Yes. A parachute.
I pushed a knee into his back to pin him down, undid the buckles and wrestled the thing off him. He let out a yell of pain as I bent an arm the wrong way in my hurry, but I really didn’t give a damn. I got to my knees so that I could pull the parachute on. As soon as I took my weight off the assassin, the wind snatched him away. He shot across the cabin, pinwheeling in the air, and disappeared through the hole.
I stood up and ran, still fastening the parachute’s buckles. Within a few steps, the wind took me and feet left the ground. As I was sucked towards the hole, I curled myself into a tight ball.
And then I was outside in the vast, freezing sky. The plane shot away from me, shrinking to a speck in a few seconds. Meanwhile, I was falling towards the earth at a hundred miles an hour.
I straightened my body into a dart, arms behind me, and pointed myself at the ground. And I willed myself to go faster.
6
Kristina
I fell.
I was a leaf in the wind, tumbling and pinwheeling, one second belly-up, the next face down. The air dragged out my limbs until I was starfished and the joints burned and screamed. I thought they were going to be ripped from my sockets. The air screamed as it passed my ears and felt like a concrete block where it hit my face: if I opened my mouth even a little, it punched its way down my throat and tried to balloon my lungs. Yet however much air I gulped, there wasn’t enough oxygen.
As my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, I realized dawn was breaking. Sunlight was rapidly spreading across the sky, lighting up the clouds above me... and the ground below.
I saw a patchwork of gold and green squares that had to be fields, hair-thin lines that must be roads. And they were rushing up to meet me with horrible speed. It was that same sick feeling you get when your foot hooks into something and you feel yourself trip: a stomach-clenching, cold sweat moment... except this one didn’t end. The fear just kept building and building as the ground expanded. Wispy strands of low cloud whipped by me and with each layer I cleared, the fields grew clearer, more real. This is how I die.
I closed my eyes, but the not knowing was worse than the knowing. I opened them just as the wind flipped me face-up again….
And saw a darker speck against the lightening sky. At first, I couldn’t make out details: it was so solid, so unwavering, I thought it might be a piece of debris that had fallen from the damaged plane. Then I made out fabric, snapping and flapping at the edges. A plaid shirt. Dark hair. My rescuer from the plane, diving down towards me.
I stared up at him in disbelief. How did he—Why is he—
He drew nearer, near enough that I could make out his eyes. He was staring right at me with a look of single-minded determination.
I held my breath. Looking upward, it was as if we weren’t moving at all. I could have been just lying there, floating, as he drifted slowly towards me. Only the itching between my shoulder blades reminded me of what was rushing up towards me from behind. I reached up a hand towards him. Come on. Come on! I didn’t even know what his plan was. I just knew that I didn’t want to be alone.
He drifted closer, almost within touching distance. Then the wind caught him and spun him off to one side. He dropped a shoulder and veered towards me again, steering himself like a diving bird of prey. He moved across above me, grabbed for me—
Missed.
The noise of the wind had changed. It was easier to breathe and it was warmer, too. And all those things were bad because they meant the ground must be getting very, very close. I knew I shouldn’t but I couldn’t help it. I looked below me—
The fields had grown fences and telephone poles. The roads had fattened, like feasting snakes, and white lines had erupted up and down their backs. I could see little oblongs of color moving along them.
I snapped my gaze up, towards him. He was approaching again, fast, this time. Oh please, PLEASE—
His chest slammed into mine and the impact sent us tumbling. I instinctively clutched him, wrapping my arms around him. The feel of him again: so big, so solid, after having nothing around me but air. His heart pounding against mine. He was so warm.
My searching fingers found the bulky pack attached to his back and I suddenly realized what his plan was. I clung onto him harder than I’ve ever held anything in my life because I knew he’d be jerked away from me, hard, and if I slipped out of his arms….
I needn’t have worried. He’d already locked his arms and legs around my body in a death grip. He wasn’t letting me go.
He pulled the ripcord and my stomach slammed into my feet as our downward rush slowed. The scream of the wind dropped away and there was just the creak of fabric and cords above us.
“Roll!” he said. My face was pressed against the curve of his pec. I had to look up to see his worried eyes. “When we hit, roll.”
When we hit?
I looked down and saw a dusty road. A field filled with trees, dark green and—Oh, God, I could make out the oranges hanging from their branches. We were that close. And I realized my stomach was still in my feet: we were still slowing. We were coming in too fast.
“Roll!” he told me again.
I opened my mouth to speak and then everything happened at once. We hit the ground in a sort of sideways swoop, he released his grip on me so that he didn’t slam down on top of me, my legs turned to jelly as the impact went up them and, at the last second, what he’d said registered and I let my knees go slack and rolled, curling into a ball and wrapping my arms over my head.
I must have closed my eyes. When I opened them, all I could see was an orange tent, the fabric moving softly in the breeze. As I uncurled myself, I felt like one big bruise. But I was alive.
The ceiling of the tent rose and jerked. I felt heavy footsteps through the ground and then he was there, scrambling over to me on his knees, flinging the parachute fabric back over his shoulders as he moved under it. He stopped right next to me, his knees brushing my side, his big body hulking over me. “Are you okay?” he blurted, eyes wide with concern.
I nodded. I wasn’t capable of speech, yet. My fingers were still pressing into the dirt, reassuring myself that I was on solid ground. I just looked up at him, huge and strong and... I caught my breath. For the first time, I had a chance to drink in just how gorgeous he really was. Gorgeous in a way I’d never seen before, rough and primal and dangerous—
A big hand encircled my upper arm: God, I was like a doll, next to him, his fingers easily encircling my bicep. His palm was gloriously warm through my thin pajamas. He squeezed and I got just a hint of the power in those hands, how he could easily crush the life out of someone. But he squeezed with such care and tenderness, it made my chest contract. He swung a knee across me and started mimicking the process with my other arm at the same time. He squeezed my upper arms. Forearms. Wrists—
For just a second, he was astride me with one of my slender wrists in each of his hands. A hot rush went through me: I told myself it was the aftershock, the adrenaline wearing off. But every filthy fantasy I’d had since I was a teenager was suddenly slamming through my head, everything about the idea of a rough, strong, common man, pushing aside all my suitors in their finery and just throwing me down and taking me—
My cheeks flared red. The heat rippled down my body and exploded in my groin. He’s just checking you for broken bones! Control yourself!
He released my wrists, moved down my body and started again at my ankles. Calves. Knees.
Thighs.
He froze there, fingers pressing into the back of my legs an inch from my ass, thumbs pressing the fronts of my thighs, just barely below my panties. His eyes had locked on something.
I looked down. My pajama top had ridden up, exposing a slice of bare midriff, my navel slyly winking up at him. And just visible above the waistband of my pajama trousers was a narrow strip of black lace: the tops of my panties.
He exhaled, that massive chest contracting. His face was so close, his hot breath wa
fted across my bare skin, little currents and eddies of warm air rippling outward and making me catch my breath.
“You’re fine,” he announced. And stood up, his head and broad shoulders lifting the parachute. Then he gathered up the fabric and suddenly daylight flooded in. I blinked up at him, blinded for a second, then reached up and gingerly took the hand he offered. He hauled me to my feet and we stood there face to face. Or rather, face to chest. God, he was so big! Did they just build them big, in America? He tossed the bundled parachute down and then there was utter silence.
I gazed around. We’d come down by the side of a two-lane road in the middle of absolute nowhere. On one side, there were fields of orange trees, stretching on for miles. To the other, nothing but scrubland and desert. The sun was just rising, painting the sky pink and gold. And it was already warm, the air fragrant with the scent of oranges. During my whole trip, I’d been nowhere but air-conditioned hotels, limos, and then the plane. I’d forgotten it was summer. I wondered how hot it got here at midday.
I quickly tugged my pajama top down to cover my midriff and pulled the bottoms up a little. Now that the parachute was gone, now that we weren’t private, I was suddenly self-conscious of my reaction to him. What’s the matter with me? I looked at the horizon while I got myself together. Then, finally, when I was ready, I dared to look up at—
I gulped. It hit me all over again, a physical reaction. My head only came up to the top of his broadly curving pecs: it didn’t help that I was in bare feet. I had to look up just to meet his eyes and when I did, he was looking back at me with such raw, unchecked lust that it was like standing in front of an open oven door.
I was suddenly aware of every inch of my body, basking in that heat as if my pajamas weren’t even there. The curve of my breasts, the peaks of my nipples, the soft mound of my pubis…. And what shocked me was what was happening inside, as my eyes flicked around his face, over those clear blue eyes and hard lips. It was as if I’d found my exact opposite, the perfect shape I was meant to fit against. I had this crazy urge to just press myself to him, my softness to his hardness, my small form to his huge one, everything that was meant to be so shiny and precious about me rubbing up against all that roughness.
I tore my eyes away and looked at the landscape again. That helped to hide what I was feeling, but, as I stared at the wilderness, my stomach started to knot. We really were in the middle of nowhere. I’d never known it to be so still: I’m used to a bustle of people, chatter and negotiating and planning. And I’m used to my guards around me, never any fewer than four. The nearest person I knew was on the plane, already miles away and disappearing further into the distance with every second. I was alone, vulnerable, in a country where people were trying to kill me. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to control the fear, but it was turning to panic—
And then I looked at him again and the fear melted away.
I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t even know him, but something about him made me feel safer than any number of my guards. He fit here. In his plaid shirt and jeans, and those dusty boots, he was almost part of this place. And that triggered a memory in my head. That heavy accent of his. I couldn’t place it, but it fit here, too, with the desert and the big skies. “What’s your name?” I asked, the first time I’d managed to speak since I’d left the plane.
He gave me a long look. I was reminded of an animal again, a big hulking beast, unsure whether to trust me or not. I almost wanted to hold out my hand, palm up.
“Garrett,” he said at last in that slow, rumble. “Garrett Buchanan.” And now I finally placed the accent. My head filled up with all the American movies I’d watched as a kid: men galloping on horses, steam trains and sheriffs and everyone in Stetsons. Texas. He was from Texas. And the name fit perfectly: a rancher’s name, a cowboy’s name, a hero who’d sweep some woman in a big dress off her feet and carry her off on his horse as she swooned. I swooned just a little bit myself. Garrett Buchanan.
And then he added, “Ma’am.”
And I remembered who I was. Daughter of the King. Heir to the throne. The Jewel of Lakovia, as the tabloid press had nicknamed me. Every lecture my mother had ever given me flashed through my head.
People like me don’t get to fall in love. We don’t choose who we marry.
I drew in a calming breath and tried to lock everything down. I tried to become icy and regal, like my mother. “Thank you, Mr. Buchanan. For everything you did.”
He nodded just once. “Weren’t nothing,” he muttered, as if embarrassed.
I looked around. “Do you know where we are?”
“California.” He rubbed at his jaw and it was so quiet, I could hear the rasp of his stubble. For a second, I imagined how that stubble would feel against my neck if he kissed along my jawline. Then I dug my fingernails into my palms. Stop it! “Figure we follow the road,” he said. “Should be able to pick up the interstate, then get you a ride to LA.”
I nodded quickly. “Good. Yes. Thank you.” And I smiled at him. And then wished I hadn’t because, instead of smiling back—I wasn’t sure this man could smile—he just gave me such a look of urgent need that I actually heard myself gulp. It wasn’t just the simple, hot lust I’d felt before. It was deeper, and even more intense.
Don’t be stupid. I was just as different and strange to him as he was to me. He probably didn’t think of me that way at all. Not a princess. His world was big skies and thick steaks cooked over campfires. He was used to women who square-danced and hollered and wore tiny denim shorts and had names like Mary-Sue. The polar opposite of me. He wouldn’t want someone who was all tied up in rules and tradition, someone so…
I flushed. Innocent.
And yet, no matter how many times I broke eye contact and looked away, when I looked back he was still there, looking at me. I’d give a fistful of silver to know what he’s thinking.
7
Garrett
Stop looking at her.
Stop goddamn looking at her. Right now.
But I couldn’t.
Up there, in the glamorous first class cabin, she’d fit right in. Now she’d fallen like an angel from heaven and she was standing there in the desert, my world, with that pretty hair all mussed and her fancy pajamas already dusty and sand between her toes and somehow, she looked even better. All the dirt and dust and roughness just showcased her beauty even more.
There was a smudge of dust on her left cheek. Resisting the urge to reach down and wipe it off that smooth skin was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
Instead, I forced myself to look down at her bare feet. “We got a long way to walk,” I said. I could see for at least a few miles in each direction and wherever the Interstate was, it was beyond that. “You can’t walk like that.”
I thought for a minute and then grabbed hold of the left cuff of my shirt and tugged it until the stitches at the shoulder tore free and the whole tube of fabric slid down my arm and off. I knelt down beside her. “Give me your foot—” I broke off. I knew there was probably some fancy term I was supposed to be using. Didn’t seem right that I kept calling her ma’am. “What am I meant to call you?”
I looked up at the same exact moment she looked down. Her eyes were that lush, verdant green you never see in the desert, the green of thick forest. Our eyes locked and all that attraction just hit me again, like a wave slamming into me from behind and lifting me right off my feet. The temptation to just stand up, bury my fingers in that chestnut hair and pull her down for a kiss…. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d fantasized about kissing a woman. Not fucking her: kissing her.
She parted those perfect lips. Started to form a syllable that might have been Kr— Then she bit it back and swallowed. Straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Your Highness,” she said firmly.
I stared at her for a beat and then nodded. I got it. “Give me your foot, Your Highness.” The term felt weird in my mouth, like drinking champagne. But it reminded me of who she was and who I was..
.and that was a good thing.
She lifted her foot into my offered hands and I used the sleeve of my shirt to wrap it like a bandage. I tried not to think about how soft her skin was, like she’d never walked barefoot her entire life, or how elegant her ankles and calves were, like some finely-carved statue. I tore off the other arm of my shirt and wrapped her other foot. There.
As I stood up, my dog tags clinked under what was left of my shirt. In the absolute quiet of the desert, even that tiny sound carried.
The Princess’s eyes locked on the chain around my neck. “You’re a soldier?” she asked.
“Was a soldier,” I muttered. The memories gathered above me, storm clouds made of lead. I felt myself tense—
I forced them back and nodded at the road. “We should start walking, Your Highness, before the sun gets too high.”
She nodded and we walked. Well, I did what I call walking, shambling along like Bigfoot. But she...she glided. Even with bits of cloth for shoes, even on the asphalt that soon got to be baking hot, she was as graceful as if she was on ice skates. Was that something they taught princesses, when they were kids?
And that stereotype of her being spoiled and selfish didn’t hold up at all. She didn’t complain once about the rising heat, or wanting a drink, or how much her feet hurt.
I thought about how scared she must be. Knowing that there are people out there trying to kill you...hell, that had been my normal, in the marines. But for her….
It didn’t help that we were out in the wilds. I didn’t know much about Lakovia, but my image of it was trees and mountains, mist and snow. It sure as hell wasn’t like this. And she was used to being in a bulletproof limo, or in a hotel suite with lots of those guys in blue suits to protect her. Not out here, exposed, with a complete stranger. I wanted to reassure her but that meant talking and I’ve never been much good at that. Even if I was, I sure as hell didn’t know how to talk to a princess. And when I felt like this about her—
Saving the Princess Page 3
