The set of his mouth is strained as he says to the pilot, “Privacy, please.”
The pilot flicks a switch, presumably cutting himself out of the loop of our headphones.
Ian rubs a thumb over my pulse, his gaze drilling into mine. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again…”
“Then what?” I challenge.
Possession sparks in his brown eyes. “Try it and see what happens.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “You could’ve been killed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Cas—”
“How did you get the diamonds to Damian?”
He drags his thumb in circles over my palm. “It was just a safety precaution.”
I all but melt when he caresses the pressure point between my thumb and forefinger.
“In case I got caught,” I say.
“I didn’t want anyone finding those diamonds on you. I knew I could trust Damian to get them to you in case—” He hesitates. “In case things didn’t go as planned.”
“I was sure I put them in my backpack.”
“I took them out when I packed your pills.”
I study his face. “When did you mail them though? After leaving me in the tree, you couldn’t have made it to the post office in town and back unless you have flying superpowers you’re hiding from me.”
He traces each one of my fingers as he says, “They have a tray for mail at the Kloof office. One of the staff members empties the tray every afternoon and takes the mail to the post office in town. Pretending to be a tourist hiking in the area, I went inside and asked for information about their accommodation. When the receptionist handed me a brochure, I asked her for a photocopy of their price list. While she went to the back to make a photocopy, I stole one of their padded envelopes from the desk. All I had to do, was write Damian’s address on the envelope, seal the diamonds inside, paste a sticky note with courier instructions on the envelope, and drop it between the mail in their tray. I kept an eye on the office before the first time I took you to the cabin to learn the guards’ routines. That’s how I knew the mail was taken on a daily basis.”
“You took a risk.”
“A calculated one.” His expression darkens. “You, however—”
Leaning over, I silence him with a kiss. “I wasn’t going to let you rot in jail.”
“You’re too brave for your own good. Know that?”
“In that case,” I give him a sultry smile, “we make a good match. Just don’t ever die on me again. I don’t think I’ll live through another death.”
Cupping my nape, he pulls me so close our lips almost brush when he says, “I can tell you the same thing.”
“I promise I won’t pretend to be dead again. Happy?”
“Very.” He tightens his fingers around my wrist. “However, we’ll have to do something about that appalling name of yours.”
“What’s wrong with Cindy?” I exclaim with mock indignation.
“I like Cassandra Hart better.” His mouth tilts into a sexy grin. “Much better.”
My stomach does a backflip.
He feathers his lips over mine in the softest of kisses before sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. “Mm,” he murmurs. “I missed this sassy mouth.”
I inhale sharply, a fire instantly spreading through my belly.
Ghosting another kiss over my lips, he asks, “Is that a yes?”
There’s only one answer. There’s only ever been one answer, right from the start. “Yes.”
Chapter 24
Damian
My hair is still damp from my post-workout shower when I arrive at the office. A horde of journalists are gathered outside. I clench my jaw. As much as I hate the vultures, I need them. I don’t fake smiles though as I push my way through the horde, trying not to spill my coffee on my expensive suit.
“Mr. Hart,” someone says, jabbing a microphone in my face. “Any comments about the death of your brother?”
I stop. “As for everyone else in the country, it came as a shock.”
“How do you feel about his death?” someone else asks.
I squint at the flash going off in my eyes. “We were estranged.”
“When is the funeral?”
I grit my teeth. Having to go through the parade is still a thorn in my side, even if it was by my own design. Killing Ian off was my idea after all. “On Saturday.”
“Will it be public?”
“No,” I say. “The family wants a private ceremony.” God forbid, we can’t afford another mass gathering like the one Cas orchestrated. Every fucking single woman in the country is mourning Ian Hart’s death. Whatever do they see in my oldest brother?
A woman elbows a skinny guy out of the way. “Will your sister attend?”
“My sister is eight months pregnant.” As every person following the story about Ian knows. All of our histories were splashed over the media.
“I mean later,” the woman says. “Can we expect a visit from her to South Africa?”
“Not in the foreseeable future.”
There’s no way Maxime will let her set foot on a plane until the baby is at least ten months old. Overprotective motherfucker. Not allowing me to see my nephew until he’ll be almost a year old bugs me, not that I blame him. I wouldn’t have risked Lina and Josie either. Who knows what microbes one can catch on a plane? It’s best to wait until both mother and baby’s immune systems are stronger.
The guy who was elbowed fights his way back into my line of vision. “Will you visit them for the birth?”
Absolutely not. That time is sacred. They’ll need time to adjust, and they deserve time to bond with their baby. I know only too well how jealous I was of my time with Lina when she gave birth. Fuck. The mere thought of my wife in that much pain still rattles me. Next time, she’ll have an epidural. There’ll be no discussions.
“No more comments,” I say, making my way inside the building.
The doors close behind me, cutting out the noise. It’s like entering a different world of silence. Thank fuck.
“Good morning, sir,” my secretary says, standing ready with a warm mug of coffee on the other side of the scanners to replace the lukewarm one in my hand.
She’s jumpy, and she’s got reason to be. My secretaries don’t last very long. No one seems to survive my prickly temper and perfectionism.
When I pass through the scanners, she takes the paper cup and hands me the mug. “You have a nine o’clock with the Department of Mineral Resources and Energy.” She dumps the paper cup in a trashcan, coffee and all.
I bite my tongue not to criticize the act. The coffee should go down the drain, then the cup goes in the recycle bin. There’s a right order of doing things.
Running alongside me, she rambles on about my appointments for the morning. I tune out her voice. Everything is noted on my calendar.
Unable to bear her waste of voice any longer, I interrupt her when we stop in front of the elevator. “Mavis.”
She swallows. “Yes, sir?”