The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance)

Paris. The City of Lights.

I’ve never been to Paris before, but I’ve always wanted to – in a general,
Hey, I’d like to go there!
kind of way.

I made a wish one time when I was still in high school. I remember pitching a penny into a fountain and thinking,
I want to go to Paris,
but I didn’t really picture anything concrete. Maybe the Eiffel Tower. Baguettes and cheese. Wine.

You know. Paris.

I certainly didn’t envision myself on the run with a hot billionaire, chased by a serial killer, in a borrowed private plane, on a tiny airstrip, in the middle of the night, surrounded by a dozen French policemen with guns.

If I ever throw another penny in a fountain and make a wish about visiting Rome, I’m going to be a hell of a lot more specific.

The French-accented voice echoes over the megaphone again.
“I repeat, this is the Police Nationale! You are surrounded! Exit the airplane and surrender!”

Grant jumps back from the light flooding the windows and turns to Mike. “We’ve got to get out of here.
Now.
”

Mike just flew us here, from New York to France. He’s a former fighter pilot who went on combat missions in Iraq. I doubt much gets to him, but even
he
looks a little rattled. “What?!”

“Take off. Get us back in the air.”

After the initial burst of shock wears off, I realize it’s not so crazy an idea.

Let me rephrase that: it’s technically possible. The jet’s engines are still running. Mike never shut them off after we landed.

Definitely a crazy idea, just not…
so
crazy.

Mike looks stunned, then points out the obvious. “That’s the French police out there!”

I’m about to say,
He’s right, Grant. Give it up – we tried, but we lost.
Then he rips the rug out from under me.

“You don’t know that,” Grant says.

“Don’t know what?” Mike asks, bewildered.

“If they’re the French police or not.”

“Oh shit,” I whisper, realizing Grant is right.

“What?! They
said
they are!” Mike yells, gesticulating at the door to the outside.

“Back in New York, we got chased by a bunch of guys claiming to be the FBI,” I say. “But they weren’t. They were mercenaries trying to kill us.”

“Why?!”

“A serial killer’s after us.”

Mike looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “…what?!”

At first I want to ask him,
What part of ‘A serial killer’s after us’ don’t you understand?

Then I realize he’s just confused by the general idea. After all, it’s not something you tend to hear in casual conversation. I’ve grown used to it over the last 48 hours, that’s all.

Which really says a lot about how messed up my life is right now.

“Those guys out there could be mercenaries, too,” Grant says. “And if they kill us, they’re definitely not going to let
you
walk away. We need to get this plane up in the air
now.”

The megaphone erupts again.
“We know you are onboard, Monsieur Carlson! You and Mademoiselle Saunders! Surrender now, you are surrounded!”

It makes my stomach knot up to hear them call me by name.

“What if they really
are
cops?” Mike asks.

Grant cracks a wry smile. “Then I
really
need to get the hell out of here.”

“Look, even if we took off, we’re not going anywhere,” Mike snaps. “We had just enough fuel to make it to Paris – that’s it.”

“You had to have some extra for emergencies.”

“Yeah, enough for big headwinds – that’s it! I can’t get you back to New York. I probably can’t even get you to London.”

Grant narrows his eyes. “Can you get us to the English Channel?”

“What?”

“The big body of water between France and – ”

“I know what the English Channel is!” Mike yells.

“Well, can you?”

“Probably – why?”

“We’re going to need to ditch the plane in the water.”

I stare at Grant.

I figure we’re officially in ‘Crazy Idea Territory’ now.

“WHAT?!” Mike sputters.

“It’ll be a diversion, help us get away. There are parachutes onboard, right?”

“Yes, but – ”

“You must have bailed out of fighter planes when you were a military pilot,” Grant argues. “Or trained for it, at least.”

“Yeah, but not just for the hell of it!”

“It’s not just for the hell of it. If they’re mercenaries, we’re dead.”

“And if they’re cops and we run and get caught, we’re talkin’ years in jail.”

“Not for you. I’ll say I took you hostage – you’ll get off scot-free. But if we surrender now, it’ll mean decades in prison for me,” Grant says.

“Not my fuckin’ problem.”

Grant leans forward. “A million dollars.”

Mike and I both say it at the same time: “What?!”

“You said you flew here because the price was right. That’s why you took the chance. So I’m offering you a million dollars to ditch the plane in the English Channel.”

Mike cocks his head to the side. “How do I know you’ll pay me?”

I stare at our pilot. “THAT’S your objection?!”

“You also told us that Connor said he’d trust me with his life,” Grant says. “You can trust me to pay you.”

“This is a twenty million dollar plane!” Mike exclaims.

“I’ll pay Connor back. I can afford it,” Grant says in a deadpan voice.

“This is insane,” I protest.

“Getting killed or going to prison because I don’t want to spend twenty million is a lot more insane.”

“Ten,” Mike says, a glint in his eye.

“Ten what?” I ask.

“Ten million to run and ditch,” Mike clarifies.

“WHAT?!” I yell, incredibly incensed. My life is on the line, and this guy is trying to milk Grant for more money.

Grant doesn’t seem to mind. “Two,” he counters.

“YOU’RE NEGOTIATING?!” I scream at him.

“This is business,” Grant says.

They go back and forth, rapidfire.

“Nine.”

“Three.”

“Six.”

“Four.”

“Five,” Mike offers.

“Done,” Grant says, and shakes Mike’s hand, who gets back in the cockpit. “Where are the parachutes?”

“In the rear. It’s marked on a door.”

Grant heads for the rear of the plane. I follow him.

Outside, the French guy is noticeably more agitated.
“I am losing patience, Monsieur Carlson! Cut the engines and surrender NOW!”

“Are you serious about this?!” I ask Grant, shocked beyond belief.

“Serious as a heart attack,” he answers as he pulls several bulky backpack-looking things out of a storage locker marked EMERGENCY – PARACHUTES.

“Do you really think they’re mercenaries?” I ask fearfully.

“Oh, no. We’d already be dead if they were mercenaries.”

“WHAT?! So instead, you’re going to risk our lives parachuting out of a plane you’re going to dump in the English Channel?!”

“Yeah, of course,” he says in tone of voice like
It’s obvious.

I stare at him.

He realizes I’m not exactly onboard about how obvious it all is.

“Thirty years in jail is not exactly a wonderful alternative,” he explains.

“For YOU, maybe, but it’s not thirty years in jail for
me!”
I rage.

Grant looks at me. “Are you mad about the five million? Because I’ll give you five million, too, if you – ”

“IT’S NOT THE FIVE MILLION, GRANT! I DON’T WANT TO DIE!”

“You’re not going to die.”

“I’ve never parachuted before!”

“We’ll be jumping out together,” he assures me.

“I don’t – ”

“This is your last warning!”
the voice yells outside.
“You have ten seconds to lower the door on the aeroplane! Ten – nine – ”

The plane suddenly lurches into motion, and I stumble against Grant.

The voice starts screaming something that sounds like,
“Tier A! Tier A, Tier A, Tier A!”

I wonder what ‘Tier A’ means – like ‘Plan B’ in English, maybe? – when a hail of gunshots ring out.

A bunch of metal
ping! ping! pings!
clatter against the side of the plane, and several windows crack.

I scream.

Grant throws himself on top of me and forces us to the floor.

“On second thought, maybe they aren’t actually the cops,” Grant mutters next to my ear.

“HANG ON!” Mike yells from the cockpit.

The plane accelerates quickly.

More gunfire blasts outside.

Grant grabs the metal bases of the nearest seats, which are bolted to the plush-carpeted floor. Then he intertwines his legs with mine like we’re doing some rear-entry sex position out of the Kama Sutra.

Which would have been hot if, you know, I wasn’t worried about dying.

As the plane lifts into the air at a severe angle, the parachutes go tumbling down the aisle away from us. I can feel gravity tugging me backwards, threatening to do the same to me. Only Grant’s intertwined legs and the force of his body against mine keep me from somersaulting backwards towards the rear of the plane.

Thirty
long
-ass seconds go by before the plane levels off enough where we can finally get up from the floor.

“You okay?” Grant asks.

“Yeah,” I gasp.

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What?”

“Any take-off you can walk away from is a good one.”

“They say that about landings,” I snap, annoyed that he’s so jokey about the whole thing.

“Well, we definitely won’t be walking away from
this
landing,” he says, then gives me a wink as he walks to the back of the cabin to retrieve the parachutes.

“You’re not helping!” I yell at him.

The wind is whistling eerily through the bullet holes in the glass windows. But I realize that no oxygen masks have fallen out of the ceiling.

Come to think of it, I have no idea if small jets like this even have that capability – but then I decide they must. Billionaires are even more invested in keeping themselves alive than airlines are.

“How come we can still breathe?” I call out.

“We’re flying relatively low. We can’t go too high or we’ll depressurize,” Mike shouts from the cockpit.

“Just as long as you can get us to the Channel,” Grant yells back. “How long till we’re there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Can’t we go any faster?”

Mike looks back over his shoulder in irritation. “Ten minutes is pedal to the medal, bud! We’re flying full throttle here!”

 Grant walks up to the cockpit. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What, besides flee the French authorities and get myself shot at?”

“Five million should buy me that and more,” Grant retorts.

“You’re going to milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you.”

“
Yeah,
” Grant says, like DUH.

“Thank God I only have to listen to you for another… nine minutes, then,” Mike says as he checks the dashboard. “What’s the favor?”

“Aim slightly west of where you would ordinarily cross the Channel. We’ll jump out there, you fly up the coast for a few minutes, then cut across and head for London.”

“Why?”

“When they search the area where the plane goes down, I want to be as far away as possible.”

“I can’t exactly promise the fuel will last that long,” Mike warns.