The windows at the back of the limo are tinted. Which is a good thing, because the less people to witness my meltdown reaching critical mass, the better.

For the last hour, I’ve been repeating three mantras under my breath:

One million dollars.

Save my life.

Keep the secret.

Each time a silent fourth reverberates at the back of my head.

Deliver yourself to Quinn Blackwood.

His threat wasn’t idle. Not when he could buy a new set of catering staff once an hour every day for a year and barely feel a pinch in his wallet. But he was determined to make me see how serious he was. The chopsticks barely delivered the piece of tempura to my hungry lips when he added, “And I’ll start with Sully Manning.”

I give in to a hysteria-tinged chortle as the limo crawls through traffic. We left Hell’s Kitchen at the stroke of seven. Besides a courteous greeting, the driver curtailed any attempt at conversation by putting up the partition in the limo, thereby sealing me in my moving luxury padded cell. I lasted fifteen minutes before I texted Fionnella to find out where the driver was taking me. She’s not answering.

The first inkling of where I’m headed comes when I spot the signs for an airport. But it’s not JFK or Newark. We’re headed toward Teterboro Airport.

I’ve heard a few clients from The Villa refer to it so I know it is a private airport.

The hairs on my nape prickle to attention.

Airport means security.

Security means a name popping up and getting flagged on a database. Fear, hot and acrid, floods my insides. I claw for the abandoned phone and stiffen my shaking fingers long enough to call Fionnella.

This time, she answers. “Everything okay?”

“No! We’re headed for the airport. I can’t fly. I…I forgot my ID back at the loft.”

“Don’t worry, it’s been taken care of.”

My gut ices over. “What does that mean? You took my ID from the loft?” I’ve only used it once since I arrived in New York and that was to prove to Sully that I was over 18. We both knew it was as fake as the Elly Smith name printed on it, but he let it go. No way will it withstand a TSA check. I’ll be in handcuffs before the scanner is done beeping.

“No, Lucky. Breaking and entering isn’t my forte. What I mean is you’re not leaving the country, so you’re good.”

“But…won’t my name appear on some manifest of some sort?”

“What name?” she counters.

I fall silent.

“Exactly,” she murmurs.

“Are…are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The knot in my stomach dissipates a little. I remind myself that a lot of time and work has gone into getting me here. That my choices are abysmally limited. I can’t trust anyone. But backing out is not an option right now.

“Okay. Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”

“That is not part of my brief. If the boss wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”

“Fionnella—”

“Piece of advice, Lucky. Don’t sweat the small stuff or the things that are out of your control. You chose to do this. Your reasons are your own, of course, but if the end game is important to you, learn to surrender to the journey. It’s the only way you’ll come out the other side intact. Have a safe trip. And try the grilled shrimp when you board the plane. They’re to die for.”

She hangs up, leaving me with even more questions than I started the conversation with. I don’t have time to dwell for long. The limo slowly weaves through an area peppered with private planes and pulls into a brightly lit hangar. It stops a dozen feet from a white and gold G650.

My jaw is too paralyzed to drop, and I stare at the aircraft as another boatload of WTF-are-you-doing punches me in the face.

“Miss? We’re here.”

I manage a nod, force my feet to move and step out. I look at the driver. His face is politely neutral and I know I won’t get any answers from him. Nor from the attendant and pilot waiting at the foot of the airplane steps.

I clutch my backpack and put one foot in front of the other.

“Welcome aboard, Miss.” The pilot doffs his cap.

“Thanks.”

“If it’s all right with you, we’ll be taking off in the next fifteen minutes.”

I swallow a snort. We’re taking off whether I freak out or not. We all know this. But it’s cute how they make me feel as if it’s up to me.

Silently, I climb up the steps and arrive in a different world. The Midtown apartment, the Hell’s Kitchen loft, the makeover have all been indicators that Q is extremely wealthy. But the undeniable luxury of the private jet finally drives home to me the potential scale of what I’m dealing with.

If a man like Q has the power to buy me without once meeting me in person, he has the power to do other things. Like make me disappear.

And really, aren’t those who fall through the cracks, or make an attempt to hide, easy prey to a ruthless predator?

My senses clang and I turn around. Before I can make a dash for the door, the steps lift and slide home, sealing me in the world’s most expensive tube.

Panic cloys through me.

“Wait!”

The pilot bolts the door and turns. “I’m sorry, Miss, but we have to take off now or we’ll miss our slot.”

I eye the shut door. “Open the door. Please, I have to get off.”

His eyes remain steady on mine. “I’m sorry. It’s too late.”

Although I hear the whine of an engine powering up, courtesy of the co-pilot, I know the pilot isn’t just talking about the door. My thudding heart echoes the message in his gaze.

Somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, I’ve crossed an invisible line into the point of no return. Q may have chosen me a week ago, but everything that has followed has been a further test.

A test that I’ve passed, if the sudden ramp-up of activity is any indication. And now he’s decided, there’s no going back.

“Take a seat, Miss. The attendant will be along shortly with your pre-flight drink.”

He heads off to the cockpit, and I hear the definitive click of the door.

I turn around. The attendant is pouring a glass of champagne, but I sense her attention on me. I have no doubt if I attempt anything foolish, like opening the door to the airplane, she’ll be on me in a second. I can probably take her, but then what would that mean for me?

At least one thing is certain. If I don’t make it out of whatever this fucked up situation is that I’ve got myself into, Clayton won’t get his hands on the secret. My fingers tighten around the handle of my backpack.

As I release the lock on my legs and head for the cream leather sofa in the middle of the plane, I let my fingers drift over the secret compartment I sewed into the bottom of the backpack. Perhaps it’s foolish to carry the letter and document Ma gave to me. But it’s only one half of the puzzle. I memorized the other half before I burnt it in the hope that it’d buy me further time should Clayton catch up with me.

Thinking about him weirdly settles my panic. The fire I jumped into after escaping him hasn’t consumed me yet. So while I still have breath, I still have hope.

…surrender to the journey.

I set the backpack aside, buckle myself in and hold my breath for my first ever ride on a plane.

Soon after a slightly dizzying takeoff, I accept a glass of champagne and the offer of grilled shrimp.

True to Fionnella’s promise, the shrimp is divine. As is the pâté served on crackers and the mini burgers and accompanying sweet potato fries. When I return from using the lavatory, I curl up on the sofa and stare outside the window.

Geography fails me again, and with the outside shrouded in night, I have no clue where we’re headed.

I try to blank my mind to what lays ahead so I accept another glass of champagne. A few sips in, I notice a subtle difference in taste, but really, what the fuck do I know about vintage champagne?

The bubbles are pleasantly tingly and the alcohol is easing the stranglehold fear has on me. I take a few more sips, and stare at the light blinking on the jet’s wing.

It grows strangely hypnotic. I’m not sure if we dip, or if the swaying is just in my head. I try to take another sip, but my limbs feel heavy, lethargic.

My eyelids droop of their own accord. Just before they shut, I see the attendant lunge toward me.

Oops. I just dropped the glass.

A dull headache throbs at my temple. It’s not bad, but it’s uncomfortable enough for me not to want to open my eyes in case there’s more pain lurking at my periphery.

Also, I sense sunshine. And wherever this headache stems from, I know it won’t be a fan of bright lights. So I keep my eyes shut, breathe through it and attempt to orient myself.

The limo. The airport. The plane. Champagne.

I’m hung over? From one glass of champagne? Or had it been two?

My mind gives up on unraveling the hazy memory and moves on.

I’m in bed. The scent of crisp sheets and sea air register through my slightly foggy senses.

But how did I get here? And where the hell is here?

I suck in a breath and crack my eyes open. Yep, wall to wall sunshine. A bed wide enough to sleep a football team and a room large enough to accommodate their fans.

I drag myself onto my elbows, kick away the comforter and glance down at myself.

The clothes I wore to the airport are gone. I’m wearing a crisp white T-shirt and my panties. No bra.

My heart lurches and I feel sick. I close my eyes and concentrate on the part of my body that would surely know if it has been violated. I feel nothing untoward. I don’t allow myself to be relieved just yet.

I shift to the side of the bed. Besides the need to ease my bladder, I’m hoping a self-examination will enlighten me as to whether I’ve slept molest-free.

I emerge from the jaw-droppingly stunning marble and slate bathroom five minutes later none the wiser. A quick search for my things leads me to a dressing room. All my clothes and shoes from the loft are hung and arranged in neat rows. My backpack is in a small closet and a dressing table is set out with makeup and new accessories.

I grab a pair of lounge pants, slip them on and return to the bedroom. Heavy, half-closed curtains conceal floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the room. I push one aside and peer outside.

Dark sand and pebble beach gives way to an unfettered view of water. Although the sun’s shining, the dark-colored water makes me think we’re still in the East. But the truth is I don’t know.

Dropping the curtain, I turn and examine the room. The cream and gold decor is studded with expensive art and chandelier lamps that reek of elegance and class. It’s everything an exclusive whore purchased for a million dollars would want.

Except this whore can’t shake the notion that she was drugged and brought here so she wouldn’t know where she is.

Insides beginning to quiver, I hurry across the room and throw the bedroom door open.

The soft exhalation that emits from a nearby speaker freezes me to a stop the moment I reach an arched hallway.

“Lucky. You’re awake. Welcome to my home.”