From the Beginning

“I need—” She started to bolt out of her chair, only to be yanked back by the belt fastened low over her hips. She wasted precious seconds trying to figure out what was happening, even as her fingers fumbled frantically with the buckle.

“Whoa, Amanda, take it easy, sweetheart.” Simon’s voice, low and soothing, barely registered as panic overwhelmed her.

She was on an airplane.

She was going to puke.

She was on an airplane.

She was going to puke.

She was on an airplane.

She was going to— The clasp finally gave way and she leaped to her feet, made a mad dash up the aisle toward…she didn’t know what. A trash can. Some privacy. Anything.

She careened into something hard—another seat maybe—and got knocked backward. Reaching a hand out to steady herself, again she grabbed only air. The next thing she knew, she was on the ground, Simon pounding up the aisle after her. But it was too late. Her stomach revolted.

Thank God there was nothing in it.

Still, Simon shoved a paper bag in front of her, then squatted beside her as she dry heaved, again and again, her entire body shuddering with the force of her convulsions. When they finally stopped after what felt like hours, she pushed the bag away and let her forehead rest against the muted gray carpet. Inhaling long, shaky breaths, she tried to figure out what the hell was happening.

It didn’t take long. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of her nausea was that it cleared her head of the cobwebs that had taken up residence there and let her think clearly.

Obviously, she was on an airplane. Obviously, she hadn’t put herself there—she would remember making the decision to accompany Simon back to the States. In fact, the last thing she did remember was her conversation with Jack, and then the prick to her arm followed by a sudden onset of dizziness. All of which added up to the realization that she’d been drugged. She’d never responded well to sedatives, which explained her sickness.

As the last of the sluggishness cleared, she became aware of Simon crouched over her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. She jolted upright, shrugged off his hand.

“What the hell did you do to me?” she demanded, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears. Not that she gave a damn. Being kidnapped pretty much granted her the right to be as shrill as she wanted to be.

Simon drew back, his eyes wary as he scanned her face. Before he could say anything, the plane shook and shimmied as it hit a pocket of turbulence. “Let’s go back to our seats and talk this out. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He stood and offered her his hand.

She didn’t take it. Instead, she grabbed on to the nearest chair and pulled herself up, despite the continued weakness in her legs. “It’s a little late for that sentiment, isn’t it?” she asked. “Considering what you’ve done?”

The plane hit another pocket of turbulence, and the pilot’s voice came from the overhead speaker, asking them to fasten their seat belts. Furious—with Simon, Mother Nature, the hapless pilot and perhaps the entire world—Amanda flounced to where she and Simon had been sitting.

Strike that. To where Simon had been sitting and she’d been lying, unconscious. The bastard.

Refusing to sit next to him for one second longer—no matter how juvenile that made her—she plopped herself into the single seat on the other side of the aisle. As she did, she realized that the plane was quite luxurious. This wasn’t some little charter jet from Africa—this plane spoke of money and executives and power. It didn’t seem like Simon’s normal style, but then, she reminded herself abruptly, a lot of things could happen in eighteen months. She wasn’t the same woman she’d been a year and a half ago. Why should Simon not have changed?

The thought made her uncomfortable, particularly since she had plans to be coldly furious with the old Simon for the next five decades or so. She didn’t want to imagine Gabby’s death as having affected him. She didn’t want to have any sympathy for him at all.

Of course, he wasn’t too different from the old Simon. Otherwise he never would have dragged her out of Somalia without her permission. Although, if she was going to be technical, Jack had been the one to drug her. At Simon’s behest, obviously, but her oldest friend had betrayed her as surely as her ex-lover had. The next time she saw Jack, she’d have something to say to him and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Amanda, please.” Simon had settled himself across the aisle from her. “Can we talk about this?”

She very deliberately turned her head away from him. Nothing good would come from talking to him right now. The way she was feeling, she was as likely to hit him as she was to tell him to go to hell. And while she didn’t mind the latter, she’d never been a violent person and didn’t relish the thought of becoming one, even with these extenuating circumstances.

Of course, looking out the window only made her angrier. It had been night when she and Jack were talking in her tent and now it was full daylight outside. Which meant a lot of time had passed, especially considering the fact that they were traveling west. If only a few hours had passed, it would still be pitch-black.

The thought galvanized her, made her speak when she’d sworn to herself that she wasn’t going to say another word. “Where are we?”

He cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably. “A few hours out of Atlanta.”

“Atlanta?” she demanded incredulously. “How long have I been out?”

“About sixteen hours.”

“Sixteen— What the hell did you give me? Ketamine? You could have killed me!”

“I called Jack when we stopped to refuel. He had me check your vitals, and they were fine. He said the sedative was probably hitting you so hard because of how run-down you are.”

“I’m overwhelmed by both of your concern.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as she turned back around to face the window. Looking at the clouds was a lot easier than looking at Simon right now.

“Don’t do that,” he said suddenly. “Don’t pretend I’m not here—I used to hate when you did that.”

“What you like and don’t like is high on my priority list right now.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of facing him.

“I hate how you always retreat behind that stony wall of silence. I know you’re mad at me—you have the right to be. But can we talk it out like adults instead of sulking like a couple of children who’ve lost their ball on the playground?”

The words were clipped, crisp, and she realized it had been years since his accent sounded so heavy. He really was as upset by this whole thing as she was. Good. He deserved it. If that made her bitter and unfeeling, so be it. But at least she wasn’t a criminal—transporting another person from one continent to another without her permission.

“What do you want me to say, Simon?” The words were wrenched from her. “That it’s okay that you did this? It isn’t. Not at all. I’ve been making my own decisions since I was seventeen years old. I don’t appreciate one of this magnitude being taken out of my hands. And Atlanta? What the hell is in Atlanta?”

“My apartment. A little over a year ago, I took a job at a cable network based out of Atlanta.”

Despite herself, she glanced around at the very lush interior of the plane. “I think you mean you took a job at the cable network based in Atlanta, don’t you?”

He flushed a little. “Pretty much.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t know what to say, not when she was so shocked at the changes in Simon. A couple of years ago, there was no way he’d have tied himself to anyone. He’d relished being one of the top freelance journalists in the world, free to follow whatever story caught his fancy.

“I still travel a lot, though. I’m one of the people they send out when all hell breaks loose somewhere in the world.”

And there it was. That sounded like the Simon she knew. An inexplicable sense of relief filled her.

When she still didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asked. “About what happened in Africa and about…how you ended up here?” His voice trailed off lamely.

“Do you want me to wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bug out of your head?” she asked, sugar-sweet. “No? Then we probably shouldn’t talk quite yet. I’m still a little raw.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I really am.”

“You’re not the least bit sorry. Don’t insult me by pretending that you are.”

“You were killing yourself.”

“I was working. It’s what I do.” She forced herself to lower her voice, to swallow the words and insults and pain that wanted to spill out. Wanted to spill all over him. Taking a deep breath, she said as civilly as she could, “I was leaving, anyway. I was already packed.”

“You wouldn’t have come to the States—wouldn’t have gotten the rest you need.”