work. Emergency landing or not, this trip was going to work.
He stayed quiet as Grayson spoke with the tower. But as soon as the pilot rattled off a slew of instructions, Damien jumped to the tasks, following each to the letter.
Damien was a licensed pilot, and he flew often enough. His skills were sharp, and he wasn’t a man who crumpled under pressure. On the contrary, pressure brought out the best in him. And right now, his best meant doing exactly what Grayson said.
Soon enough, they’d dumped most of their fuel, adjusted altitude, brought the plane in toward the assigned runway, and slowed their airspeed.
“Are they ready for us down there?” he asked as the lights of the airport got bigger and bigger in the window.
“They are. TGZ’s a solid nest for our bird,” Grayson added, referring to the Angel Albino Corzo International Airport in Chiapas, Mexico.
Fortunately, they were making their emergency landing at their expected destination. Unfortunately, Damien still had a five-hour drive through the night to the remote coffee plantation. Assuming that the rental car Ryan had lined up for him was standing by as requested.
Assuming the landing didn’t disintegrate into one giant cluster fuck.
None of that.
“Almost there. Almost there.” Grayson mumbled the words, more encouragement to himself than information for Damien.
He held his breath, trusting Grayson, but his fingers still itching for the controls, even though his mind knew damn well the right man was making the descent.
Lower and lower, until the buildings became clearer despite the night, and the lights of the runway stretched out in front of them, the ground roaring up to meet them.
This was the moment, and it was Nikki who filled his thoughts. His wife. His children. The risk of fire was real. So was the risk the plane could roll. But if—when—they walked away safe, Damien would be even more certain that he’d get Frank home.
Get through tonight, and he could handle anything.
The force of the impact slammed him back in the seat, and he held his breath, his hands clutched on the armrests as he fought the urge to take control. A horrible metallic screeching split his ears, lights flashed outside the windows, and the plane lurched, as if it was trying to rip itself out of Grayson’s control.
And then, suddenly, it was over.
For a moment he just sat there imagining Nikki in his arms, her presence soothing him. Centering him.
And then he stood up.
He’d made it to Mexico.
Now he just had to
get to his father-in-law.
Chapter 9
Damien woke to the sound of his phone alarm blaring. He snatched it off the passenger seat of the battered, fifteen-year-old Volkswagen Clasico that had been the only vehicle available to rent when they’d finally descended from the jet to the tarmac. Even then, it wasn’t an official rental; instead, it was the second car of one of the airport’s on-duty firefighters.
He opened the door and stepped out of the car, looking out as rays of light from the rising sun cut through the lush greenery. A small operation, the Finca de Hermosa plantation was nestled far from the more well-known and touristy coffee plantations that dotted the western part of the state. Surrounded by verdant hills, the area looked more like a pristine jungle than a plantation.
His body ached from sleeping in the car, but he’d arrived at the plantation gate at just before six after a five-hour drive from the airport. Since that was far too early to bother the residents, he’d pulled off the road, put back the driver’s seat, and dozed.
Now his body ached and his eyes felt grainy. But he was here. And unless Frank had missed his message from yesterday and found another way back to LA—and wouldn’t that be ironic?—Damien’s father-in-law was inside.
It was eight now, and Damien glanced at the display on his phone, hoping to call Frank again, but foiled by the lack of service on his phone. Frustrating, but not surprising. He was far off the beaten path here.
He had some water and snacks in the backseat, and he used one of the bottles to splash water on his face. He imagined he looked like hell, but hopefully not so disreputable they wouldn’t let him inside the gates.
He frowned. He’d meant the thought in jest, but the truth was that poverty ran rampant in this area, and it drew drug traffickers like flies, most coming over the border from the south.
Hopefully the trip wouldn’t get any rougher than it already was.
After a few quick stretches and a second bottle of water, he felt human again. It was just past eight on December twenty-third, and it was time to get Frank and go home to his family.
The plantation’s entrance was marked by a simple but well-tended fence that spread out as far as he could see on either side of the drive leading to the main house. There was no gatehouse, just a rusty intercom that surprised Damien by actually being functional.
Fortunately, his name and meager Spanish vocabulary got him through the front gate, and he walked the short distance to the front door, which opened just as he climbed up the stone stairs to a wide, welcoming porch.
A man stepped out, and Damien’s body almost melted with relief at the sight of the familiar weathered face and graying hair. Frank.
His father-in-law stood there, his eyes wide with surprise and joy.
“Damien? What the hell, son? For that matter, how the hell?”
“I’m guessing you didn’t get my text.”
“Haven’t had service in days. I called you from the plantation’s landline. And the Wi-Fi here is down, too. I’ve been cut-off since we talked.” He cocked his head. “But get in here. You look like you could use some coffee, and there’s plenty of that here.”
Damien followed him inside where he met Carlos and Juanita Mendoza, the couple who ran the plantation, and whose English was significantly better than Damien’s Spanish. “We were just sitting down for coffee when you called from the gate—I shot a few sunrise photos this morning as a thank you to my hosts for letting me stay on a few extra days. Figure they can use the images in their marketing.”
“Sounds like I missed a spectacular view by just a few minutes.”
Frank didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he simply stood, shaking his head slowly. “Damn, Damien. I don’t think I’ve been more surprised in my life.”
“Good surprise, I hope.”
“Hell, yes, but why are you here? Dealing in coffee now?”
“I have a hand in here and there, but don’t be coy, Frank. I’m here to take you home. I have your daughter and two little girls who want Grandpa with them for Christmas.” He cocked his head, grinning. “Assuming you want to come.”
“Home? You know I do. But good God, son. How’d you get all the way down here during the strike?”
“Do you think I’d work as hard as I do if there weren’t some benefits to my bankroll?” He grinned as Frank laughed. “Seriously, though, we came by jet.” He briefly described the ordeal, watching Frank and the Mendozas’ eyes go wide as the story got more and more harrowing.
“After that, I got the rest of the way by car. And, to be honest, we should probably head back to the airport as soon as we can.”
He explained how Grayson had stayed behind at the airport to try to beg, steal, borrow or buy another plane. And, miraculously, he’d sent a text about an hour before Damien had arrived at the plantation. Apparently, a Mexican film star had just landed with his girlfriend. And since they were spending the holiday with her family, Grayson arranged to rent the plane for a three-day round trip to LA. By that time, the strike would be over and Grayson could return on a commercial flight, leaving everyone happy.
That was the plan at least, and the sooner they hit the road, the sooner he’d be with his family. More that that, he wanted to call Nikki and tell her that his “work crisis” was going well and he’d be home soon.
“It’s a five-hour drive followed by a five-hour flight in their jet,” he explained to Frank. “Which means we’ll get home at seven if we push it. You might even be able to see the girls before bedtime.”
“I’m all for heading out now,” Frank said. “I like to leave a lot of lead time. Hell, I thought I was when I booked this job. Never expected a strike.”
While Frank gathered his slim bag of clothes and his overstuffed satchel of camera equipment, Damien chatted with their hosts, thanking them for taking such good care of his father-in-law.
Then they were on their way, with Frank in the passenger seat and Damien behind the wheel.
“I’m surprised Nikki didn’t come with you,” Frank commented. “But I guess she probably didn’t want to leave the girls.”
“She doesn’t know.” Damien glanced toward his passenger just long enough to see Frank’s brows rise.
“Is that so?”
“She—well, I wanted to see her face light up when she sees you. And watch the kids bowl you over with hugs.” What he didn’t say was that he hadn’t wanted Nikki to be disappointed if he failed.
“She would have appreciated just the thought,” Frank said, apparently understanding Damien’s full motivation. “God knows you do so much for my girl. Hell of a lot more than I ever did.”
Damien flashed a wry smile. “I like to think what I do is a bit different. I’m not her father, after all.”
“Well, that’s a good point,” Frank said, his voice laced with amusement. “And I have to say, you two really are good together. I wasn’t sure at first. When I learned she’d married you, I mean. All that money—it can mess people up.”
Damien thought of his own father. “Yeah. It can.”
“You’re not messed up.”
He smiled. “Everyone is, at least a little. But I’m not messed up that way.”
Frank shifted, trying to get comfortable in the small, battered car. “Though you do like your toys. I’ve seen your garage, my boy.”
“True,” Damien said. “And yes. I do like my toys. I figure I’ve earned them.”
“Amen to that.”
They chatted amiably the rest of the way back, and Damien was pleased when they reached the airport exactly on schedule.
“Should be airborne within the hour,” he told Frank as he maneuvered toward the hanger number that Grayson had given him. “And home in time to surprise your granddaughters.”
They found the hanger, and they found Grayson waiting for them, sitting in a folding chair inside the cavernous space.
What they didn’t find was a plane. The film star had fought with his girlfriend, left her with her family, an
d stormed back to the airport. Grayson had texted Damien with the bad news, but of course he’d never received the message.
Didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything he could have done. The plane was gone.
And so was Damien’s hope of getting home that day.
Chapter 10
Since the girls and I went to bed ridiculously early, I woke up on this sunny Christmas Eve-Eve before the sun with two little girls and a cat sharing the bed with me. They’d been calm in sleep, their sweet faces like those of cherubs hanging in so many paintings in the Louvre.
Now it’s almost three in the afternoon, and I’m having to work hard to keep that image in my head. My sleeping angels have morphed into wild, rambunctious whirling dervishes. On any other day, I’d tell them to calm down. But this is pre-Christmas energy, and I don’t have the heart to tell them to stop racing around the third floor’s open area, which they’ve converted into their own version of Santa’s workshop, with about four dozen stuffed animals cast as elves.
Except I do draw the line at racing up the stairs.
“But Mommy! It’s the North Pole, and we have to fly there in the sleigh with the reindeer.”
“Reindeer fly slowly,” I tell Lara, grateful that at least she’s not trying to drag her sister up the stairs in a colorful cardboard box repurposed as a sleigh. “They have to so they can stop at every house. Plus, Santa likes to be careful. It would be terrible if he had an accident and missed a kid, wouldn’t it?”
Lara considers this, then nods. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“So calm down,” I say. “And only fifteen more minutes. Then you can watch Frosty while I talk with Ms. Evelyn, okay?”
Lara salutes, and they scamper off.
Exactly sixteen minutes later, I’ve parked them in front of the television, and I’m heading back upstairs to the kitchen. My phone pings in the tone I’ve assigned to Damien, and it’s as if sunshine is bursting through me from nothing more than that familiar sound.
That sunshine turns to rain, however, when I read the actual text.