“You’re like oxygen to me, Kat,” he said. “And how could I possibly forget to breathe?”
I watched him move to the front of the plane, this man I loved who made me happier than I could ever imagine being, and, despite everything going on around us, made me feel safer than I could ever imagine.
I thought about the call he was making—about the pictures that were going to be out in the world.
I waited for the nausea to sweep over me, but it didn’t. Just a tingle of unpleasantness, like that uncomfortable feeling when you have bad news to share with a friend.
I’d survive this. With Cole at my side, I would survive this just fine.
It took a few moments, but then the accordion-style sliding door opened and he stepped back into the passenger cabin. I stood immediately, alarmed by the expression on his face. Not anger. Not disgust or sadness or protectiveness or any emotion that I had anticipated.
No, he looked bewildered.
“Cole?” I took his arm and led him to the couch, then sat beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s dead,” Cole said. “I spoke with Michael. Ilya Muratti is dead.”
“Dead? But—how?”
He faced me, his dark eyes unreadable. “Someone broke into his house last night. Got all the way to his bedroom, put a bullet through his head, and managed to get out of the house undetected.”
I sat back, an odd mixture of shock and relief coursing through me. That, though, was pushed aside almost immediately by fear. “You didn’t—”
“No,” he said, so quickly and with such force that there was no doubting his words. “And I don’t know for certain, but I think that Michael did.”
“Michael? You think he killed his own father?”
“I do,” he said.
“But why?”
“The old man was a liability. This bullshit with you, the whole thing with the vendetta against your father. Ilya was about revenge and about keeping a tight fist around his empire. Michael is about playing it smart.”
I considered that for a moment, letting the ramifications of what he was saying flow over me. “The pictures,” I began, my words coming slowly. “If Michael is about business, then there’s no reason for him to release the pictures.”
“No,” Cole agreed. “There’s not.”
“Do you think he’s going to just drop it?”
“He told me as much.” A slow grin lit his face. “It’s over, baby. He’s even mailing me the memory card. It’s not perfect—for all we know he has them saved in the cloud somewhere—but I think you’re safe.”
I sagged against him, overwhelmed by relief. And as his arms wrapped around me to pull me close, I let myself go and cried.
“There’s no reason to leave now,” Cole said, when my tears finally stopped and I could breathe normally again. “Do you want to stay in Chicago?”
“Do you?”
“No,” he said. “I want to show you Paris. Hell, I want to show you the world.”
“Good.” I sat up and looked around the cabin, then smiled wickedly. “I want to see the world,” I told him. “But first I’m looking forward to the flight. I didn’t think about it the first time we flew, but the place has potential. It’s not as well-equipped as our playroom,” I teased, “but I think this cabin will do just fine.”
Something devious sparked in his eyes. “I was thinking that when you move in with me, we can completely remodel your place. Forget playroom. We’ll have a full-fledged playhouse.”
“When I move in?” I asked, the deliciously decadent concept of an entire playhouse skipping right out of my mind like a stone across the water. “Am I moving in?”
“I figure that’s a first step.” He took my hand. “Then a ring, then children after that,” he finished, moving his hand to press it flat on my belly.
“Oh.” I felt breathless and a little dizzy and more than a little overwhelmed. His wife. His partner. His. “Is this a proposal?” I asked.