A gray limousine—one of Surfers’ most common modes of transportation—was waiting for them as they disembarked. At least it’d provide much-needed anonymity, space and distance from the roadblock in her life that was Luke De Rossi. She settled in the soft leather seat, buckled up and prayed for the forty-minute drive to be over as quickly as possible. “Drink?” She glanced up and he nodded to the bar fridge laid into the dash. “Mineral water, juice, Coke…” “Tequila?” He didn’t bat an eye. “Sure.” She smiled humorlessly. “Mineral water’s fine.” She waited until he’d finished playing host, until he handed her the drink, poured himself a Scotch on the rocks then settled back. She pointedly turned to the window and drew the icy glass across her cheek with a sigh. First those cameras, the frenzied questions, everyone pushing and shoving. Then the scary, gut-wrenching flight that felt as if her stomach had been sucked out with a straw. Yet she’d made it. Triumph curved her lips in the tinted reflection.
