"I'M MARA, BY THE WAY," MARA SAID TO THE DARK-HAIRED
boy who was uncorking a champagne bottle. She wondered why he was paying so much attention to her--there were several girls on board who made their living off their cheekbones, and yet he'd barely looked at them. The two of them were sitting opposite each other in cushy caramel leather wing chairs in a cozy alcove behind the cockpit.
"I know who you are," he said smoothly. "You work for the Perrys, right? I'm Garrett Reynolds," he introduced himself, offering a hand. Mara had already put two and two together. It was his parents' jet. They were that Reynolds family. The one Forbes magazine had just minted America's newest billionaires. His father, Ezra Reynolds, was responsible for littering the Manhattan skyline with R logos on all of his buildings.
Garrett pulled down a cantilevered metal table hidden in a side panel and began placing champagne glasses in two rows on top of it, taking the glasses out of an adjoining cabinet. The flight
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attendants secured the doors and the plane began to roll down the runway. Mara noticed there was no standard spiel concerning safety procedures, the nearest exits, or about using one's seat cushion as a floatation device (although she bet mink didn't float). She and Garrett were two of the few people even sitting down.
"It looks pretty bad out there," Mara noted, as the storm rattled the plane.
"We're only a half-point over the minimums to fly," Garrett agreed, explaining that unlike commercial airlines, which were legally required to adhere to FAA regulations that restricted flying under certain weather conditions--like, say, the violent downpour they were caught in--private jets had no such limitations. As long as wind velocity met a minimum standard, they were good to go. "But apparently Mother has a hair appointment she can't miss." Garrett smirked.
Mara didn't know if he was kidding or not. That Chelsea Reynolds would risk death for a blowout was totally plausible, considering everything Mara knew about the Hamptons high life.
"Brace yourself," Garrett warned, cupping the magnum of champagne under his chin.
The plane took off like a bumper car on a trampoline, and Mara heard the crowd shriek with laughter as they bounced around like pin balls. Miraculously, none of the glassware on their table moved an inch.
"Magnetized bottoms." Garrett smiled, pouring champagne into each flute as the plane zigzagged off the ground.
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Mara gripped her armrest worriedly, but Garrett seemed completely oblivious to the booming thunder and taut drumbeat of the raindrops against the windowpanes.
"Is it always this, uh, bouncy?" Mara asked, trying desperately to keep her balance on her seat as the plane hit a sharp air pocket. If there was a seat belt, she couldn't find it.
"Smaller planes take the bumps harder on takeoff, although this weather certainly doesn't help," he mused. "This is nothing compared to landing," he added.
When all the champagne flutes were filled to the brim with bubbly, Garrett looked up at her expectantly. Mara couldn't help but be reminded of the way her cat Stinky always stared at Bl
ue, her sister's parakeet.
"There's an old saying in the West..." Garrett drawled, leaning forward and staring into her eyes intently.
Mara smirked. So that explained why he'd chosen her. It was all a game called Let's Get the New Girl Drunk. Did he really think she would be such an easy mark? In Sturbridge, they'd used beer mugs instead of champagne flutes, but she was sure the rules were the same.
"In Texas, it's always high noon," Mara replied somberly, gratified when Garrett nodded admiringly at her recognition of the game's ritual introduction.
"And at high noon, we ... drawl" Garrett exclaimed, reaching for his first flute.
Mara lunged for hers. She opened her throat and poured the sharp, crisp liquid inside.
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"Draw again!" Garrett exclaimed gleefully when he'd emptied his glass before she was even halfway through hers.
Mara slammed her flute down, surprised she'd been beaten, and promptly reached for another. She won the next round, barely, but Garrett beat her on every other, until each glass on her side was empty. Damn, this guy was slick. In Sturbridge, Mara had wiped the floor with many a competitor, putting even the most funnel-happy football player to shame. Her ex-boyfriend Jim had taught her that the trick was not to breathe.
"Impressive," she commended him.
"Thank you," Garrett smiled. "You're not so bad yourself."
Mara relaxed against her seat, momentarily forgetting her nervousness about the turbulence, when a particularly sharp jolt threw her completely out of her chair and onto his lap.
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, scrambling to get her balance.