Or was he starting to feed on the way Maggie made him forget about his mess of a life?
He’d never been one to duck and hide when troubles arose, but these past few days with Maggie reminded him of what life before fame had been like. It brought back memories of growing up in Ohio, of being able to take a girl out without it winding up in the tabloids, of being able to sing along to the Beach Boys without a sound bite popping up on the Internet. And damn it, he wanted to hold on to that unburdened feeling for as long as he could, to think about someone other than himself for a while. He didn’t know where it was all heading, but for the moment he needed to be around her. Needed that feeling of being a regular person.
And he would be helping her. He’d told her he’d give her all the sex she wanted, and he’d done that, but it was becoming unsettlingly obvious that Maggie needed more than sex. She needed fun. Relaxation. A life.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asked, jarring him from his thoughts.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Did I mention I don’t like surprises?”
“No, and mentioning it now won’t get you any answers.” He reached over and squeezed her lower thigh, then tried to ignore the jolt of desire in his groin. “Trust me, you’ll like it.”
She had better like it. Ben had pulled so many strings he could officially put the New York Philharmonic out of business. If Maggie didn’t appreciate what he was doing for her, he’d owe a few big names some big favors.
After the cab driver dropped them off at the International terminal at La Guardia airport, Ben helped Maggie out of the taxi and slung her overnight bag over his shoulder. “Ready?”
“How can I be ready when I don’t know what to be ready for?”
He grinned and pulled the rim of his Yankees cap low to his forehead. Where they were going, he probably wouldn’t get recognized, but better safe than sorry, his mom always said.
They were met at the end of the taxi stand by an airport employee, who ushered them onto a small private shuttle. As they drove away from the terminal, Maggie shot him a puzzled look.
“Seriously, where are we going?” she repeated.
“Be patient, Red.”
She made a little irritated sound and closed her mouth. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a large private hangar, its doors open to reveal a white and gold Gulfstream IV. Sexiest jet ever built, in Ben’s opinion.
Maggie’s eyes were two green saucers as she stared at the sleek plane. “Please don’t tell me this is yours.”
“I’m not that rich,” he replied in a mild tone.
As they followed their airport guide out of the shuttle, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the plane. Whether or not Ben owned it suddenly became a moot point. That he knew someone who did was enough to leave her wide-eyed and speechless.
People actually lived like this? She’d always known it, but seeing it was an entirely different matter all together. Seeing it also brought a tiny spark of resentment to her gut. She had nothing against someone who could afford his own private jet, but it was just a reminder of everything she didn’t have. Not that she aspired to be a jet-setting billionaire who went through hundred dollar bills like Tic Tacs, but it would be nice not to worry about saving her pennies to pay for basic essentials.
The person who owned this plane probably only worried about when it would be time to trade in for a newer model.
As Ben exchanged a few words with the pilot, who’d stepped out of the cabin at their arrival, Maggie swept her gaze along the length of the jet. In gold lettering, scrawled across the side, were the words “Papa G”.
Jeez, did this monstrosity belong to a mobster?
She seriously hoped not.
“We’re good to go,” Ben told her, shifting her overnight back to his left shoulder so he could put his arm around her again.
She managed a nod and followed him up the steps leading into the cabin. Inside, she openly gaped at the surroundings. There were about twelve seats in the cabin, white leather, with gold seatbelts that—God, those couldn’t be real diamonds studded along the buckles. Instead of a tray that folded out of the back of each seat, each pair of chairs faced another, and bolted onto the floor between them were honest-to-God poker tables. With green felt and everything.
“Who owns this?” she blurted out.
Ben shot her a tiny little grin. “Papa G.”
“Who?”
“Papa G.” He furrowed his brows. “You know, the rapper?”
Her expression remained blank, causing Ben to sigh.
“You honestly don’t know who Papa G is? LA gangsta rap, came out last year with the hit single ‘Where’s my Bling, Bitch?’.”
She’d entered the Twilight Zone. Only thing missing was the creepy music and a guy named Mulder…or was that a different show?
“So you’re borrowing this plane from a rapper who sings about bitches?” she said slowly.
“He doesn’t sing, he raps. And yes, I’m borrowing his jet. Papa made a cameo in one of my films last year, so I called in a favor.”