Once she could breathe, Olivia wandered to the back of the plane and found the WC. It was gross and depressing—black towels, yellow pee on the rim of the toilet seat.

But the shower was clean.

The image in the mirror posed the most horrific sight. She looked like death. The thick, black eyeliner applied earlier in the day had drained down her cheeks with her damned tears. She hated crying. Worse, she hated to have anyone to see her break down. Yeah, she’d crashed and burned.

And Logan had seen her at her worst more than once.

This time something major inside her had snapped. Not all at once, but pieces at time starting with the twisted preparation for her meeting with the devil. When al-Umari had ripped off her clothes, then treated her like a sex toy, running his knife over her nipples and between her thighs her insides had shredded. How had she survived it? And she should feel fortunate to have made it without sustaining more serious injuries.

After taking her arm out of her sleeve, she pulled off the field dressing. The cut wasn’t too deep and the bleeding had ebbed. She lifted her hem and examined her leg. A scab was beginning to form over the cut on the inside of her thigh. Al-Umari had barely nicked her there. Lord only knew what he would have done with the knife if the guard hadn’t interrupted them.

Olivia closed her eyes while a wave of nausea passed.

Jamal Abdullah Khalil had been a prick, but he’d never attempted to use a knife on her—or any weapon for that matter. The arms dealer had been no more than an unfeeling brute. A girl could manage to disassociate herself for the greater good with someone like Khalil. At least that’s what she’d told herself a gazillion times.

The worst part? She’d let al-Umari touch her and then she let him slip through her grasp. She had her chance. If only she had instant replay, she’d do it over again. Picturing it in her mind’s eye, even if it had torn off her skin, she should have pried her arm away and freed herself before he entered. She could have pounced on him, especially if she’d known for sure Logan was coming with an army. But she hadn’t known when. She didn’t know how many men. She’d doubted, hedged, worried about self-preservation. And when push came to shove, she’d made the wrong decision. Tried to play along with it. Told herself she was hewn of steel. That she could take anything al-Umari and his sadistic mob of fanatics could dish out.

Olivia stared in the mirror while self-loathing stretched inside her chest like a fast-spreading cancer.

No one got second chances. Especially her.

She slapped her palm on the mirror and streaked her fingers downward.

“You’re nothing but a sorry loser.”

Disgusted, she turned on the water and peeled off the abaya. The same piece of rubbish silk al-Umari had torn off her only an hour ago. At her next opportunity, she’d burn the bloody rags and send them to hell—where that bastard should be right now.

The gash on her shoulder looked ugly. She’d have a scar for the rest of her life. A souvenir to serve as a perpetual reminder of how she’d had al-Umari in her clutches and lost him.

She stepped under the spray of hot water and stood with her face turned up, ignoring the sting of her raw flesh. No one could see her tears now as the water washed away the filth of Aleppo. Washed away the shame and the hurt and the guilt and the blood. She lathered a cloth and scrubbed off the sticky makeup until her skin burned. She scrubbed her arms, her breasts, her crotch—everywhere al-Umari’s knife had been. Using forceful and jilted strokes, she cleansed him from her flesh. But she’d never cleanse the memories away.

It wasn’t until the water turned cold that she rinsed away the suds and toweled off. But there was no way in hell she’d don the abaya again. In a cupboard, she found a new white robe still wrapped in plastic together with a pair of slippers. Enormous, but they’d do.

She combed her fingers through her hair and left. The galley was stocked with pita bread, hummus and bottles of water. She cracked a bottle and took one to Logan in the cockpit.

“You all right?” he asked, sounding too chipper.

“Well enough.”

“Had a shower, huh? You look refreshed.”

She shrugged.

“You want to sit up here for a while?”

“No.”

“All right.” He continued with the chipper routine. “Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

She’d do that. Sleep was about the only thing she had the energy for.

***

Olivia slept until the plane jolted her awake—not turbulence, but as her eyes flashed open, her heart flew to her throat. Her first thought was Logan had crashed. They hit hard, and now they were shimmying as if the Gulfstream were out of control. Catching her breath, she dug her fingers into the armrests and looked out the window.

Though the plane was bobbing and weaving, they were slowing down. Stranger still, she didn’t recognize a thing. Rugged mountains lined the eastern horizon and there were evergreens everywhere. But it looked nothing like Iceland.

The plane steadied and Olivia rubbed her forehead. Hadn’t Logan said something about R & R?

The Gulfstream came to a stop with a jolt that made her head smack against the headrest. Maybe the American cowboy needed to clock a few more hours in the sim.

The cockpit door swung open. Logan grinned. “Well, it wasn’t pretty, but we’re alive.”

“Where the hell are we?”

“Ferndale Airfield.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Just outside Bigfork, Montana, Big Sky country.”

She stared, a migraine starting. “What, are we picking up friends? Stopping over to refuel? What about going on holiday?”

“I thought you might like to see my ranch.”

Groaning, Olivia leaned her head against the headrest—softly this time. Why on earth would she assume he’d take her to a beach on a secluded island? Why did she think at all? A ranch? In the midst of the American wild west? Horses? All she knew about horses was they smelled. And he’d told her he had cattle as well. Olivia knew without a doubt those beasts stank to high heaven. “I don’t need to playact at being a wrangler. I need a hot bath and a month in the Seychelles. Perhaps Bali, or Saint Kilda. How on earth can anyone relax in Montana?”

The migraine throbbed across the base of her skull. She dropped her forehead to her palms and pressed against her temples.

“Tell you what,” Logan said. “You can rest all you want—don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Ugh.”

“We’re here now and I’d be crushed if you didn’t want to see my place.” He tugged her arm. “Please.”

Her gaze trailed up to those damned teal-blues. How could she resist? Even if she could, she didn’t have the energy. “When’s the next flight out of here?”

Logan’s mouth twisted as if he were conjuring up a smartass reply. “Not today. Probably not tomorrow, either.” He yanked her to her feet. “Come on. Jason’s waiting for us in the pickup. And there’s a NATO crew on its way to take possession of the plane.”

“Pickup?”

“A truck—a dually, a Dodge Ram.”

“Dear Lord, you are a cowboy.” She gave him nothing but dead weight while he pulled her to her feet. “I’ve died and gone to hell.”

“I’ll bet I can make you change your mind.”

Unfortunately, Olivia’s sense of humor had vanished. “A couple of days. And don’t expect me to play Annie Oakley.”

“A couple of days is a start.”

“Do you have running water?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

“Hot water?”

“Yes.” He opened the plane door to a rush of warm air.

“It’s warmer than Iceland.”

“It is in the summer.”

She followed him down the steps to a waiting truck. Dually. It had two wheels up front and four in the back. Splattered with dried mud and dust, it looked like it hadn’t seen a carwash…ever. She thought it might be white.

“Jason.” Logan waved, pulling her toward a stocky man with shoulders as wide as a recliner.

Still wearing the robe, Olivia followed reluctantly, looking for a hotel, or a taxi, or a terminal, for that matter. The place was practically as remote as the airfield in Iceland—aside from the lack of snow, and the trees, and a road, even another car.

Logan introduced her by name only and gave no further explanation.

“Welcome to Montana,” Jason held out his hand and gave a firm shake—one that said he was a man of his word.

She mumbled an unconvincing thank you while Logan opened the rear truck door. Was the word unostentatious in America’s vocabulary? She doubted it. The backseat could practically accommodate an entire netball team.

Olivia climbed in and sat like a lump. She didn’t pay much attention to Logan and Jason while they caught up on rancher stuff. Outside, the scenery passed in a blur. Yes, it was beautiful, but she didn’t want to admit it. Too many warring emotions coursed through her blood right now, just like they had when she’d returned to London after the Kahlil cock-up.

At least then, she could lock herself in her flat and not have to talk to anyone for a fortnight. Did Jason live in Logan’s house?

She stayed in the truck while the men drove into town and made two stops. One at Harvest Foods with a big car park and another on the main street. Even if she’d wanted to shop, she’d make a spectacle of herself wandering around in a white robe and oversized slippers. Besides, sitting in a hot truck with the windows rolled down gave Olivia time to nurse her headache. She spotted a chemist, but didn’t have any cash, no credit cards, no ID. Hell, if Logan didn’t return to the truck, she’d be snookered with no place to go. Perhaps the police would allow her a phone call if she reversed the charges to ICE.

But the men returned and, once again, headed for the unknown. After turning onto a dirt road, the truck ambled along, hitting every pothole within miles and giving all three of them whiplash.

“How long since you grated the drive?” asked Logan.

“Not since last year,” said Jason.

“Better move it up on the list.”

“Right. After repairing the north fence and drenching the steers.”

Drive? The dirt road was a drive? Olivia shook her head.

They headed through a big, metal gate to a weatherboard house—two stories, white with blue shutters. It could have been used for the set of Little House on the Prairie. Jason stayed in the truck.

“You’re not getting out?” she asked.

Logan opened the door for her and offered his hand. “Jason lives in the caretaker’s house just over the hill.”

She nodded. She could have asked any number of questions, but that would have been prying. It also would have made her migraine unbearable.

“Come, let’s get you settled.” He held up a plastic shopping bag. “I bought you some clothes.”

She glanced down to her bathrobe and slippers. At least one of them was thinking beyond the moment.