Page 47 of The Duke's Virgin

If it wasme, I’d rather know.

* * *

I felthis frustration as the small electric cart buzzed through the terminal at JFK. I’d ridden along with him to the customer service desk for the airline as they tried to get him on a flight—of course, the Hereditary Grand Duke of Luxembourg wasn’t going to stand in line like other people. He was escorted to a quiet, elegant suite where several people hovered around him, offering cocktails, snacks, or a quick meal from the nearby restaurant. He’d declined all offers and just sat and waited, with me at his side in an elegant scoop chair that was easier to look at than to sit in.

As soon as we realized there wasn’t any chance of him booking flights, I’d started trying to book him a rental car. I didn’t have his information, but I knew how things worked. Money talked.

If I couldfinda car available…

I snagged what looked like an availability and called the desk, ending up on hold.

Tapping the driver’s arm, I told him which rental agency, and he nodded when I spoke to the airport concierge sitting in the seat next to him. He whipped out his phone and dialed.

I wasn’t surprised to hear him speaking to somebody at the agency, even while I continued to wait on hold.

The man’s shoulders slumped, and I closed my eyes for a brief moment as I disconnected the call. There was no reason to keep holding anyway. As I put my phone into my lap, the trim, slim man in front of me straightened.

His name was Frank, I remembered.

He cleared his throat and turned to look at us, first at Luka, then at me. “I’m terribly sorry…”

Next to me, Luka slumped. I braced myself and picked up my phone once more, tapping out a message to my driver, Ricky. I wasn’t going to commit his time without making sure he wasn’t okay with it.

My parents did that.

Ididn’t.

It didn’t even take him two minutes to respond.

If you need my help, Miss Stace, I’m there for you.

I knew him so well that even though I was reading a text, I couldhearhis deep, laconic southern drawl permeating the words, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Next to me, Luka muttered under his breath, the words so despondent, I wanted to wrap my arms around him.

Instead, I took his hand and squeezed lightly. “I think I can help.”

He looked tired and despondent but offered a faint smile. “How?”

I told him, and he listened, brows furrowed. Several times, he started to object, but I held up a hand.

His brows shot straight up.

I realized the concierge was still watching us—not only didhisbrows go up as well, his mouth dropped open. Granted, he snapped it shut immediately after, but still, his shock was obvious.

“I’m sorry,” I said, clearing my throat. Nerves crowded up, and I shoved them back. “I just…look.” I nodded at the gathering crowds heading toward the rental car agencies. “It makes more sense to do it my way than for you to keep fighting to get a rental in a city the size of New York. It will be a nightmare. This way is simple.”

Luka took my hand. “You’ve already helped so much, Stacia.”

I hadn’t, not really. “Luka, let me do this. You’re worried sick about your friend, and you’re clearly exhausted. We can get a few hours of sleep at my place, and my driver will pick us up in the morning, then we can get you to Montreal.”

He wanted to argue. I could see it in his eyes.

“Think about Emmett. Even if you got there tonight, you shouldn’t disturb him. He needs to rest.”

“That’s playing dirty,” he said with a dark scowl.

“It’s the truth. And you know it.” I could see the acknowledgment in his eyes, and the exhaustion. I forged on before he could argue. “My driver is already here, waiting to pick me up. He needs to get some sleep before taking such a long drive, and he doesn’t have his passport, but if you’re willing to wait until morning, we can take you to Montreal. It’s a six-hour drive, but if we leave around seven—”

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