by Ella James
She held her breath as the silence spun out. She trained her ears on the rumbling motor sound, in case he didn’t speak. In case it was going to be silence from here on out.
She jumped when he spoke: “Do you ride? Horses?”
That was random. Random but seriously welcome. Margo nodded, maybe a little bit too hard.
“We’ve got stables on Isis. I work there in the day. Maybe I could show you around?”
A soothing warmth spread through her chest. If she had a friend… “That might work out.” She glanced at him, suddenly shy. “You like to ride?”
“Grew up on a farm.”
“Really?” She’d never met a real farmer, or the son of one. Not unless you counted viticulturists.
“My dad’s a cropduster.” His dark brows raised. “You know, chemicals on crops?”
She knew. In California that was considered terribly unhealthy. But she nodded like it was just fine. “And you’re a pilot for the island?”
“You could say that.”
She found her mouth tugging up into a smile. “If you didn’t say that, what else could you say?”
“Hmmmm…” His eyebrows wiggled, and he grinned around the headset microphone. “I guess you could say I’m kind of a modern-day Jedi.”
She laughed. Actually laughed in that awful little plane. “Obi-Wan Kenobi is pretty much my all-time hero. And,” she grinned proudly, “I had a horse named R2D2.”
His jaw dropped, and he lifted one thick hand to point at his chest. “Yoda. You believe that?”
“No. Well,” she checked, eyes rolling over his t-shirt and mud-smeared jeans, “I believe you have a horse.”
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“You should.” She beamed. “My black stallion was named Rhett.”
He laughed again, and she felt lifted by the sound. “Come over here.” He patted the wooden box between their seats. “I’ll show you how she works.”
The blue of the sky was deepening, afternoon purple to a coat of nighttime blue. The moon seemed to twinkle, full and bright. Logan smiled again, and for a moment, Margo felt impervious.
He grabbed her hand, and she burned from inside out. She got so hot she had to fidget, and her knee brushed his thigh by accident. He looked at her, long enough for it to maybe be a look, and nodded at the dials. He pointed to one near the middle and she followed his finger, nearly breathless with the thrill of being close to him.
“This one here’s especially for cloudy weather.” He pointed to another. “And this tells us our altitude.”
As if to demonstrate, the plane bumped. Her heart lurched, leaping forward like it could catch them, as the gauge jumped.
“It’s okay—”
They bumped again, bumpier this time. And then again. Logan worked the controls, and Margo tried to tell herself it was just turbulence. Then the engine coughed. The plane arched. Her head smacked the rear window and she yelped as something bumped the windshield. She saw a flash of white and what might have been feathers.
Okay, that was definitely feathers.
“Buckle in. I’ll get us straight.” He sounded so confident, that low voice so lazy, she almost forgot to be afraid. Then a bird slammed into the windshield and she heard a crunching sound.
Logan leaned over the controls. “C’mon now. Buckle up!”
Her legs shook as she scooted back into her seat and fumbled with her belt. The plane vibrated like a theme park ride, bouncing her feet against the floor. Margo heard a cry escape her lips. Then the shaking ebbed.
“It’s okay.” He laughed over the engine’s moan. “I was showing you a stall! So you’ll trust the plane!”
Just as she opened her mouth to say, You scared me half to death!, there came through the cool air an awful shriek, like an axle was caught and tugging to break free.
And then the plane was rolling. She heard a low squawk of radio transmission before the indigo sky was twirling madly. The moon spun like a marble, and Margo thought how white it was, how round.
She didn’t know she was screaming until Logan yelled, “Be quiet!”
She couldn’t. The plane was curving, nose tipped down, and she could feel them plunging toward the sea.
“Shut your eyes!”
Oh God.
She went limp and careless, sweet surrender, and felt the sudden thrust of his arm across her chest. Her eyes popped open, and she saw the island, small and bright and rising way too fast.
“It’s okay!” He laughed. “I’m gonna be an astronaut!”
In that instant, she felt both pulled and tossed. The nose tip jerked, and they were gliding gently, the air a strong hand under them. She saw the ground, a rush of trees and light, and she felt sick.
“Just hold on!” His voice was gleeful, like a carnival deejay.
She clung to the door and to her seat, but it just wasn’t enough. She needed human strength—the knowledge that she wasn’t all alone. Her shaking hand grabbed Logan’s knee. She clutched him as the ground arched up, the wheels thrust down, the runway bumped, the trees sprung up, and they were landing—safe and fine—just as the last of the sun’s rays slid into the sea.
He taxied them to a tall, wide hangar, where they shuttered to a stop.
She realized she was still gripping Logan. He was laughing.
Margo sat there, unable to move or breathe or think. Then, without forethought, she slapped his cheek.
3
Margo peeled her linen dress off her shivering body and wondered how a day that began in sunny, tranquil Tahoe had ended so unfortunately. She had mud between her toes and blood dripping down her knee; in her panicked jog through the pine grove beside the hangar, she’d slipped. She’d also stepped through spider webs and stumbled over roots. The forest had slanted up as she’d run, and she was now stumbling her way up a full-blown hill.
Through the gusting rain, she could see the observatory dome, and beside it, a massive stucco house. They perched on the hilltop, glittering like an oasis she might never reach. Another few strides, and she had to stop and catch her breath. She glanced back down the hill, but the pine grove hid the hangar—and Logan.
Logan.
The poor guy had been nothing but nice, and she’d slapped him. Slapped him and run away like a lunatic. What was wrong with her?
A peal of thunder bruised her eardrums, and she skittered up the last of the knoll, splashing onto a big pond of a lawn. The rain fell harder, a thousand tiny fists pelting her shoulders and back, and she dashed toward the house. She didn’t have a plan, but she knew she had to get inside. If she could find a nook, ring out her hair, maybe she could think of what to do.
She streaked through an orange garden and past a swimming pool, tiny waves gleaming like shards of glass. When she reached the big house, she lunged for the double doors and ducked into a sleek, wood-polished alcove. The yellow walls were dressed with slabs of cherry blond wood, oil landscapes, and long scrolls of Chinese calligraphy. Two high-backed mahogany chairs sported colorful woven pillows, while a fat-bellied Buddha perched at the bottom of a winding staircase.
Sharp footsteps echoed down the hall, and before Margo could find a place to hide, an aproned maid appeared, clapping her hands. “Hola! Hola!”
She looked upstairs and called, “Jana, Jana! Come, come, come!” And assuming, as she must have, that Margo didn’t understand Spanish, the woman added, “The girl is here! She is very, very beautiful!”
Torn between her unhappiness at being referred to as “the girl,” and glee at being called beautiful by the busty woman who was so beautiful herself, Margo couldn’t think of anything to say. She was saved from having to say anything when a petite woman with spiky red-blond hair rushed down the curved stairs.
Her blue eyes twinkled in the creamy yellow globe lights and her red mouth smiled, showing large white teeth. She wore glove-tight black jeans and a green tank top, with silver disc earrings and a tiny diamond nose ring. She seemed to ooze sophistication
, right until the moment she flung her arms around Margo’s shoulders.
The embrace was crushing, the woman’s squeal exuberant. While Margo fought the urge to pull away, her assailant took the exchange up a notch, kissing the air beside her cheek with a hearty “Mmm-wah!”
“MAR-GOOOO! So wonderful to meet you! I am Jana, observatory manager!” She thrust Margo back and grinned broadly. “You will have good times here! I take care of you!”
Her accent was mostly German, but it twisted with a hefty Spanish curl.
“You got here? You tired? You hungry?” Jana clamped one hand on Margo’s shoulder and took a small step back, leaving in her body’s wake a sharp tang of perfume. “You tired and hungry! We get a towel, then go to the kitchen! Someone will bring your bag.”
No way, Jose. Any second now, Logan would be coming up—Logan, who she’d slapped—and she needed to be long gone by then. She dug in her heels as Jana tried to pull her up the staircase.
“No thank you. I’m tired.” She spoke more loudly than was normal, feeling that Jana wouldn’t understand unless she screamed. “I can eat something later. Right now, I’d like to go to my room.”
“Oh, sí! You want to see the room!” Jana pulled Margo toward the door. “Okay! I will show you! Then we eat!”
A red umbrella seemed to pop out of nowhere. It burst open as Jana hauled her back into the yard, locking an arm around her as they slogged toward the pool and the cottage behind it.
Jana leaned closer, yelling over the storm. “That was the casa, where I stay and your mother when she is here. This is the swimming pool, it’s nice in the morning and afternoon. This is the wash-yourself house, here is our boarding house, researchers stay here.
“The stables—” she pointed down the pitch-black hill— “and there, a little stream that wraps around and goes into the caves!”
Margo took deep and peaceful breaths as Jana swam her toward the bottom of the observatory tower. Its bright metallic dome stretched maybe fifty feet above the house; its base, a vertical rectangle, looked to be made of bamboo.
“That bottom part is cabana. The cabana is strong. It is built to help the observatory stand for the hurricane. There are dorms there, too, for guests.”
Margo opened her mouth to ask where she’d be sleeping, but Jana had that covered. “You have to stay in the cabana. It is the only space. We have team from Tokyo, team from Australia, team from the Hawaii O—Hawaii observatory. So I say, you stay two weeks on the top floor of cabana, then we move you to guest house. Some rooms are being renovated, but it’s okay. There’s a room, it’s a dormitory. Very safe. You will see.”
Margo pressed her lips tight as Jana led her to an ivy-covered door. The woman threw her slim arm out, pointing to a stone path that stretched the thirty or so feet between the edge of the casa and the bottom of the observatory.
“There is door to the house. This is how you come.”
“Okay.”
“We will talk now! I’m sorry your mother is gone! I will be your mother while you are here! I will watch for you! Keep you safe from kidnapping!”
Margo stepped away from the woman and her umbrella. “I think I need some time alone.” She was being unforgivably rude, but she hadn’t realized the whole kidnapping thing was public knowledge. She needed to regroup. Now.
Realization spread over Jana’s face. “Oh. I understand.” She brought her red-nailed fingers up to swirl around one ear. “You’re feeling crazy! Need some air to breathe!”
“Exactly.”
“It is good! You rest! Then come back down! You on fifth floor, okay? The room is pink. Pink curtains. You will see.”
Margo nodded. She sloshed into the stairwell, tracking in a small pool. A dim orange light flickered above her, lighting up a concrete cage. It smelled like mildew and dirt, and was shockingly quiet given the rain. She leaned against the wall and shut her eyes, focusing on her breathing so she didn’t kick into a panic attack.
Breathe. Just breathe.
She noticed an elevator in a little round alcove to her left. It was pale yellow on the inside, with mirrors that showed her just how horrible she looked. It spit her out on a hall that looked…skinned. The wallpaper had been ripped off the walls, and the carpet off the floor, so the fluorescent lights illuminated a glue-streaked, spot-stained cement wasteland. Her inner diva popped to the surface, because seeing the place…it made her eyes water.
Surely she wasn’t staying here.
She yanked open the first two doors; each revealed a spacious powder-blue room jammed with fold-out chairs and card tables. The third room, which she entered with her eyes closed, was empty, and the walls were also stripped. The fourth and last door opened to a stale-looking, off-white room, with stiff gray carpet and bunk beds made of worn-looking wicker. There were a couple of study tables and two dressers—none from the same set—and a desk next to one of the bunks. She noticed the lack of television and felt a flash of relief. Not her room. Obviously.
Then she noticed the windows punched into the wall in front of her. They were tall, wide, and covered by curtains. Pink curtains. And then, like she was seeing them for the first time, Margo realized that the walls were pink as well. Pale, faded, icky pink.
This was it. The pink room.
She shut the door, moving like a zombie, and turned to inspect the nearest bed. It was the only one with bedding, and it was gross. The faded floral comforter must have been there since the place was built. It was paper-thin, with dozens of loose threads. She pulled it back and turned her nose up at the just-as-ratty sheets. They had been white once, but were stained some kind of ivory yellow by probably a billion bodies. Margo sat down on the bed, pressed her face into her hands, and sobbed. In her mind, she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until there was nothing left to get out. But when she lifted her face, her cheeks were dry and warm.
She felt like someone else. Someone cold. Someone who slapped people. Maybe she deserved this room in this deserted tower. Maybe she deserved to be kidnapped for ransom. She wondered if Cindy would pay it.
Sighing angrily, she walked to the windows, hoping for at least a good view—which she had. Beyond the pine grove, Puerto Rico was a silver jewel on a plate of black.
At least there’s that.
Sighing again, she turned away and spied a door she’d missed: the bathroom. It was big: a row of lockers, five showers, and several stalls. Margo ran her finger along the white tile wall, then peeked into the showers. There was body wash in the first, and boy shampoo—Mountain Freshness; she’d never heard of it before. She found an old, chewed toothbrush on a soap dish at one of the sinks. Margo picked it up with a paper towel and dropped it in the trash. How did the cleaning people miss that?
She floated back into the room. She’d get a shower once her bags arrived, and then she’d decide what to do about this place. And how to apologize to Logan Greer.
4
Logan slammed the thick steel door behind him, heart drumming like Bonzo Bohnam. He took two steps into the wide, dark room and collapsed at the nearest desk.
Fuckity fuck fuck. Margo Zhu. No, Ford, but she was still Cindy Zhu’s daughter.
I’m so fucked.
He had almost crashed the Zhu Observatory’s plane, with the Zhu heiress inside. Worse than that, he had hit on her. Promised to take her riding. Was he an f-ing moron?
He rubbed a hand over his face and looked across the room, inspecting the rows of cubicles. He was in the data tracking room, the place where they crunched numbers, ran sims, and made charts. Each of the low, felt-covered walls enclosed desks with specially rigged monitors and CPUs. There was a massive printer to his left, calibrated to spit out pictures wider than Logan was long.
He had just found another wobble, so it should’ve been easy, here in this room, to think about work. But all he could think about was her. Which was a problem—for so many reasons.
He wiggled his prepaid phone out of his pocket. His left hand dropped it on the counterto
p and swirled it in a circle, while his right hovered over the crotch of his jeans. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply. Then he moved his hand up to the table.
He kept his eyes shut, wondering what Margo would say about the plane ride. He’d lied to her about the initial turbulence because he didn’t want to freak her out, but of all the dumb luck, they had to hit a flock of f-ing gulls. Now she thought he’d almost killed them showboating. She’d been so rattled she’d slapped him. It had to take some intense fear to make a blue-blooded heiress lose it like that.
Hell, the whole thing was probably for the best. Maybe she’d do him the favor of avoiding him.
Spreading his legs and moving stiffly, so his boxers wouldn’t make the situation in his jeans any worse than it already was, he leaned up in his chair and grabbed his phone.
