Page 4 of Veiled Fantasies

But no wedding ring. What did that say?

Maybe he wasn’t married. Just in one of those modern partnerships that didn’t need documentation to prove its depth.

Sigh.

She sat and she sat until the chance came to stand up. Just what she needed: a little distance, a quick breather. Movement, that would help. She paced the aisle then stopped to stretch.

The passengers were all hushed, each in their own bubble of apathy as minutes and miles slipped by. Watching movies, reading, dozing. A thin man was clicking through the channels on his screen in what seemed to be an endless loop. A child tugged at his mother’s seatbelt, not quite ready to let her sleep. An older woman buried her nose in a paperback with a rose and thorn on the cover. Everyone in their own little universe, tuning out the dull drone of the aircraft’s engines, intoxicated by the stale cabin air.

The stewardess was getting another drink cart ready. Her baggy eyes sent Jill’s imagination flying. She was probably a divorced mother of two, struggling to balance career and family despite the betrayal of that no-good pilot of an ex-husband she wished she’d never met. Or maybe she was still recovering from a heavy night out partying. Or maybe…

Voices, loud and insistent, came from behind. Jill turned to see three men–large men, big hulking ones—all three of them jammed into the center aisle of four seats, along with a single traveler who looked like he wanted anejectbutton–for them or himself, didn’t matter which.

The two men flanking the third wore ill-fitting suits. Brits, judging by the accents. The one in the middle was the dark, surly character she’d spotted in the departure lounge. His eyes were on the floor in silent defiance. The Englishmen were barking at him, repeating themselves, getting louder and louder.

One of them was butchering a basic Russian phrase, and she winced. Russian was hard for English speakers. The sounds were just so different. Sounds Jill knew well from her mother’s soothing voice. Russian was their special language, handed down from her immigrant grandparents. Just Jill and her mother and her sister. What fun it had been keeping petty secrets from her father that way! He was always a good sport about it, though. A loving husband and a good father—that was her dad.

The surly man in the middle, however, did not appear to be a good sport. Probably because the Brit was hacking the language apart so badly. Before thinking, Jill offered to translate.

The beefy man in the cheap suit looked surprised, then relieved. “Tell him they’ll take the meal away if he doesn’t finish, and there’ll be no more after that.” The words were harsh, uncompromising.

Huh? Okay. As the words rolled off her tongue, the dark man’s eyes snaked up to her face. She half expected a relieved or appreciative look, but his eyes were smoldering, angry. She pulled back an inch.

He sat so quietly that she wondered if he even spoke Russian. Maybe it was a mistake. He had the olive skin of someone from one of the former Soviet republics—Georgia, or maybe Kazakhstan? He had jet black hair and jet black eyes that burned in bitter flames. She almost expected him to curse at her, given that look, but he merely grunted. “Dirty pigs!”

Huh? What about his meal?

It dawned on her that something was not quite right. The two outside men were hemming in the third. Why? Then one of them shifted, and she caught the dull sheen of metal.

Handcuffed. The man in the middle was handcuffed to his seat.

A criminal. A terrorist, maybe. Jesus! How did she do it? How did she manage to overlook these things? She was translating for a criminal being transported somewhere, like a tribunal in the Hague. Why hadn’t she just walked away?

The criminal went on, his tone insistent. “Dirty pigs!” His accent was definitely from one of the old republics. He was not at all happy about this travel arrangement, not at all. “These pigs are holding me illegally!”

She leaned away and sensed the beefy Brit straining to understand. The prisoner was ranting now. “Alert the authorities! They’re lying criminals! They’re—”

“What’s he saying?” the red-faced officer cut in.

She froze, caught between the narrowing eyes of the officer and the criminal’s dark stare. His look went deathly cold, threatening.

How stupid could I be to get mixed up in this?

She stuck her hands up. “I’m—I’m sorry. I don’t think I can help.”

“What does he want?” the officer insisted.

She glanced at the flashing eyes of the criminal and immediately turned away. “I couldn’t quite get it, I’m sorry.”

Passengers were craning their necks now, wondering what to make of the exchange. Jill scurried back to her seat, so flustered that she forgot to scope out Mr. Perfect on the way. Her heart was thumping so loudly, she almost started drumming her fingers to cover it up. Even a series of deep, steadying breaths couldn’t stop a wave of negative self-talk.Of all the people on this flight to talk to, you pick–not the gorgeous hunk next to you. No, you pick the insane criminal on his way to jail.

God, she was hopeless. No wonder she was still alone.

She grabbed her water bottle and gave it a shake. Empty. When was the stewardess finally going to bring another round of drinks?

A long hour later, that’s when.

“Something for you, sir?” The stewardess asked, brightening at the sight of Perfect.

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