Before You Go

  Before You Go

  by

  Ella James

  Copyright © 2012 by Ella James.

  All rights reserved.

  1

  Margo Ford wrapped her arms around her waist and glanced down at her ruby hippo watch. Six-thirty six, San Juan time. Which made Cindy forty-seven minutes late.

  She sighed—just a teenie tiny puff of air—and imagined the disapproving face of Mrs. Lavonia Molliweather, etiquette instructor at the Kerrigan School for Young Ladies. Neither a huff nor a sigh apply…for a lady who wants to look her best. Of course, at this moment she was light years from her best, and any second now, things were going to get worse. If she didn’t find her six-piece Louis Vuitton trunk set soon—very soon, like in the next few seconds—Margo was going to combust.

  She rubbed her pounding head, feeling all kinds of sorry for herself. She’d evacuated her best friend’s summer house to hunker down with her newly minted guardian on some drab deserted island, and the woman couldn’t even bother to pick her up on time.

  Especially pathetic when you considered the circumstances of her visit. Margo glanced around the airport lobby, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. She sighed and tried to shake away the heebie-jeebies.

  It wasn’t hard. The worst thing about this whole misadventure, and she did mean worst, was that her bags were MIA. If she couldn’t find them, she’d be trapped on a dreary island in bad clothes, and that was something Margo couldn’t bear.

  She whirled toward the ticket counter, ready to make a scene, and there they were: her bags—stacked neatly on a metal cart, a beautiful burgundy buffet of Vuitton. Margo charged through the crowded terminal, Gucci sandals slapping the tile floor, teal Lanvin dress bouncing around her thighs, fingers outstretched. If she had her bags, she’d be okay. If Cindy didn’t show, she could sleep here, inside a ladies’ longue. She could run away, go back to Tahoe. She envisioned herself disguised as a foreigner. Maybe Japanese, with short, straight black hair—and a flowing trench by Marc Jacobs.

  She could do anything, as long as she had her bags.

  So when the cart started rolling…

  She froze, her well-glossed lips stretched into a most unladylike grimace, while she tried to recall everything she knew about flying in a public plane. She’d been in them a few times, when her father’s campaign plane had trouble, but this was her first time flying coach. Maybe coach passengers were supposed to do something special when they claimed their luggage?

  And now hers was being pushed away by some kind of…handyman?

  She couldn’t see his face, just a grubby pair of jeans and a muddy white t-shirt. But she was on him, elbowing her way through the crowd, her long dark brown hair bouncing on her back. He hunched over the cart, his wide shoulders parting the swarm of travelers. Then, just like a ghost—or a criminal—he disappeared.

  Seriously.

  What the F?

  She stood on her tiptoes, then scanned from left to— There! She’d found him, wheeling her cart into a narrow hall.

  Margo trotted after him. She didn’t want to make a scene, but she didn’t have a choice. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, you, STOP!”

  The luggage thief didn’t even pause.

  She lengthened her strides as he angled the cart sideways and shoved it through a door marked PRIVATE. She plowed through a second later, jogging down a flight of cement stairs that led to a tarmac.

  A quick glance across two lines of Leers, Gulfstreams, and Bombariders, and she had him. He was shoving her bags into a tiny plane, obviously rushing to escape.

  “Stop that!”

  It crossed her mind, as she flung herself into the dusky, fog-swathed lot, that maybe she shouldn’t chase a luggage thief. She was, after all, at the center of some kidnapping plot, so chasing this guy could be even more dangerous than if he was just a thief.

  But her life was in those bags. Her hot pink iPad, the black string bikini that was yin to her best friend Elizabeth’s white yang, her dog-eared copy of Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire. Most of all, her favorite framed picture of her father, the one where he wore the pinstriped Caraceni suit she’d chosen for his first-ever Congressional victory. That picture meant everything to her. She had to get it back.

  “Stop!”

  His hands froze on her largest duffel and Margo lunged forward, determined to rip it from his grasp. Then he turned, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

  Holy moly, that thief was hot. Model hot. Maybe Ralph Lauren...or hotter.

  Dump all her pre-sleep fantasies into a bowl of real-guy mix and toss in a whole bunch of Adonis, then bake it in the dimensions of Michelangelo’s David, and you still wouldn’t have this guy. His perfection was in every line of his face, in his beautiful suntanned skin, in his rich and shiny mess of dark brown hair.

  There was something about his mouth—an almost shocking baby-doll lusciousness that made him look sinful, made her want to press her finger to his lips. But the real wow factor was his eyes: pale blue-gray and smart as hell, topped with thick dark brows that lent him a young Marlon Brando vibe.

  As her gaze lapped his long, lean form—lineman’s shoulders straining through thin white cotton, powerful arms and strong-veined hands, narrow hips in slouching denim—she wobbled closer, finger pointing; she struggled to remember why.

  He held her gaze, those blue eyes burning. Then he slung her duffel bag into the plane.

  “Those are mine,” she practically gasped. Embarrassing.

  “And you are?”

  “I’m…” Margo Ford, would you like to kidnap me? She crossed her arms. “I’m the person whose initials are on those tags.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Someone who wants her bags back.”

  “Well how do I know they’re your bags if you won’t tell me your name?” His mouth tugged up on one side, and he rested a big hand on the cart.

  “Why would I tell a stranger my name?”

  “Well, I guess you’ve got me there.” He broke into a grin, swaggered forward and clasped her hand. For one wild moment, Margo wondered if he was real.

  Her eyes tugged his, their gazes linked like magnets—north and south. She felt a snap of startling contentedness, and when he smiled again, it was like the sun. “I’m Logan Greer, your pilot. It’s nice to meet you, Margo Zhu.”

  2

  Thunderstruck. That would be the word, she thought. Her cells vibrated. The ground shook. Then her skin pulled taut over her bones, and Margo realized: it was thundering. A fine mist drifted down from the low-slung purple clouds, polishing her cheeks and bare shoulders to a gentle sheen. She smiled at Logan—Logan—and murmured, “Margo Ford.”

  He straightened—six-foot-two, she guessed—and looked over his shoulder as he slung the last two bags into the plane. “I thought your last name was Zhu.”

  His words were slow, Southern. They made it hard for her to think. “My mom is Cindy Zhu. My dad is—” She gritted her molars. “He was Raymond Ford. The senator.”

  Pain pounded through her, old, familiar. Logan’s face mirrored it. “I was sorry to hear about that.”

  “Thank you.”

  His thick brows pinched, those blue eyes seeing down to her leukocytes. His gaze was so honest she felt unnerved. Then he was smiling, the intensity lost in a flash of Crest-white teeth. “You ready?” His arms folded.

  “For what?”

  “To go.” He was doing it again. That look.

  “Um, I guess so.” She glanced down the row of planes. “Which is mine?”

  He patted the one that held her luggage. “Miss Louise.”

  She eyed the ragged plane, and then his face. He looked even more handsome when he smiled. Like a sexy bandit, with his dirt-smudged c
heek and messy hair. She smiled back. “This is a joke. You’re not really a pilot.” She looked at his muddy boots. “Of course you’re not.”

  “I’m not?” He was grinning.

  “I don’t think so.”

  One dark eyebrow arched. “Why not?”

  “You’re too…” Gorgeous was what came to mind, but what she said was, “young.”

  He crossed his arms—thick arms. “Been flying for eight years.”

  “No way.” She leaned closer. He was confident for sure, and he seemed capable, but he didn’t look much older than she was. “This isn’t my plane, and you’re not my pilot. I’m supposed to be flying to Isis with my— with Cindy.”

  His pretty mouth formed an “o.” “You are?”

  “Yes.” Her heart sank. “Is something wrong?”

  “She’s okay and all… But she had to go to Switzerland.”

  Margo felt shocked, then hurt. Cindy had left her here? To go to Isis all alone?

  “For how long?”

  “She’s supposed to be gone most of the summer, but she’s coming back July Fourth. There’s this party at the island’s hotel…”

  Whatever he said next, she didn’t hear it. The tip-tapping of the misting rain swelled to a dull roar. Or maybe that was the blood inside her head. She looked down at her feet, the suede gladiator sandals she’s bought the week before. She smoothed her favorite dress, wrinkled now, from being crammed into horrible, stifling coach. Out of nowhere, she thought about the last summer. That balmy night she and her father had sat on the back porch in Napa, listening to the crickets sing.

  “You need to meet your mother,” he’d said.

  And that’s what she’d thought, from the day he’d flat-lined, lost to cancer. She needed to meet her mother. She had felt certain, when the plane came for her—Cindy Zhu’s plane, taking her away from her old life, to the boarding school Cindy had chosen—that her mother would be on it. But no. They’d met in Atlanta, to—what else?—sign papers. Their time together had lasted less than ten minutes, and while it had made her an official heiress, it had left her with a lonely, drifting feeling.

  She’d heard nothing from her— from Cindy until back in May, when Raul, head of Cindy’s security, had phoned to let her know, in his crisp, Moroccan accent, that there was a plot to kidnap her, and that she’d be spending the second half of the summer on her mother’s island.

  And then Cindy’s letter:

  I hope your time spent with the Timberdime family is pleasant. Enclosed, your tickets from Reno-Tahoe to San Juan. A private plane will take you from that airport to my Isle of Isis. The observatory staff is preparing for you.

  - CZ

  Cold. Impersonal. Now Margo understood why.

  Her mother hadn’t urged Margo to come to her summer residence so they could get to know each other. She’d never even planned on being there. Margo would be alone on the island. Babysat by a bunch of astronomers, geeks slaving away at a dreary astronomical observatory. She’d be out of harm’s way, and out of her mother’s, too.

  She must have looked as unhappy as she felt, because Logan clasped her hand and tugged her under the hangar. His fingers curled around hers, hot and hard. “I can get you there. A small plane’s not so bad if you’ve got a decent pilot.”

  She stared into his blue eyes, so…kind. “And you’re decent?”

  “Not decent.” He winked. “I’m good.”

  His fingers slid from hers, touching down on the small of her back as they turned toward the plane. Miss Louise. She was beige with a blue stripe down her middle. “You ever been in a Cessna 152?”

  Margo shook her head.

  “Climb inside. I’ll show you around.”

  Logan opened a small, square door and Margo scooted to her seat. Her eyes fell on the confusing bevy of controls and her stomach clenched. Was she really doing this? Flying in this tiny plane with this random guy to an island filled with strangers?

  I have to. Cindy was the only family she had left. Her father’s people had scattered after his funeral; no one wanted to be left with a 5’2 piece of baggage.

  While she was hurting from that particular betrayal, Logan climbed in, filling the cabin with his wide shoulders. She had the unnerving feeling that he was assessing her in some way. It was confirmed when he asked, “Don’t like to fly?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  He pulled a towel from under his seat and passed it to her. “You look a little pale.”

  She wiped her cheeks and neck. “Yeah. I’m…tired. And you’re right,” she ’fessed. “I’m not a fan of planes. Especially small ones.”

  She held out the towel, and he stashed it in the little box between their seats. “Why don’t you buckle in?” he asked as he put on a headset. “Once we get going, I’ll show you how things work. Makes it easier.”

  Margo fumbled with her seatbelt, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t get it snapped. Too soon the plane was rumbling, and they were rolling out of the hangar. She got her belt clicked just as Miss Louise lumbered forward, wheels bouncing over the narrow airstrip.

  As she looked out the window at the dim, rain-darkened buildings, the gloomy landscape seemed to mock her. Tears blurred the runway. Her chest hurt, like she’d swallowed something sharp.

  “Hey.” Logan’s voice was gentle, the kiss of air you used to soothe a horse. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Margo nodded, shutting her eyes until she felt the last bump of the runway, and smooth air stretched out under them. Gravity tugged her, and the waterworks started up again.

  She was looking at her manicured nails when he spoke. “We’re about to pop over the clouds. You’ll be able to see the moon. Just hang on.”

  Hang on. Isn’t that all she’d been doing for the last year now? Hanging on? Margo swallowed hard, and heard herself say, “I think I want to go back. To the airport.”

  She put a cold hand to her cheek, so he wouldn’t see her weird expression when she cried. He couldn’t see—but he could hear her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He was pressing levers, twisting knobs. The dashboard lights twinkled through her fingers, which were covering her face. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “What?”

  “Go to Isis.” She pulled her hand off her face and fiddled with her seatbelt, too embarrassed to look at him. She unclasped her buckle, an empty gesture.

  “Why not?”

  At that moment, the plane’s nose poked through the wall of clouds, and there was the moon, a glowing ball in an indigo sky.

  “We’re just coasting now. You’ve got all my ears.”

  All his ears... Who was this guy? Margo sneaked a glance at him, surprised by how ordinary he looked. Just a guy—okay, a hot guy—wearing dirty jeans and a dirty shirt. Why was he being so nice to her?

  She smoothed the wrinkled fabric of her dress over her thighs. When she glanced at him, his eyes held hers.

  “It’s nothing really. I just…don’t know my— Cindy terribly well.” Deep breath. Some way to spin it? “We were kind of…distant when my dad died.”

  He nodded lightly, like she was talking about something important and he was following.

  “I wanted to spend some time with her this summer. Get to know her. But now she’s not even here, and I wish I could just go back to Tahoe, but I can’t because my best friend’s family is going to Europe and I have nowhere else to go. My dad was his family’s black sheep, and they don’t keep in touch. Coming here—coming to an observatory—seems ridiculous. I mean, why would I? I don’t even get why this is Cindy’s summer home. Why an observatory when she has so many other houses?” Deep breath. She was going to explain the kidnapping plot, but decided against.

  Logan nodded. No surprise, no pity.

  “Maybe I should just…I don’t know. I could stay for a little while. Until I find out at least something—about Cindy. I don’t know.” She sighed again, and belatedly remembered: Neither a huff nor a sigh apply,
for a lady who wants to be polite.

  She glanced at Logan, worried she’d turned him off. Since she’d started at Kerrigan, Margo hadn’t exactly been a people-magnet—and she wondered if maybe the reason was…this. Without her dad, she had this... Well, she didn’t know what it was exactly, but it felt like a rubber band twisting in her chest. No matter how hard she tried—to have fun, to move on—she couldn’t seem to make it stop pinching. So she was always kind of glum. And glum was the last thing guys wanted.