Chapter 10

Except for the flat-screen TV showing world news, the only lights on in the private plane marked the galley, an outlet at the conference table, and along the cabin floor. But Justice knew well the sounds and sights of a nightmare.

She watched helplessly as Sandesh’s body twitched and jerked in the prone seat next to hers.

Should she wake him? Would he be upset? He’d definitely be startled. But how many nights had she wished someone would pull her out of her damn nightmare?

To her, to people who had the same nightmare for decades, the notion that dreams weren’t real was little consolation. Not when they felt like torture. She placed a hand on Sandesh’s strong forearm arm, squeezed.

He jolted awake, gasping for breath. He sat forward, clicked his footrest down, jerked his arm away, and hacked into his hand.

With the light from the television glancing across his blond hair, he looked over at her. His eyes were still uncertain, still back there, in whatever place had held him.

Justice leaned forward, careful not to touch. He smelled of sweat and fear. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer her. He rubbed a hand across his face.

“Do you want to talk about it? The dream?”

He dropped his hand. “No.”

He said the word like a wall. A do-not-cross, guard-dog-on-duty, enter-at-your-own-risk wall. She got it. And she didn’t need him to tell her his dream, but she wanted him to know she got it. Somehow, it mattered to her.

He pushed aside the blanket on his lap, looked as if he considered getting up, but settled for adjusting the vent. Cool air flowed out.

She fingered the headset in her lap. She worked a kink from her neck and spoke without lifting her head. “I have this bad dream all the time.”

He let out a breath, as if he couldn’t deal with her trying to compare her “bad dream” with his nightmare. She wanted to keep her mouth shut, wanted to let him think he was alone, so she wouldn’t have to share. But he was like her. He knew about nightmares. And she couldn’t let it go.

“I’m little. A child. A man is holding me down. He’s so heavy. So heavy it hurts. He has his hand over my mouth. I guess to keep me from screaming. I can’t breathe. I’m little, and he’s cut off my nose as well as my mouth. It’s a dream. But I can’t wake up. I can’t breathe. And I can’t wake up.”

The explosive power of her words suddenly felt wrong, rash, stupid, like a punch to her gut. She took in deep, heavy breaths.

Beside her, she could feel him go still. Rage-filled still. Deadly still. “Justice, did someone hurt you? Did something like that happen to you?”

“No.” She lifted her head, let out a breath. She didn’t want him to think that. “It was Hope. My biological sister. She died saving me from that. Our maternal grandmother, an utterly crazy woman, let some very sick men make kiddie bondage films in her basement. My father gave us to her for drug money.”

He looked away. She could see the tension in his jaw, as if he fought for control.

Fuck. What had she been thinking? She’d tossed her pain out there like a live grenade. And it had exploded the peace of the cabin. Even as the quiet, smooth sound of the jet slicing through the sky continued to brush the plane’s hull.

He waited a long moment, enough time for her to regret again her compulsive decision to share, before he softly asked, “How do you wake from the nightmare?”

She shuddered. “I pray. I mean, at first I fight and struggle and thrash. Bite. Nothing works. I’m not a religious person. At all. But when I give in and pray, something in that prayer lifts me.”

She paused, fiddled with the tiny red light on one of the earphones of the headset in her lap. “The waking is the worst part. Because I know exactly how she must’ve felt. And that…”

Her voice was so low the wind against the plane almost carried it away. “My prayers didn’t work for Hope.”

Silence. She returned her eyes to him. It was an invitation for him to talk if he wanted. A way of her saying, See. I do understand.

He nodded. “Thanks, Justice. For sharing. For waking me. I’m gonna leave it there. Okay?”

He reached out as if to put his hand on top of hers. His hand hovered, as if waiting for her to reject him for not sharing his story. She didn’t. Would never.

She flipped her hand over. He dropped his hand into hers, threaded his fingers with hers. His hand was warm, covering, and strong. Her body heated from head to toe.

Her mind filled with bold images of their lips colliding, him dragging her into his seat, into his lap. Hands tearing at clothes. Mouths and tongues searching.

“Justice.” One word, but that tone, the invitation was there.

Justice pushed back and closed her eyes. She wanted to answer him, wanted to engage in some hot, steamy sex. But she wanted to screw Sandesh, not his charity. And not her mission. Getting involved with him would complicate things. He might feel a greater need to keep tabs on her, diverting his time from his work, endangering himself in something he knew nothing about. She might worry more for his safety and feel even more guilt. No. She had to stay clear, focus on her job, and let him focus on his work.

Maybe when this was over they could sleep together. Definitely when this was over. But not before. Until they were safely back, she wouldn’t, couldn’t sleep with him.

She kept her eyes closed. She could feel him watching her, waiting for her as her body drifted into a sleep layered with long, slow dreams of him and her.