Playing For Keeps (The Alpha Brotherhood #3)(19)
Author: Catherine Mann

“Nope. We’ll fly in the chopper to another location, where we’ll board a private jet and leave the country. Avoiding the press involves a lot more steps than going from point A to point B.”

Wow, okay. He did have resources beyond anything she’d imagined. But…

“I thought you said we were visiting your mother.”

“I said we were going to her house. She’s not here.” He pulled his briefcase from behind his seat. “She’s at her vacation flat in London.”

A vacation flat? “You’re a good son. This amazing house. A place in England, too.”

“What I give her is easy compared to all she did for me.” His eyes went sober, pained even. “The house, the apartment, they don’t even put a dent in my account. She worked two jobs just to put food on the table. She even cleaned my piano teacher’s house in exchange for lessons. Mom deserves a retirement. Now, are you ready?”

She was running out of time to say what had been chewing at her gut since last night. “I don’t want you to think that kiss meant more than it did.”

“What did it mean?”

“That I’m still attracted to you, as well, that we share a very significant past. But that doesn’t mean we have a future or that we should act on the attraction.” Because honest to God, right now she wasn’t sure how she would walk away from him a second time if they got even closer. They needed to use this trip together to talk through what happened when they were teenagers, to have the conversations they’d been denied because of immaturity—and the fact that he’d been locked away in a military school and she’d been sent to Switzerland. “It was more of a farewell to that past and a salute to friendship kind of kiss. Didn’t you write a song once about goodbye kisses?”

“Someone else wrote that one.” He smiled cynically. “My manager thought it would melt hearts.”

“It melted hearts all the way to the top of the charts.” She’d turned the radio station dozens of times to keep herself from crying over that damn song.

“Call me jaded—” he gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went bloodless “—but sometimes I feel like I’m selling a flawed ideal to my fans.”

“How can you deny there’s love out there?” She turned toward him again, clenching her hands into fists to keep from reaching for him. “We felt it. I know we did. That song last night proved it. Even though it ended, what we had was real.”

“Puppy love.”

Her head snapped back, his words a splash of bitterly cold water. “Are you being a bastard on purpose?”

“Just helping you resist the urge to kiss me again.” He reached across her and opened her door. “Our helicopter’s waiting.”

As her door swung wide, the biting wind blew grit and rocks inside the beautifully magnificent car, stinging her as tangibly as his angry words had. She grabbed her floral tote bag full of schoolwork and jumped out, slamming the door closed behind her. Helicopter blades whomp, whomp, whomped, slicing the air. Who traveled by helicopter besides the military and the country’s president?

Apparently platinum-selling stars did.

He opened the door for her. “Sit up front.”

Gingerly, she climbed inside the helicopter, the scent of leather and oil saturating the air as she settled in place. She eyed the empty copilot’s seat, the thrill-seeking ways of her teenage years nowhere to be found. The thought of riding in a chopper—of actually going to Europe—made her chest grow tight. She forced herself to breathe in and out evenly, willing back the rising panic attack.

Damn it, she could do this—she had to do this. She would use this time to turn the page once and for all on the chapter of her life that included Malcolm Douglas.

She snapped her seat belt on and tugged it extra tight while glancing at the controls and the thin sides, the surrounding glass. Okay, so maybe she could do this in a different seat. She turned to ask the pilot if she could sit in back but he slid out before she could speak. He passed his headset to Malcolm and put Malcolm’s ball cap on his head. The pilot sprinted toward the Maserati.

Malcolm slipped into the pilot’s seat. He tugged on his headset and passed a second set to Celia. She pulled them on, her ears filling with chatter over the airwaves.

He leaned toward her. “If you want to speak privately, just tap this button.”

And with that, he ran a check of the controls, his voice resonating in her ears as he called in to some tower for takeoff. How could the people on the other end of the radio not know they were speaking to Malcolm Douglas? His smooth baritone caressed her senses even when he just spoke, his voice utterly recognizable to her even without looking at him.

There was no denying he knew exactly what to do. “Um, Malcolm? Are you actually going to fly this—”

The helicopter lifted off. She bit down a yelp and grabbed her seat, terrified of touching something. It wasn’t as if she was afraid to fly, but this was all happening so fast, with so little explanation. She looked out at the house growing smaller and smaller the higher they flew.

“I guess you really are flying the chopper. You have a license, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can’t tell me Elliot Starc taught you to drive this, too.”

“Not Elliot.” He glanced at her and winked. “Private instructor.”

She sagged back in her seat. “Of course. How could I not have known?”

Reservations about her decision were pointless now. She was going to Europe with the man who’d stolen—and broken—her heart eighteen years ago.

* * *

Malcolm steered the helicopter through the sky.

He had to admit there were definite perks to having an unlimited bank account. He had the coolest toys. His work with Interpol had only expanded the scope.

Plowing through the sky in a helicopter, having the little bird at his disposal, beat the hell out of the days when he and his mom could barely afford to keep a rusted Chevy running. Vulnerable women were his weak spot, and he knew that. When it came to Celia and their history, his tendency to protect was all the more powerful.

He monitored the controls, his feet working in tandem with his hands—like playing the piano, it required two-handed coordination along with his feet. He played the chopper through the air, over tiny houses far below. Far above the threat to Celia, for now.

Because no matter how much he wanted her in his bed again—and he wanted that so much it gnawed at his gut—he could not lose sight of his primary goal here. He had to keep her safe. And that meant keeping his libido in check. A more restrained approach once he had her tucked far away from here seemed the better plan than pressing her on that kiss now.