In the next few minutes, the pilot finished with the pre-takeoff maneuvers. Before Simon had even registered the time passing, they were cruising down the makeshift runway, their only guide two men waving flashlights in the direction they were supposed to go.
Looking away, he pretended that risk didn’t drive the control freak inside of him completely bat-shit crazy. Hands clenched on the armrests, he glanced at Amanda as the plane finally became airborne seconds before the dirt road turned to sand. And wondered how angry she was going to be when she finally did wake up.
Angry enough to make his life a living hell for the next few days, or weeks, he figured. She knew how to hold a mean grudge, after all. Which wouldn’t matter if he was certain that he’d done the right thing so far. He only hoped his deviousness didn’t end up leaving her more damaged than she already was.
In a perfect world, he would have stuck around the camp and tried to convince her to see things his way, but their situation was far from perfect. To begin with, he was doubtful Amanda would ever trust him again. Not after what he’d done…and, more important, what he hadn’t.
And even more than that, he didn’t have the luxury of time. He’d pulled a bunch of strings and used up all his clout at the cable news agency he worked for in order to get this plane. But he hadn’t been able to swing it for more than four days. They needed to be in Atlanta two days from now—the network execs had a board meeting planned somewhere exotic and the plane could not be MIA when it came time for them to leave.
He might have run the risk of taking regular planes home—probably four at least—if he wasn’t absolutely convinced that Amanda would slip away from him in one of the airports while waiting for a connecting flight.
Admittedly, he’d thought they were going to Boston when he’d first commandeered the plane, but now that she’d sold the house, there was nothing for her there.
Pain kicked him in the stomach, hard, at the thought of someone else living in the house he had once shared with Amanda and Gabby, but he ignored it as he always did. He focused, instead, on the problem at hand. She had no friends left in Boston, really. And there was no family for either of them. Which meant they were going to Atlanta. To the apartment he’d moved into after taking the job at the network a year ago.
It wasn’t an ideal solution—his apartment was a one-bedroom, so small that twenty-five paces would take a person from one end to the other. It was perfect for him, given the amount of time he spent at home, but it would definitely be cramped with two of them.
Maybe he could talk to his landlord about switching to something a little bigger. Though he wouldn’t mind staying with a one-bedroom. There was a part of him that found the idea of sleeping next to Amanda again, after so long, very appealing.
That is, if she didn’t maim him, which he wouldn’t put past her after the various stunts he’d pulled through the years. He’d behaved bad enough when Gabby was alive, shirking responsibility and chasing after stories as far from home as he could get because he couldn’t deal with the fact that he was losing his little girl. But now he’d gone and kidnapped Amanda.
Sitting next to her on the plane, he was forced to acknowledge that perhaps this wasn’t the best-thought-out plan. Despite the fact that she looked like a stiff wind would knock her over and shatter her into a thousand pieces, Amanda was tough. The toughest woman he’d ever met.
He’d be lucky if she didn’t call the police as soon as they were back in the States. Still, if he could get her to his apartment, get her rested and fed and stabilized emotionally, everything would be worth it. Even spending a night in jail.
It hurt him to see her like this. The vibrancy that had been such a big part of her for as long as he’d known her was damn near extinguished. The fact that he was partly responsible… He shook his head, ran a hand over his face. The fact that he’d had a part in it made him want to kick his own ass. Or at least bend over, a target painted on the body part in question, as Amanda did it for him.
But he’d had to do something. Benign neglect certainly hadn’t worked.
Reaching over, he brushed his knuckles down Amanda’s hollowed cheeks. And wished for a forgiveness he didn’t think he deserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS AMANDA STRUGGLED slowly toward consciousness, her first thought was that she had contracted something from one of her patients. Her head was pounding, her body ached and her stomach was trying to turn itself inside out.
She groped for the small trash can she kept a few feet from her bed, but her hand met only air. Eyes flying open, she was struck by several new realities.
First, she wasn’t in her tent.
Second, wherever she was, Simon was sitting next to her, his green eyes both wary and urgent.
Third, her seat was vibrating.
And finally—though it was probably the most urgent of her realizations—she was going to throw up.
“I need—” She started to bolt out of her chair, only to be yanked back by the belt fastened low over her hips. She wasted precious seconds trying to figure out what was happening, even as her fingers fumbled frantically with the buckle.
“Whoa, Amanda, take it easy, sweetheart.” Simon’s voice, low and soothing, barely registered as panic overwhelmed her.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to puke.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to puke.
She was on an airplane.
She was going to— The clasp finally gave way and she leaped to her feet, made a mad dash up the aisle toward…she didn’t know what. A trash can. Some privacy. Anything.
She careened into something hard—another seat maybe—and got knocked backward. Reaching a hand out to steady herself, again she grabbed only air. The next thing she knew, she was on the ground, Simon pounding up the aisle after her. But it was too late. Her stomach revolted.
Thank God there was nothing in it.
Still, Simon shoved a paper bag in front of her, then squatted beside her as she dry heaved, again and again, her entire body shuddering with the force of her convulsions. When they finally stopped after what felt like hours, she pushed the bag away and let her forehead rest against the muted gray carpet. Inhaling long, shaky breaths, she tried to figure out what the hell was happening.
It didn’t take long. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of her nausea was that it cleared her head of the cobwebs that had taken up residence there and let her think clearly.
Obviously, she was on an airplane. Obviously, she hadn’t put herself there—she would remember making the decision to accompany Simon back to the States. In fact, the last thing she did remember was her conversation with Jack, and then the prick to her arm followed by a sudden onset of dizziness. All of which added up to the realization that she’d been drugged. She’d never responded well to sedatives, which explained her sickness.
As the last of the sluggishness cleared, she became aware of Simon crouched over her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. She jolted upright, shrugged off his hand.
“What the hell did you do to me?” she demanded, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. Not that she gave a damn. Being kidnapped pretty much granted her the right to be as shrill as she wanted to be.
Simon drew back, his eyes wary as he scanned her face. Before he could say anything, the plane shook and shimmied as it hit a pocket of turbulence. “Let’s go back to our seats and talk this out. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He stood and offered her his hand.
She didn’t take it. Instead, she grabbed on to the nearest chair and pulled herself up, despite the continued weakness in her legs. “It’s a little late for that sentiment, isn’t it?” she