“But you don’t look happy about it.”
She forced herself not to flinch. He was too perceptive. Time to put some distance between them, let him show himself to be a jerk so she could move on. “I’m scared of flying, remember? And this is where you’re supposed to ask me for my phone number.”
“Would you give it to me if I did?”
“No,” she said, almost believing what she was saying. “I’m not in a good place to date anyone right now. So you can stop trying to charm me.”
“Can’t a guy be nice without wanting something other than engaging conversation?”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Did you really just say that?”
He slumped back in his seat, respect glinting in his eyes. “Okay, you’re right. I would like to ask for your phone number—because I am single, in case you were wondering—but since you’ve made it clear you’re not open to my advances, I’ll satisfy my broken heart and soothe my wounded ego with the pleasure of your company for a little while longer.”
God, he was good. Funny and charming, so confident he didn’t think twice about making a joke at his own expense. “Do you practice lines like that or are you just really good at improvisation?”
“You’re a smart woman. I’m confident you’ll figure it out.”
She liked him. Damn it. “You’re funny.”
“And you are enchanting. It was my pleasure to sit next to you on the flight.”
They’d landed? She looked around as if waking up from a nap to find more time had passed than she realized. Passengers were sliding from their seats. The aircraft had stopped.
Troy stood, hauling her simple black roll bag from the overhead. “Yours?”
“How did you know?”
He tapped the little dairy cow name tag attached to the handle. “Vermont. Highest cows to people ratio in the country.”
“Right you are.” She stood, stopping beside him. Close beside him. All the other passengers crowded the aisle until her breasts brushed his chest.
His rock-hard chest. That suit covered one hundred percent honed man, whipcord lean. The bay rum scent of him wrapping around her completely now, rather than just teasing—tempting—her senses.
But still, he didn’t touch her or hit on her or act in the least bit skeezy. “Have a great visit in the Windy City.”
She chewed her bottom lip, resisting the overwhelming urge to tug his silk tie.
The flight attendant spoke over the loudspeaker. “If you could please return to your seats. We have a slight delay before we can disembark at the gate.”
Hillary pulled away quickly, ducking into her seat so fast she almost hit her head. Troy reclaimed his seat slowly while the flight attendant opened the hatch. The yawning opening revealed the long metal stairs that had been rolled up outside. Confused, Hillary yanked up her window shade. They’d stopped just shy of the terminal. A large black SUV with some kind of official insignia on the door waited a few feet away. Two men wearing black suits and sunglasses jogged up the stairs and entered the plane.
The first one nodded to the flight attendant. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be quick with our business.”
The identical duo angled sideways.
Her stomach tumbled over itself. Was there a problem? In spite of what she’d told Troy, she hadn’t been freaked out about flying, but now she felt that lie come back to bite her as fears fluttered inside her. How long before she knew what was wr—
Not long at all, apparently.
The dark-suited men stopped beside her row. “Troy Donavan?”
Troy Donavan?
Her stomach lurched faster than a major turbulence plunge. Oh God, she recognized that name. She waited for him to deny it … even though she already knew he wouldn’t.
“Yes, that’s me. Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Troy Donavan.
He’d confirmed it. He was far from a nice guy, far from some computer geek just passing time on a commuter flight. His reputation for partying hard and living on the edge made it into the social pages on a regular basis.
“Mr. Donavan, would you step out of your seat, please?”
Troy shot an apologetic look her way before he angled out to stand in front of the two men. “We could have met up at the gate like regular folks.”
The older man, the guy who seemed in charge, shook his head. “It’s better this way. We don’t want to keep Colonel Salvatore waiting.”
“Of course. Can’t inconvenience the colonel.” Muscles bunched in Troy’s arms, his hands fisting at his sides.
What the hell was going on?
The “men in black” retrieved Troy’s Italian leather briefcase and placed a streamlined linen fedora on his head, the same look that had been featured in countless articles. If she’d seen him in his signature hat, she would have recognized him in a heartbeat.
He was infamous in D.C. for having hacked the Department of Defense’s computer system seventeen years ago. She’d been all of ten at the time but he’d become an icon. From then on, any computer hacking was called “pulling a Donavan.” He’d made it into pop culture lexicons. He’d become a folk legend for the way he’d leaked information that exposed graft and weaknesses within the system. Some argued he’d merely stepped in where authorities and politicians should have. But there was no denying he’d broken major laws. If he’d been an adult, he would have spent his life in jail.
After a slap-on-the-wrist sentence in some military school, he’d been free to make billions and live out his life in a totally decadent swirl of travel and conspicuous consumption. And she’d fallen for his lying charm. She’d even liked him. She hadn’t learned a damn thing from Barry.
She bit her lip against the disappointment in herself. She was here to put the past behind her—not complicate her future. She pressed her back against the body of the plane, unable to get far enough away from the man who’d charmed the good sense right out of her.
Troy reached for his briefcase, but the younger man took a step back.
The older of the two men held out … handcuffs.
Cocking an eyebrow, Troy said, “Are these really needed?”
“I’m afraid they are.” Click. Click. “Troy Donavan, you’re under arrest.”
Two
“Were the handcuffs necessary?” Holding up his shackled hands, Troy sprawled in the backseat of the armored SUV as they powered away from the airport. The duo that had arrested him sat in the front. His mentor and former military school headmaster—Colonel John Salvatore—sat beside him with a smirk on his face.
As always, he wore a gray suit and red tie, no variation, same thing every day as if wearing a uniform even though he’d long ago left the army.
“Yes, Troy, actually they are required, as per the demands of the grand dame throwing this gala. She’s determined to have a bachelor auction like one she read about in a romance novel and she thought, given your checkered past, the handcuffs would generate buzz. And honest to God, the photos in the paper will only help your image, and therefore our purposes, as well.”
It was always about their purposes. Their agreement.
He’d struck a deal with Colonel Salvatore at twenty-one years old, once his official sentence was complete. Salvatore had been the headmaster of that military