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“What do you meanyou don’t have a passport?”
Jet’s dark gaze bores into mine like an interrogation as I stand in the hallway, dressed in a pencil skirt and blouse that belongs to Margaret’s daughter. After the reality sunk in about what I agreed to, I realized I hadn’t packed anything suitable to wear. I was supposed to be working in the pool house, not trailing Jet Grant around London while he chases some guy around.
“Exactly as it sounds. I don’t have one.”
“Did you lose it?” Jet frowns.
“No, it expired.”
He sighs, rubbing at his temples like I’m the biggest blot on an otherwise perfectly white sheet of paper.
“Fine. Fetch your old one. It’ll make the process faster.”
He lifts his eyes to mine when I don’t move.
“It ran out ten years ago. I threw it away.”
The disbelief on his face would be priceless, and something I’d take delight in, if my stomach wasn’t in painful knots at the way this conversation is skating so close to memories I’d prefer not to think about right now.
“You haven’t left the country in ten years?” he balks like I’ve told him the world is about to ban all drinking glasses so that everyone has to drink straight from the carton now or die of thirst.
When I say nothing, he shakes his head, blowing out a breath. “Marvelous,” he mutters, pulling his phone out of his navy suit pants and tapping out a message.
“Do I need it, just for one meeting?”
“It won’t be just one. There will be several. Like my father said, Callaghan is a snake. But I understand if one is all you can squeeze in.”
Boredom creeps into his tone. He’s giving me an easy out. He wants us working together as much as I do.
Like a punch in the nose.
“I can work on my laptop in the car if I need to catch up. And I prefer working in the evenings anyway.” I shrug, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the one who backs out. Besides, I still haven’t managed to write more than one page since coming here. Writer’s block sucks. “I’ll come for as many meetings as it takes to get what you need from him,” I add, and he grimaces.
“Fine,” he grits.
“Can’t you use my driver’s license?”
“No.” His gaze is set on his phone, his lips pressed into a firm line as he continues to type on it.
He’s being difficult on purpose. Surely, I can have a company ID issued with my license. It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere unescorted. I doubt Jet will let me out of his sight, probably worried I’ll act like anuncivilized delinquentas he so kindly called me.
“Why not? It has my photo. I’ve got a library card, too.”
He pockets his phone. “You can’t leave the country with a library card.”
A tide of nausea curls up my windpipe and wrings the air from it, until I feel like I’m choking.
“Leave the country?” I must have misheard him. “Jet?” I press when he doesn’t respond.
I will my pulse to slow down. It’s beating so loud he’ll probably hear it and get excited thinking I’m having a heart attack.
Maybe I am.
“That a problem?” His gaze narrows on me like a predator, sensing weakness.
“Of course not.” I fidget with my skirt, wiping my sweaty palms on it.
“Then let’s stop wasting time.” He strides to the front door, holding it open for me. “Callaghan left London a day earlier than expected. We’ll have to go to him.”
