Chapter 2 - THE ENGINES OF DECEPTION
By 8:45 a.m. the following morning, the gray drizzle of Seattle had surrendered to a thick, clinging marine fog that wrapped around the terminals of Sea-Tac Airport like a shroud of damp cotton.
Maya stood near baggage claim carousel four, clutching the strap of her overnight duffel bag so tightly her fingers were numb. She wore a tailored emerald-green trench coat over a simple black slip dress—the most expensive-looking outfit she owned, bought on clearance during a desperate warehouse sale three years prior.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out.
From: Unknown (Mason) Terminal B, curbside drop-off. Do not keep the black Cayenne waiting. It obstructs traffic.
Maya rolled her eyes so hard she strained an optic nerve. ‘The black Cayenne.’ Of course he drives a Porsche SUV.
She hurried out through the sliding automatic doors into the chaotic swirl of curbside traffic. Honking horns, exhaust fumes, and shouting shuttle drivers blurred together in the gray morning mist.
Idling right in the fire lane—with its hazard lights blinking casually while a Port of Seattle traffic officer glared at it from ten feet away—was a matte-black Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT.
The rear passenger door swung open automatically as Maya approached.
She didn't hesitate. She tossed her duffel bag onto the plush leather seat and slid in beside a man who looked like he had stepped off a billboard for high-end Italian menswear.
Mason Reed was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that fit him with predatory precision. A silver silk tie was knotted perfectly against his crisp white collar. He didn't look like a man heading to a family wedding in the San Juan Islands; he looked like a CEO arriving to foreclose on a sovereign nation.
“You’re cutting it close, Bennett,” Mason said smoothly without looking at her, tapping a finger against the touchscreen console.
The car glided away from the curb before Maya even had time to pull her seatbelt across her chest.
“I had to feed my cat and question every life choice that led me to this exact moment,” Maya snapped, panting slightly as she settled into the leather seat. She turned to stare at him, taking in the sharp profile of his jaw and the expensive gold watch gleaming against his cuff. “And for the record, your car is currently breaking three municipal ordinances.”
“The port authority and I have a mutual understanding regarding parking logistics,” Mason replied, his tone entirely deadpan.
Maya narrowed her eyes. “Are you actually an investor, or are you a cartel boss who launders money through artisanal coffee shops?”
Mason finally turned his head, his storm-gray eyes meeting hers with an unsettling, flat intensity.
“If I were a cartel boss, Maya, would I be sitting in a cramped economy seat on a turboprop charter flight to Friday Harbor with you in forty minutes?”
“You chartered a private flight?” Maya gasped.
“Commercial lines are unpredictable. We have a schedule to keep.”
“We are going to a family wedding, Mason, not executing a midnight extraction from a hostile foreign embassy!”
“To your family, we are a deeply committed couple who met under romantic, highly cinematic circumstances,” Mason reminded her, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk. “If we arrive looking like we’ve been arguing about logistics for two hours, your Aunt Judith will diagnose our relationship as terminal before we even cross the threshold of the reception tent.”
Maya opened her mouth to retort, but stopped. He was right. Aunt Judith possessed a radar for domestic friction that could detect a micro-crack in a relationship from three hundred yards through a brick wall.
“Fine,” Maya muttered, crossing her arms. “What’s our backstory? If my cousin Toby asks how we met, what do I tell him?”
“You dropped your portfolio of architectural sketches outside my office in Pioneer Square,” Mason said instantly, without missing a beat. “I picked them up, admired your eye for asymmetrical design, and invited you down to a private gallery opening in Belltown. We’ve been inseparable for four months.”
Maya stared at him in sheer, unadulterated shock. “Architectural sketches? I work at an espresso machine, Mason! I draw foam hearts on lattes!”
“Your cousin Toby is an accountant who thinks anyone who doesn’t wear a tie to a barbecue is a communist,” Mason replied smoothly. “He won’t ask technical questions about blueprints. He’ll be too busy bragging about his mutual funds.”
Before Maya could argue further, the Cayenne glided smoothly into the private aviation tarmac behind a row of corrugated steel hangars. A sleek, twin-engine turboprop plane sat waiting on the tarmac, its propellers ticking over in a low, rhythmic thrum against the gray backdrop of Puget Sound.
A pilot in a crisp navy uniform stood by the airstair door, holding an umbrella over the gap between the car and the aircraft.
As Mason stepped out into the misty drizzle, he didn't run. He walked with that slow, measured, absolute authority that made people instinctively step out of his way. He opened her door, offering a large, gloved hand to steady her as she stepped out onto the slick asphalt.
Maya looked down at his hand, then up into his impassive face.
For a split second, the billionaire investor from the corner table vanished, replaced by something much darker, much older, and infinitely more dangerous.
She placed her hand in his. His grip was warm, unyielding, and hard as granite.
“Remember, Maya,” Mason murmured softly as they walked toward the roaring engines of the plane. “When we land, you are completely, desperately, head-over-heels in love with me.”
Maya swallowed hard, feeling a strange, terrifying flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with fear of flying.
“And you?” she whispered back.
May you like
Mason paused at the base of the airstair, turning his head so his face was inches from hers, his gray eyes darkening like a stormy sea.
“Let’s see if you can convince me,” he replied.
