The Executioner (Professionals 10)

I’m not proud to admit that I opened it only a slit while holding my knife up close by my chest, paranoid that this handsome, rich, strange man with too much knowledge and a personal forget-it-all drug on hand might launch himself at me at any moment.

But I found the galley empty, and could see the man in question settled in one of the comfortable-looking seats toward the front of the jet.

Taking a deep breath, I moved out of the bedroom, finding the bathroom door to the side and then a galley kitchen.

Like, an actual kitchen.

There was a fucking oven.

On a plane.

But I didn’t care so much about the oven as I did the fancy-ass espresso machine situated right on the counter, beckoning me with its sexy whispered promises of abundant, legal stimulation.

“You work that thing like you’ve used one before.”

“Believe it or not, the point-five percent aren’t the only ones who are serious about their coffee,” I shot back as I rummaged for a mug to set under the dispenser before turning it on, listening to the familiar sound of grinding before the heavenly black gold started to drip into the cup.

It had a perfect finish and everything, with about an inch of foam on top.

I was almost not pissed about being drugged and kidnapped when I got to have my first too-hot sip.

“No sugar? Cream?” Bellamy asked.

“Not when the coffee is perfect, no. At a seedy diner serving up burnt hash with carafes that have likely never been properly scoured? Yes. Cream and sugar.”

“No toast?”

“Not yet. Coffee is more important. How far is the Maldives from Jersey?”

“Oh, about nineteen hours,” he said, making my stomach drop.

“What?” I grumbled, not sure how much time I’d lost already since I had very little recollection of the day before.

“It’s not so terrible when you have your own bed and kitchen and bathroom,” Bellamy said, waving toward the jet at large.

And, fine, yes, it was nice.

I couldn’t say I’d been on many private jets in my time, but even so, it seemed to be a nice one with gleaming medium-brown wood accents and the buttery-soft cream leather chairs. Plus the espresso machine that most people didn’t have in their homes, let alone in their recreational, multi-million-dollar vehicles.

“How far into that flight are we?” I asked.

“Well, we just had our stop in Qatar an hour or so ago to fuel up and change pilots.”

“Wait. What?”

“This plane is a marvel, love, don’t get me wrong, but not even she can get us from Jersey to the Maldives without fueling up. And not even the best pilot can be sharp enough to fly it straight either.”

“Oh, my God. Enough with the rich-guy-babble. How the fuck long do we have to go until we get to where we’re going?”

“Roughly five-and-a-half hours,” Bellamy said, seeming nonplussed by my outburst.

Ugh.

That was a long-ass time to deal with him before I could, hopefully, find a way out of this bullshit situation.

“We can watch movies to pass the time,” Bellamy said, waving toward the TV.

“I don’t want to watch movies with you.”

“What do you want to do with me then, love?” he asked, giving me a smirk that I would have found devilish and sexy if it belonged to just about anyone else at that moment.

“Drown you in the inch of water in the bathroom toilet,” I told him, shooting him a saccharine smile that had his eyes dancing.

“I like you, Shawn.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual, Bellamy.”

“That’s okay. I tend to grow on people.”

“Like a fungus?”

“That’s a lot of sass so soon after waking up.”

“After being drugged, you mean,” I shot back. “It’s the coffee,” I admitted.

If I was going to be trapped on a plane with this guy for another five hours, I figured it was no use snapping at him nonstop. It certainly wasn’t going to help me convince him to let me go once we landed.

“It does usually seem to help.”

“Usually?” I snapped, stiffening. “How many women have you drugged?”

“Oh, just about nine or ten. Men and women.”

“An equal-opportunity kidnapper then,” I grumbled into my coffee. “How are you not in jail?”

“Oh, I mostly kidnap my friends and co-workers. And give them the kind of vacation that they will never forget. By the time it’s over, they forget all about being pissed at me.”

“If you think that is going to happen with me, you greatly underestimate my ability to hold a grudge.”

“Speaking of grudges,” Bellamy said, glancing up at me. “Did you have one against Adams?”

“I think everyone who has ever met Brandon Adams has a grudge against him.”

“That seems fair enough. I can’t say I’ve ever heard a fond word about him.”

“And yet you want to know why someone would shoot him.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, love. I want to know why you shot him.”

“Gee, then maybe you shouldn’t have dosed me up with drugs that fucked with my memory.”