Page 9 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
“No, I didn’t check,” she says with a frown.
We greet the pilot as we board, and I lead her to a seat before taking the one opposite. The plane’s engine comes to life, its hum filling the air. Once we land, I’m going to erase the plane records so that no one can track where we landed, but the pilot could be a concern. He’s one of De Rossi’s guys—clean record, seven years on the job, well paid. He checks out on paper, but I told De Rossi to put a set of eyes on him. If Sal gets it into his head to go after Martina, he’ll try to get information out of someone on the staff.
It’s a good thing I don’t have many staff members to worry about at the castello. Just three civilians, and only one of them has some knowledge of the things I’m involved in. The others suspect but are smart enough to pretend like they don’t. When it comes to working for a man of thesistema,ignorance truly is bliss.
Martina peers at the sky through the small window, a line appearing between her brows. Just then, thunder booms in the far distance, and her face grows pale.
She doesn’t like storms.
Or maybe she just doesn’t like flying through them. Who does?
“Pilot said we’re going in the opposite direction,” I tell her. “It’s only a ninety-minute flight.”
She pulls her full bottom lip into her mouth and nods without looking at me.
I wait. Is she not going to ask where we’re going?
Her silence sends frustration burning through me.
“Seat belt,” I snap as the plane begins to move.
Her gaze comes to my face for a split second before she does as she’s told. Her obedience should please me, but I don’t like that it reeks of indifference. I get the sense she just doesn’t care what happens to her.
My elbow lands on the armrest, and I press my closed fist against my lips. On the other side of the glass, everything blurs, and as we lift off, Ibiza grows smaller and smaller beneath us.
Tucking her legs under her, she adjusts my jacket around her shoulders and pushes a few strands of golden hair out of her eyes. Her expression is somber, the corners of her lips pointing down.
If someone was to paint her, they’d title the pieceMelancholy.
I’m not the kind of man who makes a habit of talking about feelings, but I also don’t make a point of avoiding those conversations when they’re necessary.
And right now? It’s fucking necessary.
I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees. “What’s going on with you?”
She gives me a sideways glance. “Nothing.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“I’ll add it to the list.” Her voice is flat.
“What list?”
“All of the things I’m bad at.”
Cazzo. She says it in this resigned kind of way that makes discomfort prickle at the back of my neck. “You keep a list?”
“Sure.”
“Strange hobby. What are your other interests?”
Her expression doesn’t crack. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and answers without looking at me. “I like to shop.”
“What else?”
She lifts up her phone. “This.”
I narrow my eyes. No fucking shit. “I hope you like nature.”
