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“Never been so happy to have an unannounced visitor,” Trystan drawled.
“Again,” Iris grumbled. “Not unannounced.”
He lowered a kiss on top of her head.
“Just playing, sugarplum,” he dropped the words in her ear, before nuzzling the sensitive skin just beneath her earlobe. He lifted his head to address Sam again. “So the plane’s all prepped? As per my specifications?”
“It is.”
“The plane?” Iris squeaked. As in a specific plane? That was unexpected.
“Hmm.”
She supposed it was to be accepted that a man of his celebrity and status would travel by private jet, but it hadn’t once occurred to her that it would be their mode of transportation home. Did he own it? Or was he just renting it? Regardless, the staggering display of wealth was daunting and made her uncomfortable.
Before she had a chance to mull it over, he moved his hand to the small of her back and urged her toward the car.
“Time to go, sweetheart.”
Iris took one last look at the beautiful house that had sheltered them these past few weeks and took her first step into an unknown future.
Chapter Seventeen
“You okay?” Trystan asked once they were seated aboard the luxurious private jet. He had steered Iris to two comfortable side-by-side seats and was now turned toward her, both of her hands clasped in his, keeping his gaze trained on hers. Chance discreetly moved to the front of the plane—taking Luna with him—and after stowing his tog bag in a tucked-away storage compartment, moved toward the cockpit where he had a brief conversation with the pilot.
“I think so.” She wasn’t sure what else to say in response to his question, her eyes nervously scanning the gorgeous interior of the outrageously luxe plane. Everything was tastefully decorated in muted cream and burgundy, with burled wood finishes. It felt like she was sitting in an easy chair and it in no way resembled the discomfort of the plane seat she’d endured during her inbound journey—her first flight ever. It was a lot to take in, but she couldn’t enjoy the experience when her entire being was focused on the still-open door.
Their cabin attendant was amiably chatting with a member of the ground crew, her hand on the interior handle of the door, which she was clearly ready to close once her conversation concluded.
“Iris? Hey, Iris. Eyes on me, yeah?” Trystan murmured, his index finger and thumb grasping her chin and turning her head toward him. “Do you need to take your pills?”
She nodded and fumbled through her massive bag as she hunted for the plastic tube.
“They’re not in here,” she whispered, hysteria and panic edging their way into her voice.
“Let me have a look,” he said, his voice still low and soothing. She handed her bag to him and he rooted around for a few seconds before producing the bottle of pills.
“They were buried beneath the heaps of receipts and the half-dozen packets of travel tissues you have stowed in there,” he teased when she grabbed hold of the small container gratefully. He handed her a glass bottle of water, which he’d magically produced seemingly out of thin air, and she gratefully gulped down a couple of pills.
His warm hand burrowed beneath her curls where he palmed the nape of her neck which he gently massaged.
Iris focused on her deep-breathing techniques and was vaguely aware of a female voice asking if they needed anything. Trystan’s voice was curt when he responded, but Iris didn’t hear what he said. She was fighting hard to keep her nausea at bay.
“What do you need to do to make this easier?”
“I just need to breathe,” she told him shakily. “I’m sorry. I’ll be okay. It’s a little harder after everything that happened.”
Trystan winced. Harder after he’d exacerbated an under-control phobia by imprisoning her, she meant. He could feel the fine tremors racking through her body, and wasn’t entirely sure what to do for her. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy and had been dreading it, but had hoped the private jet would be an exciting enough experience to distract her from her fear.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be fine,” she said again, and his heart just about broke as he understood that despite her terror, she was trying to comfort him. When he didn’t fucking deserve it. “I just need a minute.”
She was bent nearly double, her face almost to her knees and his hand left her nape to stroke gentle circles on her narrow back.
“Take your time, baby,” he murmured, leaning toward her, trying to offer her his heat and strength as a bolster. He began to regale her with facts about the Bombadier Global 7500 they were on.
It wasn’t his jet. It belonged to their generous host, Miles Hollingsworth.
The man used it often for business, since he shuttled between South Africa and London regularly. The plane had just dropped off several of his executives a few days ago—for meetings—and when Miles had learned that Trystan was on his way back he’d generously offered him use of the jet.
