“I never thought roller coasters were fun,” Quenby replied, leaning back on the headrest.
In London, ten hours ago, Lucas had given her fifteen minutes to shower and throw a few things into an overnight bag. She might have done it in fifteen minutes if he weren’t so bossy. Instead it took her a full half hour to get ready.
After she reluctantly agreed to a plane ride, the driver had carried them off to London City, straight to the waiting jet. No security checkpoints. No lines. When she saw the private jet, a Global 6000, she stopped pestering Lucas with her questions. Time, she decided, would answer the most pertinent ones.
Minutes after they departed, Samantha had served eggs Benedict drizzled with the best hollandaise Quenby had ever tasted. Then there was the blueberry parfait with sprigs of fresh mint and the London Fog lattes made with Earl Grey tea and lavender. She’d tried to pretend she wasn’t impressed by the gourmet breakfast or pristine cabin but failed miserably.
Lucas had told her to sleep—and she’d tried—but the golden petals of sunrise trailed them across the ocean, drifting over the snow-crested peaks and fjords of Greenland, lingering on the horizon. The beauty of it was like some sort of mirage. Almost like this Mr. Knight had hired the light to perform for them.
They’d crossed over the entire continent of North America and, according to the GPS on her phone, were now preparing to land on an island in the horseshoe between the coasts of Canada and Washington State, in steel-blue waters called the Salish Sea.
As they flew, she’d tried to track down more information about Mr. Hough’s client, but there were hundreds of Daniel Knights listed online. Of course age was a factor, along with income and location, but until now, she hadn’t known exactly where this Mr. Knight lived.
Samantha had calmed any fears she had over traveling alone with Lucas, replacing her trepidation with a strange sense of anticipation and a host of questions.
How did Mr. Knight know about the Rickers? Whom did he want her to find? And why had he picked her to do this job?
The plane descended toward a grove of pines behind the castle until it seemed they were skimming treetops. Then the forest opened into a long spray of asphalt framed by green. The plane landed smoothly and stopped near a lone hangar.
Groaning, Quenby pried her fingers from the armrest and swept her hair back into a ponytail.
Samantha pressed a button, and the door on her left opened, the airstairs unfolding onto the runway. “It’s almost eleven local time.”
“Are you coming with us?” Quenby asked.
The flight attendant shook her head. “But I’ll see you tonight. You like scallops?”
“If they’re broiled with butter.”
Samantha laughed. “How else do you eat scallops?”
“Where I’m from, they eat them fried.”
Her fists on her slender hips, Samantha looked insulted. “Nothing fried ever comes out of this galley.”
Two men stepped out of the hangar to help them with luggage, and—Quenby assumed—maintenance and fuel before they returned to England.
At some point Lucas had slipped into the lavatory, and when he stepped back out, his blazer was buttoned, hair combed, face apparently shaved. He didn’t look up to see if she was ready, his gaze devoted solely to his iPhone as he climbed down to the runway. He’d done his job delivering her to this island. Now, she’d apparently trickled back to the bottom of his priority list.
A metallic gray Cadillac Escalade pulled up beside the plane, windows too dark to see inside. Who needed tinted windows on a remote island? Only someone, she surmised, determined to hide.
Perhaps this Daniel Knight was some sort of Hollywood star or politician, living here under an assumed name. But then why would he build a medieval-looking castle on the cliff? That was hardly inconspicuous.
Perhaps the castle wasn’t his after all.
Or maybe Mr. Knight was a mob boss, Lucas Hough his devoted crony. One of her articles in the past year might have offended him, and she would end up in the sea instead of a river.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she pulled her mobile out of her handbag to text Chandler one more time.
We’ve landed on an island near the Puget Sound, middle of nowhere. You’re tracking me, right?
Before she sent the message, Lucas reached out. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take that.”
She pulled her phone back to her chest. “I’m keeping my phone.”
“Mr. Knight doesn’t allow mobile phones in his house.”
“Perhaps your Mr. Knight should meet me right here.”
He eyed the plane. “Perhaps you’ll have to return to London without seeing him after all.”
Her phone still clutched in one hand, she wrapped her fingers around the handles of the bag hanging from her shoulder. So help her, she wanted to clobber him with it.