The walk down the wide, carpeted passageway was brief, and then they stepped through the doorway, to be greeted by a smiling female flight attendant in the same uniform the others wore. It was not a uniform she had seen on airline commercials. They were deep burgundy with muted gold trim, all very elegant and formal.
“This way, Monsieur Dubois,” said the woman in heavily accented English.
As she entered the plane, Jacyn had to struggle not to gasp. Where she expected to see rows and rows of bored, cramped passengers in too-narrow seats, there was nothing but an open area, an expanse of burgundy carpet, with white walls lined with armchairs and couch seats, upholstered in white leather.
She knew full well that her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t command her facial muscles to close it. “This is a private jet,” she stated the obvious.
“Yes, it is,” he answered mildly. Like it was no big deal.
“Yourprivate jet.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s a family plane, to be truthful.” Then, she was sure that she heard him mumble under his breath, “One of them.”
Before she could continue to blather, he gestured for her to go deeper into the softly lit space, to an area where two large, padded white armchairs waited side by side. “Do you need to go to the bathroom before we take off?”
Even if she had, she doubted she could muster the energy to say as much, so she shook her head mutely.
“Then, please,” he instructed. “Sit.”
Jacyn plopped down obediently, too overwhelmed by everything that was going on to resist his autocratic tone. A voice came over the intercom, speaking in French, and though she knew nothing of the language, she understood that the pilot was letting them know to prepare for takeoff. Beneath them, the carriage of the plane began to purr and vibrate.
This was really happening.
As they began to taxi, Jacyn’s fingers grasped the thick padded arm of her chair. She was so focused on not having a heart attack that she could barely feel his gentle hands as he clicked her seatbelt shut.
“Are you afraid of flying?” he asked. There was not a hint of mockery in his tone.
“I can’t say,” she joked weakly. “I’ve never done it before.”
He paused, searching her face with concern. “Forgive me. I should have asked.” His hand came down upon hers, large and warm. Intimate.
Startled, she flinched and snatched her hand away, but immediately it was back in his grasp. Over his shoulder, she could see the flight attendant approaching with a tray of drinks.
He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. “Do not forget, my dear Jacyn, that you and I are supposed to be lovers. Betrothed, as a matter of fact. And holding the hand of his beloved when she is afraid to fly is exactly what a thoughtful fiancé would do, is it not?”
Fascinated more by the fact that he had called her by her first name than that he was holding her hand, Jacyn nodded mutely. He squeezed it reassuringly, filling her with calm as the plane rocked slightly. She closed her eyes as they left the ground, not opening them until several moments later when she felt the plane level off and the sickening thumping in her stomach stilled.
The attendant smiled approvingly as she approached, offering them expensive-looking, frosty bottles of sparkling water from her small silver tray. He accepted one each, along with glasses filled with ice. “We need to stay hydrated, my darling. It will be a lengthy flight.”
Lengthy indeed, she thought as she brought the glass gratefully to her lips. It would be an easy eight or nine hours before touchdown in Paris. And from what she gathered, that would be only the first leg of their journey.
As the sun began to set behind them, and the continental United States faded from view, Jacyn discovered that she was relaxing. The tension in her body began to ebb. She even enjoyed the light meal prepared for them: simple platters of fancy cold cuts followed by a choice of grilled salmon or chicken, with a delightful mixed platter of fresh berries and odd but intriguing French cheeses. She’d been expecting a lavish dinner, the kind she saw in movies being served on First Class flights, with glasses of champagne and a smorgasbord of culinary delights. But, as her host explained, it was better to eat light on such a long flight.
They sipped on the best coffee she had ever tasted. Then the man got down to business.
“And now, we have much to discuss,” he announced, setting down a china cup that looked like it belonged in a museum.
She steeled herself.
“But first, this.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small box.
Immediately, her blood ran cold.
Alexandre opened it, holding it out to her. Just as she had expected, it was a ring. A delicate, filigreed band of white gold topped by a huge black pearl and surrounded by alternately placed diamonds and rubies.
“This ring has been in my family for three generations—the pearl itself is over a hundred and fifty years old. It first belonged to my great grandmother. It was her wedding ring, to be precise. It has been passed down through the generations, most recently, to my mother, who sent it to me by overnight courier the moment she heard that we were engaged, asking that I give it to you.”
He took her left hand and slid it onto her ring finger, turning it this side and that to be sure that it fit. “The setting, of course, has been redone. But I think you will like it,non?”