Catching the Wind(9)

Quenby scanned the hill behind the castle for some sort of landing strip but didn’t see a break in the trees. “Where exactly are we landing?”

Samantha zipped her thumb and finger across her lips. “Sworn to secrecy.”

Quenby rolled her eyes. “Mr. Hough won’t hear you.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he mumbled from behind them.

Glancing back between the seats, she saw Lucas Hough stretched out on the couch, exactly where he’d been for most of their flight across the Atlantic and then the expanse of Canada. His eyes were closed, his tweed blazer hanging neatly in a closet near the galley. Dark stubble peppered his chin.

According to the profile she’d found online, he was thirty-one years old, only three years her senior. He might call her Miss Vaughn, but she was an American by birth and no one in the States called their peers mister or miss. From now on, she was calling him Lucas.

The plane jolted in their descent, and she turned toward the front again.

Samantha winked as she passed by one last time. “It’s more fun than a roller coaster.”

“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.”