Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(22)

A small plastic trash receptacle was settled carefully in my lap. "Just in case."

I was silent, my eyes closed, as Oliver maneuvered carefully through the traffic. Lights from passing cars sent a dull red glow through my lids. I was vaguely worried by the difficulty I had in thinking coherently . . . I couldn't seem to come up with any idea of what would happen next. Trying to grab hold of a coherent thought was like standing under a big cloud and trying to catch raindrops with a teaspoon. I felt like I would never be in control of anything again.

"You know," I heard Oliver say, "my sister used to get beat up by her husband. Pretty often. For no reason. For any reason. I didn't know about it at the time, or I would have killed the son of a bitch. She finally left him and brought her kids to my mama's house, and stayed there till she got her life back together. Saw a shrink and everything. My sister told me the thing that helped her the most was to hear it wasn't her fault. She needed to hear that a lot. So I want to be the first one to tell you . . . it wasn't your fault."

I didn't move or speak. But I felt tears leak from beneath my closed eyelids.

"Not your fault," Oliver repeated firmly, and drove me the rest of the way in silence.

I dozed a little and woke a few minutes later when the car had topped and Oliver was opening the door. The roar of a departing jet tore through the cushioned quiet of the Cadillac, and the smells of fuel and equipment and humid Texas air drifted over me. Blinking and sitting up slowly, I realized we were on the tarmac.

"Let me help you out," Oliver said, reaching for me. I shrank from his outstretched hand and shook my head. Clasping an arm across the place on my ribs where Nick had kicked me, I struggled from the car by myself. When I got to my feet, my head swam and a gray mist covered my eyes. I swayed and Oliver caught my free arm to steady me.

"Miss Travis," he said, continuing to grip my arm even as I tried to shake him off. "Miss Travis, please listen to me. All I want to do is help you get on that plane. You've got to let me help you. If you fall trying to get up those steps by yourself, you'd have to go to the hospital for sure. And I'd have to go there with you, 'cause your brother would break both my legs."

I nodded and accepted his hold, even as my instincts screamed to throw him off. The last thing I wanted was to be touched by another man, no matter how apparently trustworthy or friendly. On the other hand, I wanted to be on that plane. I wanted to get the hell out of Dallas, away from Nick.

"Okay, now," Oliver murmured, helping me shuffle toward the plane. It was a Lear 31A, a light jet made to accommodate up to six passengers. With four-foot-high winglets and delta fins attached to the tail cone, it looked like a bird poised for flight. "Not far," Oliver said, "and then you'll get to sit again, and Gage will be there to pick you up at the other end." As we ascended the stairs with torturous slowness, Oliver kept up a running monologue as if he were trying to distract me from the agony of my jaw and ribs. "This is a nice plane. It belongs to a software company headquartered in Dallas. I know the pilot real well. He's good, he'll get you there safe and sound."

"Who owns the company?" I mumbled, wondering if it was someone I'd met before.

"Me." Oliver smiled and helped me to one of the front seats with great care, and buckled me in. He went to a minibar, wrapped a few pieces of ice in a cloth, and gave it to me. "For your face. Rest now. I'm gonna talk to the pilot for a minute and then you'll be on your way."

"Thanks," I whispered, holding the shifting icy weight of the bag against my jaw. I settled deeper into the seat, gingerly molding the ice bag to the swollen side of my face.

The flight was miserable but mercifully short, landing in southeast Houston at Hobby Airport. I was slow to react when the plane stopped on the tarmac, my fingers fumbling over and over with the seat belt fastener. After the Jetway stairs were brought to the plane, the copilot emerged from the cockpit and opened the entrance door. In a matter of seconds, my brother was on the plane.

Gage's eyes were an unusual pale gray, not like fog or ice, but lightning. His black lashes and brows stood out strongly on his worry-bleached face. He froze for a millisecond as he saw me, then swallowed hard and came forward.

"Haven," he said, sounding hoarse. He lowered to his knees and braced his hands on either chair arm, his gaze raking over me. I managed to free myself from the seat belt, and I leaned forward into his familiar smell. His arms closed around me tentatively, unlike his usual firm grip, and I realized he was trying to keep from hurting me. I felt the trembling beneath his stillness.

Overwhelmed with relief I laid my good cheek on his shoulder.

"Gage," I whispered. "Love you more than anybody."

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Love you too, baby girl."

"Don' take me to River Oaks."

He understood at once. "No, darlin'. You're coming home with me. I haven't told Dad you're here."

He helped me out to his car, a sleek silver Maybach. "Don't go to sleep," he said sharply as I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

"I'm tired."

"There's a lump on the back of your head. You probably have a concussion, which means you shouldn't sleep."

"I slept on the plane," I said. "I'm fine, see? Jus' let me — "