by P. J. Fox
When Belle didn’t respond, his eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking?”
“That this is the most impressive plane I’ve ever been on.”
“And how many have you been on?”
Belle colored. “Two,” she said. And then, more quietly, “counting this one.”
But Ash, far from being put off, seemed charmed. “Truly?”
“I flew for the first time when I left for TUD.”
“What about school?”
She smiled in spite of herself. “We drove, my mother screaming all the way.”
“That sounds delightful.” His tone was dry.
“She’d never left Maine before, except once to visit an Algonquin medicine man in Canada with my grandmother. She was convinced that something awful was going to happen to us on the highway. But the worst thing that happened was, a mile from our house we stopped at a convenience store so mom could get coffee and a moose peed on our car.”
“Peed on it?”
“They lift their legs to pee. The boys, anyway.”
And then, with a yelp, she realized that the plane was moving.
FIFTY-TWO
Ash, in an attempt to distract her from her terror, told her about the plane. It was a Dassault Falcon 7X, which on one tank of gas could take them from this tiny airport to Hong Kong, Changi, Tel Aviv, or even Los Angeles. The thought of America gave Belle a pang.
They were going to London, a place where Ash had lived in his younger years and apparently still conducted business. He seemed to be of the opinion that the jet was both useful and cost effective. “Its fuel consumption is thirty percent less than other jets in its class.”
She shook her head. “You’ll never convince me that a private jet, of all things, is cost effective.”
“Nothing replaces an in-person meeting.”
“You could choose not to live in the middle of nowhere,” she countered.
“When your work is all over the world, everywhere is the middle of nowhere.”
“And can you fly this jumped-up hotel suite into the darkest jungles of Africa?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He finished his drink. “When it comes to landing,” he explained, “slower is safer. At a typical landing weight, this plane’s approach speed is only 104 knots. It can land and stop in 630 meters, or 2,070 feet, which means that it can land almost anywhere. Moreover,” he added, “it can land at ninety percent of its maximum takeoff weight—meaning that its perfect for short flights as well as long.”
“You seem to know a lot about this plane, and about planes in general.”
“I like planes. I like flying.” Seeing her expression, he flashed one of his quick non-smiles. “I have my pilot’s license,” he said.
“Oh.”
His look turned knowing. “I’m a man of many hidden depths. I’d have flown us, myself, but I didn’t want to risk giving you heart failure. You seemed nervous enough as it was.”
“Then you noticed—”
“That our pilot is twelve, and spends more on his hair than the average village does on groceries? Yes. But he’s also a fantastic pilot. He’s a former United States Marine. From Washington State, I believe. After Afghanistan, he wanted something different.”
Belle didn’t ask how Ash had met Max the unlikely pilot; she wasn’t certain that she wanted to know. But she’d known her fair share of vets back home, in Maine; she understood the desire to go somewhere else. To be someone else.
“It must be glamorous,” she said, “flying around to different ports of call. Staying in all the best hotels. Visiting all the best beaches, and pools.” A world without a set schedule. Without restrictions. It sounded both exhilarating and exhausting.
“I rarely go anywhere more exciting than Brazzaville,” he said. “There’s nothing but banana trees and the occasional Land Cruiser.”
She knew there was more than that. He’d told her enough, more than she’d ever learned by reading. And she’d thought herself a woman of the world. But meeting Ash had been an education in a great many things, one of those things being that there was only so much to be gleaned from a book. Nothing replaced the kind of real world experience that he’d had—or, some might say, suffered.
The so-called Democratic Republic of the Congo, where he appeared to conduct much of his business, was notorious for atrocities: mass rapes, mass mutilations, sexually motivated violence against both men and women. Child soldiers. Child labor. Child prostitution. Abductions, extortion, illegal mining. Exploitation and official corruption on a near-industrial scale. Worse.
Occupied with these disturbing thoughts, Belle lapsed into silence.
“In any case,” Ash said, “my plane is hardly the most luxurious.”
Belle was grateful for the change in topic. “Oh?”
“Cinemas, hot tubs, aquariums, garages, concert halls….” He trailed off.
She took the bait. At least while she was talking, she wasn’t thinking about the fact that they were airborne. At least, not much. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. The same princeling I told you about the other night has a garage custom-designed to hold six equally custom Rolls Royces. My brother’s plane has a spa with a glass floor, so he can watch the world pass beneath him as he gets a massage.”
“What?” And then, teasingly, “I’m surprised you don’t have one of those.”
“A glass floor? I’m afraid of heights.”
Somehow, she doubted that. “No, a more luxurious plane.”
He gestured airily. “Yes, this is terribly shabby. I don’t know what I’m thinking, dragging you about in such a terrible wagon. We should purchase something new directly.”
“What should it contain?”
“Prince Al-Waleed bin Talal’s favorite plane boasts a concert hall complete with a grand piano. The dining room on that same plane seats fourteen. The décor is hideous, though; it looks like a refugee from the ’80’s. The one time I was aboard, I half expected Cyndi Lauper to emerge at any moment.”
“Who?”
Ash’s laugh was short and self deprecating. “His plane also features a throne. A conceit to which, sadly, I am not entitled. And,” he added, “with not one but two wastebaskets within easy reach, perched on either side of the dais like pugs. I wonder what he does mid-flight, that generates so much waste.”
“Does your brother’s plane have a throne?”
“No, but it does have a rather astonishing bathroom.”
“What makes a bathroom astonishing?”
“It’s larger than some apartments.”
“So is yours.”
“But mine isn’t airborne.”
This time it was Belle’s turn to gesture. “I concede your point.”
Maria brought them another set of drinks, and a fruit plate: fresh berries and cubes of mango were set amidst selections of expensive cheese, all presented on white porcelain.
“Donald Trump’s jet is entirely done up in gold brocade, boasts a cinema room with IMAX-level speakers as well as—of course—solid gold faucets and seat belt buckles. No word,” he added conspiratorially, “on whether these are also shaped like swans. I haven’t been onboard since the last remodel.”
Belle laughed. “I hope that whoever else is flying with him enjoys the movie!”
“That’s what I adore about you,” Ash said.
Belle’s laughter dried up. “What?” she asked. The mood between them was suddenly serious.
His eyes searched hers. His tablet sat beside him, ignored. He hadn’t told Belle much about the business he planned to conduct, only that he was meeting with a professor of some sort in London and that he thought she’d enjoy the trip. “That you truly don’t care.” He held up a hand, the barest movement, to forestall further comment. “Not that you don’t care about what’s important, but that you don’t care about what’s not.”
She chewed her lip, hesitant. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You’re not impresse
d by things for the sake of things; they mean nothing to you without context.”
She thought for a minute. “My father always dreamed of owning his own lobster boat. He leased his. The average cost for a fully equipped lobster boat is about two hundred thousand dollars.” She shook her head. “People don’t understand. They see a fisherman coming in with six hundred pounds of lobster and think, he just made a thousand dollars for a few hours’ work. What they don’t see is that he just replaced the engine on his trawler for thirty thousand or that, even earlier that morning, he paid three hundred for bait.”
“And if you had all the money in the world, what would you do? Would you buy him a boat?”
“No. Not now.” The admission made her sad. “He hasn’t been out on a boat in years.” He was too bad of a drunk. Buying him anything wouldn’t be an investment; it would be a waste. She didn’t voice that last part to Ash, but he nevertheless seemed to understand.
He touched the side of her face briefly, then let his hand drop. The cut on her lip had almost healed, but the flesh around it was still slightly bee-stung. Such an obvious mark of passion made Belle self-conscious, although she’d forgotten to be for the past hour.
“Our lives have been so different,” he said. “And yet so much the same.”
She’d come to see the truth of that statement only recently. Ash had grown up wanting stability, and so had she. She hadn’t dreamed of her friends’ bigger houses, or their nicer things, but of their boring and predictable lives. Of parents who did exactly what they’d promised to do, when they’d promised to do it. Of never having to feel like she had to parent them. Of looking up to them, instead of after them. As her friends did with their parents. Of going to sleep at night, knowing exactly what the next day was going to bring.
“Except,” she said, flashing him a small smile of her own, “I’d feel quite ridiculous flying to London in a black marble bathtub.”
“That’s quite the image, a flying bathtub.”
“Yes, my servants could follow me along with little jet packs.”
“Like house elves.”
“Do house elves fly?”
“Mine would.”
He pulled her against him and she settled into the crook of his arm, her feet tucked up underneath her. Whoever had designed this couch deserved an award. “What does Maria serve for lunch?” she asked. “Food-wise, I mean.”
“Cornish hen in a truffle and foi gras demi-glace, I believe.”
“Oh, is that all?”
“I believe there might be mousse for dessert.”
“What do you eat when you fly yourself?”
“Sandwiches.”
“I still think you should invest in a solid gold throne.”
He kissed her ear. “Oh?”
“You’d feel so important sitting on it.”
He kissed the hollow underneath her ear next, and then trailed kisses down to her collar bone. Gently, he eased her down onto the couch. She felt herself being absorbed by the cloud-like leather as he continued to kiss her. His touch was gentle. Not hesitant, but exploratory.
“Oh?” he asked, between kisses.
She was suddenly having trouble thinking. “Yes,” she managed.
“No matter how rich one becomes,” he murmured, “or how famous or powerful, when one dies, the size of one’s funeral still depends largely on the weather.”
“Who said that?”
“My father.” He’d transferred his attention to her collarbone. His hand slid slowly down her flank, to the hem of her skirt. Gray flannel, suitable for fall. “A hateful man,” he continued, his hand sliding up her leg in search of the suspenders attached to her garter belt. “You’ll undoubtedly adore him.”
Ash liked it when she wore expensive lingerie, and over the past month had provided her with a great deal of it. He was particularly fond of silk stockings, held up with the sort of apparatus that had gone out of fashion when Johnson was voted into office. Belle wore her garter belt, a confection of black lace, snugly at her waist. Her silk stockings, modestly plain except for a seam that ran up the back, were the pale tan of lightly toasted bread.
Ash’s hand slid easily over them. She arched her hips up to meet him, without meaning to. And then his lips were on hers.
Like unwrapping an expensive present, he’d said once.
She’d never worn such nice things before; prior to meeting Ash, the nicest things she’d owned had come from Target. Wal-Mart was where she went for regular clothing; Target was where she went to dress up. Borrowing from Charlotte’s massive closet hadn’t counted. She’d felt absolutely ridiculous in the beaded number she’d worn the night she met Ash: like a figure skater without her skates. She was fairly certain that most go-go dancers wore more. But over the past few weeks, even in such a short amount of time, she’d become accustomed to the scents and textures of couture.
“Because I adore repellent men?” she teased.
“Because you’re a minx, and you do things to spite me.”
She giggled. He kissed her again. His lips were cool and sure, as were his hands. She sank further into the couch as his weight pressed down on hers, wrapping her arms around him.
“You definitely need a solid gold throne.”
“I’m amazed,” he said between kisses, “that it doesn’t fall out of the sky.”
“I wonder if there’s a medical code for that.” She giggled as his fingers caressed the inside of her thigh, tickling the soft and secret flesh. “I can see the headline now: man killed when his head was crushed by solid gold throne; witnesses claim it materialized out of nowhere….”
And then she was giggling too much to talk, and then she didn’t want to talk as he pushed her skirt up around her waist and his kiss intensified. Her response was just as eager, her lips seeking his as she undid his belt and freed him from his pants. She gasped as she felt him inside her, invading her. He was almost too much for her small frame but she craved the feeling of being taken.
Owned.
She gasped again. He held her to him, his mouth never leaving hers as he took her there on the couch. She didn’t have time to wonder who might see them, or care; she was too lost in the moment, absorbed in the flood of sensation that being with Ash always brought.
FIFTY-THREE
Belle, having showered and changed on the plane, sat demurely in one of the old professor’s chairs.
His office was exactly the sort of space that she’d come to associate with academia: narrow and cramped, its walls filled to bursting with books up to its high ceilings. His desk occupied the rear of the office, and he sat with his back facing the one window. A window that, if Belle’s sense of direction held, looked out onto the quad.
The professor’s attention, though, was all for them. For her. To his left was a globe that appeared to have been last relevant sometime before Cromwell took office and to his right was an owl on a perch that leaked stuffing. Both his eyes and the owl’s were equally fixed.
Belle smiled. “I so appreciate you allowing me to sit in.”
“Darling girl, the pleasure’s all mine.” He flashed an oddly endearing smile. “Its been some time since the glamorous young coeds flocked voluntarily to my office.”
Ash turned. “Dr. Graham claims to have been quite a roué, in his day.”
“My day, young man, is still on.” There was a touch of humor to the older man’s firm tone. Clearly, there was a relationship here.
Alec had driven them from the private airstrip at London Oxford Airport, which according to Ash used to be known as RAF Kidlington. This unappetizing place was home to Oxford Aviation Academy, the largest air training school in Europe and where Ash had acquired his own license while attending the university. Belle didn’t understand the inclusion of London in the place’s title, as its grim war-era buildings were a full fifty-nine miles from Marble Arch, but no one had asked her and so she kept her mouth shut. She was disappointed not to see London, but said nothing about that either.
Exeter College was particularly lovely. The professor’s office was in the same Front Quadrangle where Ash had lived as an undergraduate, an impressively gothic and imposing structure more resembling a private palace than a school. Palmer’s Tower, in which furthest reaches they currently sat, had originally been constructed in 1492 and was once the primary entrance to the College. The College itself had been founded in 1314, but remodeled so extensively in the 1600’s that most of its original medieval architecture had been lost. Still, there was a sense of time here that even Harvard lacked.
Harvard University, founded in 1636, was practically brand new.
“What are you smiling at?” The professor’s eyes were shrewd.
“At the thought of Ash being young, and of you reprimanding him.”
The old man must have been one of Ash’s professors; there was no other explanation for the immediate ease between them. And their willingness to tease each other. No one teased Ash, and Belle suspected that no one teased his erstwhile teacher either. Both men were far too serious for their own good. Serious, and old before their time.
Professor Graham wore the overpriced rags of a prototypical academic, tweed and cotton that had last been tailored—or washed—sometime around 1960. Belle had seen the type; she’d joked to Charlotte that half of the supposedly homeless people in Harvard Square were actually Nobel laureates who slept with their prizes under their pillows.
Within the world of academia, disregarding one’s appearance had been elevated to an art form. Odd, considering the egos that hid within.
The old man smiled back. “He was a thrilling student, to be sure.”
“As you were, no doubt, a thrilling professor.”
“And you’re from America, you say?” His tone was faintly disbelieving.
She nodded.
“And here all this time I thought that accursed place produced nothing but loud men and potatoes.”
“And guns. Don’t forget the guns.”
He turned to Ash. His gaze was owlish and his tone, when he spoke, accusing. “How did you ever get such a charming young thing to spend even ten minutes in your company?”
