possibly go anywhere. She had a career all mapped out, one she hadn’t even had the opportunity to embark upon yet, and it did not include the addition of another human being in her life. And Mr. Cordello might very well be embarking on a new career of his own—heir to a kingdom—one that would turn his entire life upside down. The best either of them could hope for would be something temporary at best. And what would be the point in that?
“Twenty Questions,” Sara said, backpedaling. “How is it that you play such a game?”
Mr. Cordello seemed not to understand the question at first, because he was clearly still lost in memories of his brother and his mother and the mix of everything those two created inside him. Then suddenly he smiled, a smile that was at once relieved and regretful. “I think of something, and you can ask me twenty questions that I have to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to. If you can’t guess what I’m thinking about with twenty questions, I win. If you do guess before you reach twenty, you win. Or we could do it the other way around. You think of something, and I get to ask you questions until I guess what it is you’re thinking.”
Sara gazed at him again, more studiously this time, considering his blue eyes, his full, succulent mouth, the overly long dark hair that was just begging for a woman’s fingers to sift through it. Lowering her gaze surreptitiously, she noted the way the sleeves of his T-shirt strained over salient biceps, and the rich, dark hair that sprung from the V-neck. Then higher again, over the strong column of his throat and the sculpted jaw, darkened and coarsened now by his uncivil beard. And for some reason, she found herself wondering how it would feel to have her own delicate skin abraded by his.
“Maybe you should start,” she said. “You think of something first, and I’ll ask you questions.”
Because God knew there was no way that Sara wanted him delving into her own thoughts just now.
Three
Oh, man. Shane was ninety-nine percent sure he could tell what Miss Sara Wallington was thinking right now, without having to ask her a single question. Because, whether she realized it or not, she was giving off clues like nobody’s business. Really good clues, too. Clues he wanted very badly to pick up and run with. Maybe that washroom at the front of the cabin could prove useful after all…
The thought was just forming in his brain when the small jet suddenly gave a lurch. Automatically, Shane gripped the arms of his seat, but not before he was thrown sideways by another jolt. Then forward by another. And backward by another. Immediately, his gaze flew to Sara’s. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
She shook her head, her expression—and her ferocious stranglehold on the arms of her own seat—indicating that she was clearly as alarmed as he. But where Shane would have expected someone in a pink sweater and pearls and a bun to fasten her seat belt and start wringing her hands and muttering something like, “We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die,” what Sara Wallington did was leap up from her seat and march forward, stating in no uncertain terms, “I have no idea what the hell that was, but I intend to find out.”
No sooner had she stood, however, than the jet began to execute a fierce turn, something that threw her right back into her seat in an awkward sprawl. For one long moment, the jet banked so sharply and so swiftly that neither of them could rise from their seats. When the vessel finally did come out of the turn, though, Sara immediately jumped up again and began her forward march once more.
Shane was about to leap up right behind her when Fawn the flight attendant came striding down the aisle toward them, brushing one hand over the backs of the seats as she came, as if she were preparing for another one of the jet’s odd maneuvers. Reluctantly, he eased back into his seat, because he figured she was going to reassure them that everything was fine, they’d just hit a little turbulence, had had to change course to avoid more, and how about another Scotch or champagne to tide them over for the remainder of the flight, hmm? But instead of reassuring them, as the curvy brunette drew nearer, she whipped out a small automatic pistol and pointed it right at Sara’s heart.
All in all, it wasn’t a development that Shane had anticipated.
“You’ll do well to take your seat, Miss Wallington,” Fawn said in an even cooler, crisper tone than Sara had been using herself on this flight. And that was saying something. “Otherwise,” she added just as coldly, “I shall be obliged to shoot you.”
And again Shane’s pink-sweater-and-pearls-wearing companion surprised him. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said coolly as she stepped forward, and in one fluid effort disarmed the other woman with a good swift kick to her hand. Without hesitation, Sara then scooped up the dropped weapon, grabbed the flight attendant and spun her around into a chokehold that would have done Hulk Hogan proud, and pointed the weapon right at Fawn’s head.
Shane’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but before he could say a word, the other flight attendant—a man—and one of the pilots, likewise a man, appeared in the aisle beyond Sara and Fawn, each of them armed with their own weapons.
“Release her and sit down, Miss Wallington,” one of the men said.
As he spoke, Fawn began to struggle with Sara, and in the ensuing altercation, Sara dropped the pistol again, but tore the sleeve of the flight attendant’s uniform. On her exposed forearm, Fawn bore a tattoo, an ugly black dagger, which was something Shane thought an odd choice for a woman like her. He would have had her pegged for a long-stemmed rose. Or a unicorn, maybe. Something fluffy and harmless.
Until Sara, too, noted the mark and said, “I should have known. Black Knights.”
Her voice dripped with contempt when she said it, leading Shane to believe she knew exactly what she was talking about, even if he was totally clueless.
“Of course we’re Black Knights,” the male flight attendant agreed with an evil smile, holding his gun steady on Sara as Fawn scooped up the dropped weapon and did likewise with it. “Who else would we be?”
“Dissidents,” Sara said, and Shane knew she was providing the information for his benefit. “They’re traitors to the crown.”
Fawn made a soft tsking sound in objection. “Please, Miss Wallington,” she said. “We’re activists, not traitors.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Sara agreed bitterly. “You actively participate in dissension, treason and terrorism. Sorry for the confusion.”
“We have a very noble cause,” Fawn told her. “We want independence for the people of Penwyck.”
“The people of Penwyck are already independent,” Sara said.
“They won’t be if this alliance with Majorco goes through,” the pilot objected. “And joining with the United States for any reason is certain to make the country dependent on the evil empire.”
“Oh, please.” It wasn’t Sara who took exception this time, but Shane. “Evil empire?” he added. “C’mon, guys. Drag yourselves into the twenty-first century already.”
But the Black Knights ignored him—except for the pilot, who aimed his pistol directly at Shane’s head.
“Fascists,” Sara spat at them. “You’ll never win, you know. Your only support comes from within. The people of Penwyck love their king and queen and trust them to do what’s best for the country, as indeed they will. You’re nothing but scum, all of you.”
At
