Page 16 of Lethal Illusion (Six Points Security #8)

That wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t need to know that. The weight one ticked her off. She did not have a baby bump. Still, she’d rather eat a jar of Miracle Whip than admit it got under her skin.

As if reading her thoughts, Navarre said, “For the record, you don’t look pregnant. That asshole was trying to get a rise out of you.”

“Good job not taking the bait,” Jackson added.

“I’ve been called worse things than fat.

” A few of the nastier ones sprang to mind, vivid and raw and hurtful as hell, and she ruthlessly brushed them aside.

Now wasn’t a good time to revisit insecurities from what felt like a lifetime ago.

Honestly, there never was a good time for that.

She had better things to do than dwell on the taunts of schoolyard bullies.

At the end of the driveway, the gate rolled open, and they slowly drove past the photographers and onto the street.

The second SUV, with Garrett and Rosario inside, trailed a few car lengths behind, while a few of the photographers scrambled to their cars so they could follow.

Navarre turned up the volume on the radio, and the sound of Freddie Mercury’s voice drowned out a second barrage of questions from the remaining paparazzi.

“Last I checked, there weren’t any traffic concerns, so we should arrive at the airport in thirty minutes,” Jackson said. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”

Once again, Navarre’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror. “Do you have a music preference?”

“Not really. This is fine.” She’d grown up listening to a wide range of music, so she was familiar with everything from the Bee Gees to Billie Eilish. Queen had been part of her playlist at an early age.

Apparently, Jackson wasn’t a fan. He made a low sound in the back of his throat to convey his displeasure. “I was hoping you’d say you were a fan of R&B. Now we’re stuck listening to old people music.”

“Dude, you’re older than me,” Navarre said.

“Yeah, but I’m young at heart. I don’t listen to the kind of music you hear at the grocery store.”

A hint of humor teased Navarre’s lips. “I heard ‘Talking to the Moon’ at Publix the other day.”

Judging by the scowl on Jackson’s face, the comment struck a nerve. “You’re just making that up.”

The light ahead went from yellow to red, and Navarre slowed to a stop behind a silver minivan. “I think I might have also heard some Usher.”

“Okay, now I know you’re messing with me.”

“I don’t know,” Sloane said, unable to resist. “I’ve heard ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry at Publix, and that song came out years after Usher’s early albums.”

Jackson glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’re not helping.”

She laughed. Being part of the lighthearted banter took her mind off the photographers following them, and the fact she’d have to get back into character as soon as they reached the airport.

Construction added ten minutes to their drive, but they still arrived at their destination with plenty of time to spare.

Navarre rolled down the window, spoke with the guard at the entrance, and waited for the security gate to open.

Leaving the paparazzi behind, they drove straight onto the tarmac, where Sierra’s private jet was already fueled and ready to go.

The flight crew stood at the base of the steps leading into the aircraft.

After the SUV came to a stop, Jackson got out and opened the door for her, while Navarre moved to the back of the vehicle and opened the trunk so the crew could load their luggage. Garrett and Rosario parked beside them and got out.

“The plane’s a lot bigger than I thought it would be,” she said. “I don’t even want to know how much it costs.”

“Imagine having enough money to buy one of these things,” Garrett replied.

“From what I heard, Sierra doesn’t own it,” Navarre said. “She charters the jet when she travels. It’s cheaper that way.”

Curiosity got the better of Sloane as she watched the last of their luggage being loaded onto the plane. “What happens with the cars?”

As if on cue, two men—she’d seen them around the office but didn’t know their names—emerged from the jet. They collected the keys for the SUVs and drove them off the tarmac.

Navarre turned his gaze to her. “All right, we better get going. Follow Jackson. I’ll be right behind. Don’t forget to put your left hand on the rail when you climb the stairs.”

“I won’t.” She almost gave a mock salute but resisted the urge, because Sierra would never do anything like that.

She stepped into the plane and—whoa. She’d seen pictures of what the inside of a private jet looked like, but experiencing it up close and personal elevated it to another level.

Soft, ambient lighting bathed the cabin in a warm glow, complementing the wood paneling and accents of brushed metal.

Plush leather seats, arranged in a spacious, ergonomic layout, offered ample room for relaxation.

A state-of-the-art entertainment system boasted a huge high-definition screen that currently played nature footage of a coral reef, while the nearby bar was stocked with crystal glassware and a generous selection of top-shelf beverages.

“Sure beats flying economy, doesn’t it?” Jackson said. “Just wait until you try the seats. They have adjustable headrests and built-in massagers. You’ll never want to cram your body into an economy class seat again.”

She glanced up—and up at him. The man had to be at least six four and two hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle. “I’m surprised you’d even fit into one of those.”

“It’s possible, but it sure isn’t pretty.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth against dark skin. “One star, would not recommend.”

She laughed. “Should I sit anywhere in particular? You know, just in case anybody’s watching with a mega-zoom lens.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Nah, you’re good. Sit wherever you like.”

She chose a window seat near the wing and—oh, yes, he was right. Soft yet supportive, it was amazingly comfortable. Every muscle in her body relaxed. No one, not even a certain grumpy guy who just walked by as if she didn’t exist, could make her body tense.

Once everyone was seated, the jet taxied onto the runway.

From her spot by the window, Sloane watched as the engines roared to life, powerful yet smooth.

Within seconds, the jet lifted off the tarmac, and the urban landscape gradually shrunk into a mosaic of streets and buildings.

A little higher, and the city faded into the distance, replaced by white, fluffy clouds.

Minutes later, the plane leveled off its ascent, and the Fasten Seat Belts sign switched off, allowing passengers to move about the cabin.

Sloane unfastened her seat belt but remained in her seat. “How long will it take for us to get there?”

“About an hour and a half,” Rosario said. “From there, it’s an hour or so drive to Ms. Page’s place.”

She’d seen pictures of Sierra’s home in one of those online celebrity sites. Nestled deep in the mountains of North Carolina, it reminded her of a ski resort: all that space, but for only one person, which seemed like a waste to her.

No matter. The house was hers for the weekend, and she planned to enjoy every last minute of it. The hardest part of the job was over.

Nothing but good times ahead.