79
Vermulen’s yacht had left Antibes thirty-six hours before, bound for southern Italy, but he was waiting for her by the plane that would take them to meet it. Alix ran to him, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled their bodies tight, crushing her breasts against his chest, feeling him hard against her. She looked up at him, eyes half closed, lips fractionally parted, and he kissed her with a fierceness that filled her senses with the smell, the taste, the feel of him.
Vermulen let go of her, and looked for the nearest one of his men.
“ Maroni.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Tell Mr. Reddin that the men can stand easy for the next fifteen minutes. Then come back here and assume sentry duty at the foot of these steps. No one gets in the plane till I say so. You got that?”
Maroni grinned. “Yes, sir!”
Vermulen led Alix up into the plane. In the cramped cabin, he gave a crooked, apologetic smile.
“Not very romantic, I’m afraid. I’ve got champagne and flowers waiting on the yacht.”
She leaned forward, brushed his cheek with her lips, and whispered in his ear, “I don’t care.”
He had no idea she was faking.