TOKYO, JAPAN

American Airlines flight 1402 sat on the tarmac. Terry Thorne looked out the first class window, scanning the runway for movement. No baggage carts, mechanics, fuel trucks. Nothing. Just an open runway lined in white lights with the brilliant nighttime cityscape of Tokyo in the distance. He glanced at the time in the system tray of his laptop, his face bathed in its dim blue glow: 01:00 hours. His flight had been delayed for over an hour already.

Terry looked up the aisle to catch the tall blonde flight attendant staring at him, a finger playing at the blue scarf at her throat. She was attractive, great legs, if a bit mature. But when he caught her eye her face brightened into a sincere, attentive smile that made her seem younger, made a handsome face pretty. It was a transformation he was used to seeing in women who crossed his path, yet one that never ceased to surprise and delight him.

"Can I help you, sir?" she chirped a little too brightly.

She was his for the asking. He knew it. But he wasn't asking. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight he was rooted, just wanted to get back to the office after a long week of drumming up business the old fashioned way, pounding the pavement and knocking on doors. Home, he mused wistfully. And where was that? Certainly not the overpriced shoebox LA condo where he currently kept his clothes. Hotel rooms were his only real home these days. Life was the road, selling Thorne-McGrath, the Risk Management insurance shop he and his partner were struggling to get off the ground. Business travel was fraught with difficulties, but the chance to be his own boss was worth any sacrifice. No matter how long it took, he and Dino would make a go of it, even if it killed them both. And at this rate, it might. Still, it was better than the Royal Armed Forces and the bloody SAS any day. That was guaranteed to kill you sooner or later.

"What's the hold up, love?" Terry asked, his tone friendly but direct. "Can't be the traffic this time. Runways are clear." He ran a hand over his tired face. He'd shaved that afternoon and was close to needing another already.

She exchanged glances with her co-worker, a redhead. Americans. Both of them exotic and brilliant gems in the sea of beautiful and mysterious Asian women he'd been swimming in all week. Both wore poker faces.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Mr. Thorne. It should only be a few more minutes. Can I get you another drink? Vodka tonic, right?"

He suppressed the withering scowl he wanted to show her with a practiced smile and nodded. Catch more flies with honey, mum always said…but his patience was running thin. Airlines were bullshit liars. He'd flown enough to know that either A, something was seriously wrong with the plane and they would soon move everyone onboard to another; or B, that they were waiting on the late arrival of some fucking VIP. The first class cabin was empty except for him, so he gathered that was probably it after all. Ballocks.

The blonde reached over him to set the drink down on the tray of the window seat where he'd cast off his Armani suit jacket and tie. Her blouse opened a little too wide at the throat, exposing the hint of a lacey white bra. No accident there.

"Beauty," Terry breathed in appreciation. "Thanks love."

She leaned close and made a point of smelling his subtle cologne. "I love your accent, Mr. Thorne. Are you from England?"

"Australia," he corrected.

"Close," she teased.

"Not remotely. Far side of the world," he insisted, mildly disappointed, though he should have been used to it by now. Traveling Aussies were always being mistaken for bloody Poms. And when was the last time he'd been home to Oz anyway? He could barely remember. It'd been yonks. He nearly was a bloody Pom. Or worse, a Yank.

She sauntered away, casting a last look over her shoulder to punctuate the offer. Nice swing on the back porch. Not too bright, but at least he'd get a blanket when he wanted one. And maybe if the flight was cancelled, a layover wouldn't be so bad. Especially if the redhead could be enticed to join the party…

But for now there was work to catch up on. Terry tapped delicate keys with thick fingers and brought up his email client, clicking the attachment marked with a red exclamation point. His partner, Dean McGrath, used that icon judiciously, so he knew when he saw one that it really was a barnburner.

Priority One, Downtown," the accompanying email proclaimed. "The golden goose just landed in our little pond."

Terry chuffed an unamused laugh. "Golden calf, more like."

Inside the secure login, the PDF file included newspaper articles, magazine stories, web site reports, all on one woman with a familiar face. Familiar, that is, unless you'd been living under a rock for the last decade. The woman was Isis Knox, lead singer of the chart-topping rock band Unforgiven.

They called her music alternative, industrial, even gothic. It was all Greek to Thorne. His favorite musician was Bruce Springsteen. This was a new generation, one he'd never been in touch with, and from the looks of it, he was glad.

Terry studied her face. She was beautiful by any man's standard. Long dark hair, eyes that smoldered, and a figure that wouldn't quit. The face of a doll and the body of a goddess. Even all the crazy shit she did to herself couldn't quite make her ugly: the tattoos, the black eyeliner, and garish makeup. It just seemed to make her delicate features that much more forbidden and mysterious. Enticing, tough, and dangerous, but with a hint of vulnerability that drew him in. Like every other man in the Western world, Thorne had enjoyed watching her videos. The music he didn't much care for, but the way she moved when she danced…Christ, those curves. Hips like the arc of a river's blue line on a map, and a rack like - well fuck, like the Alps. That was God's country, all right. Or some ancient Goddess', as her name suggested. She had a habit of showing it off, without really exposing much. Neat trick, the way she did that. Somehow that made it so much sexier than just baring all. Classier.

Brittney Spears, Shakira, Beyonce, they were all beautiful women; singers and dancers of amazing talent. But Isis Knox, she was in a different league. One with Madonna perhaps, but darker. Less bubblegum, more gravitas. When he thought about it, Terry realized that Isis Knox was in a league of her own.

But for all her success, she was unlucky.

He read on, but knew much of the story already, remembered it all playing out in the media a couple years ago. Isis married young to another rocker from Seattle: Court Colbert from the grunge band Rapture. He was the biggest rock star of the decade. His impact on the music industry was heard in every band on the radio for years to come. He'd been brilliant, but unstable, as so many creative types appear to be. And like Jimi Hendrix, another of Thorne's personal favorites, he'd been a notorious heroin addict. At the tender age of 27, Colbert overdosed in his Seattle home. Many had blamed Isis, called her the new Yoko Ono, but Thorne saw little evidence for such charges. She'd been nothing but devastated at his impromptu public memorial, eulogizing him as a visionary and tragically, her only love.

After her husband's death, Knox challenged the surviving band members when they wanted to sell out Rapture's musical legacy, hoping for quick cash by allowing Colbert's songs to be used in video games and commercials. With controlling interest of the royalties, Isis stopped them. They called her the Queen Bitch for it. Any man who did the same, Terry thought, would probably just be called a shrewd businessman. The songs would be worth far more in years to come, unpolluted by commercialism.

She was unlucky, all right. But you make your own luck, Thorne reasoned. And Isis made her own drama. Plenty of it. She had a temper to match her talent. The news reports were full of stories on the celebrities she'd pissed off, and the physical altercations that had arisen from her words. Feuds with other stars she considered 'talentless poseurs' like Paris Hilton. For all her beauty and talent, Isis Knox had a big mouth and precious little patience. The press was always eager to jump on her latest outburst, knowing it would stir the waters and sell the papers.

The Treo smartphone vibrated on the tray table. Terry nearly choked on his vodka tonic when he saw the incoming call screen. It read "Ron Jeremy" calling and flashed a shockingly obscene photo.

Fucking Dino.

Terry tapped the answer button to kill the pornographic image, thankful for the moment that the first class cabin was empty. He coughed low into the receiver, still recovering.

"Lovely suggestion, but you're not my type. When the fuck did you get your hands on my phone, you sneaky bastard?"

Terry would have expected a manic giggle of triumph, but McGrath was all business.

"You got the file, hermano?"

"I got the file," he replied, paging through the PDF on his laptop. "You've had some hare-brained schemes in your day, brother, but this is the piece de resistance. Isis Knox, Dino? You cannot be serious. We are K&R consultants. We are not bloody celebrity bodyguards."

"Ah, but what a body she has to guard…"

"A fine body that contains one royally fucked up mind. The bird is certifiable, Rojo. Tears up hotel rooms, catfights on the red carpet…" A headline jumped out from the copy. "Did she really deck Marilyn Manson?"

Dino giggled at that, obviously impressed. "The creepy bastard needed a nose job anyway. My kinda girl, I think I'm in love."

"Then you go after her. I've got bigger fish to fry, Utsumi-san for one. If I land this Kubota deal, well, you'll be kissing my arse even more than usual. Two mil US up front, Dino. Take it to the bank. That'll get the shop off the ground nicely."

Dino clucked his tongue over the line, and Terry could just see that pursed puss, scolding like an old schoolmarm. "Do not underestimate the wealth of Fort Knox, baby. Two Grammies last year, two nominations this year. Ten mil gross in sales, and she's lined up for a movie deal with Paramount that could net twenty mil a picture. Not too shabby. Not to mention all the cash she's already inherited from that rock star husband of hers. So nice of him to shoot that OD…"

"That's right," Terry breathed, honestly aggrieved. "Court Colbert. Bloody shame. I like his music better than hers." He paused to reconsider. "Maybe you're right, Dino. That's quite a pile."

"God, I love those words. Say it again, baby. You're right, Dino. Say it slow."

"Fuck you."

"Sorry baby, not tonight. Your dance card is full, so get your game face on. Check your breath and stroke your dick. If you shake that sweet moneymaker like I know you can, we'll never go hungry again. Miss Knox should be heading your way in t-minus five, four, three…"

Terry couldn't suppress his gasp of disbelief as the cabin door banged open and cacophony approached down the jet way. "Holy snapping arseholes. How the fuck do you do that?"

"If I told ya, I'd have to kill ya," Dino purred over the line, sounding like the cat who'd had his greedy snout in a whole flock of canaries. "So did you come to play today or what?"

"My 'A' game, as always," Terry promised, stoking his confidence for a good card game. "Go buy that Porsche, brother. She's as good as on her back."

"There's the cocky bastard I love. I want every fucking detail, you lucky piece of s - "

Terry hung up and cut him off. He checked his reflection in the screen of the laptop before he closed it, ran a hand over his curling hair. He was looking a little shaggy for his own taste, needed a haircut, but maybe that would play well with the high priestess of grunge. As he stowed his laptop and tray table, he heard a muted cry at the cabin door amid the bustle of what sounded either like a very large footy team approaching, or a moderate herd of cattle.

"Oh shit, there she goes! Cal, grab her!"

Breathing deep, Terry steeled himself for what was about to burst into the cabin, imagining a beautiful gothic banshee in full screaming queen bitch mode. What appeared in the aisle and raced towards him was much smaller, but no less fearsome. Terry's hand flashed out instinctively and caught her by the wrist. He regretted it instantly - at once for the stickiness of her chubby little hand, and again for the look of terror and fury that passed over the Queen Bitch's face when she appeared in the doorway.

Terry gazed with anxious foreboding at the huge green eyes that stared back up to him, waiting for the child to begin her wailing, terrified of the menacing stranger who had laid unfamiliar hands on her. She has her father's eyes, he noted absently as the moment hung in time. Kore, her name is Kore. Isis and Colbert's two year old daughter; it was all in the file. She was beautiful, a perfect little pixie with a mass of dark disheveled curls, pink cheeks, and cherub lips, dressed in pink pajamas with feet in them. Butterflies. Those are butterflies on her sleepers.

"I've caught a butterfly," Terry proclaimed spontaneously, surprising himself and delighting the little girl.

"Budda-fwy!" the child parroted, pointed to her sleepers, and squealed with unfettered glee.

"That's right," he sighed internally with relief. He kept talking. It had saved his life and many others' countless times. He used all the power of his deep whiskey voice to soothe both the child and her mother, instructing in a gentle, fatherly tone, "Those are butterflies, sweetheart. Good girl. Now go to mum."

"Kore!"

At her thunderous command, the little girl shied and rushed back to peer at Terry from behind her mother's black velvet-covered leg. He recognized the expression on Isis Knox's face then for what it was: Mama Bear. Scared, protective, and ready to defend her young with tooth and claw. But the fearsome expression quickly melted into relief and gratitude. Her photographs were amazing, but Isis Knox was even more beautiful in the flesh. And when she smiled, it turned an already stunning face into a beacon of light.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she apologized sincerely, moving aside to let her entourage through.

Terry recognized them all from the files, matching faces with the pictures with practiced professional ease. Cal Gable, Unforgiven's lead guitarist and Isis's song writing partner. They'd been school chums and she'd met Colbert through him. Next came Julie Cruise, Isis' personal assistant, another lifelong friend. Then Shana, Kore's embarrassed and apologetic nanny. For a Queen Bitch, her subjects seemed unusually loyal. He would have expected a higher turnover rate if she was as volatile as the tabloids reported. Bringing up the rear was Steve Carlson, the man representing the Excelsior security firm Thorne-McGrath needed to wrestle the job from if they wanted the Knox contract.

Sloppy work, mate, Terry thought. Last on? Should have been first. He wouldn't want this bloke protecting his family.

When everyone was settled, Isis picked up the child and put her on her hip. "Thanks for catching her," she continued. "She's getting so fast anymore I can barely keep up. I guess this baby was born to run…"

Terry chuckled. She didn't seem so tough, just a barmy sheila like the rest of them.

"Tramps like us, hey?"

Isis blinked dark eyes, surprised, "Tramps like us? Oh yeah, the Boss. Born to Run. That's good." He could hear the musical timbre of her beautiful singing voice in her laugh.

He felt like he was on a roll, so he dared, "Springsteen. Now that's music."

The withering look of sarcasm was mildly chastising, but still pleasant.

Everyone's a critic," she scolded with a tired smile.

When the flight attendant began making the safety announcement, Isis Knox moved down the aisle with a dancer's grace to take her seat. She was smaller than he'd expected, petite really, and dressed simply in a black velvet warm-up suit. A little cleavage was exposed at the neck of her white tank top, but not much, and a little tanned flesh at her belly where her sweat pants rode low on her hips, a hint of a tattoo above her shapely arse. Egyptian hieroglyphs, Terry noted. Matches her name. Thorne was surprised and delighted when she took the seat across the aisle from him.

Dino was right. He really was a lucky shit. But he supposed he was due.

Her eyes cut to the baby. "Don't worry," Isis assured him apologetically. "She'll be out the minute we level off. She's a great traveler, and she's exhausted. It's been a long day."

As the engine whined and the plane began to taxi, Isis buckled her seatbelt carefully. The child wrapped her arms around her mother's neck and cuddled in, twisting locks of long black hair around chubby little fingers. It was a gesture of comfort, and one of familiarity. Though the nanny was onboard wrangling luggage, it was obvious she was not the child's primary caregiver. The girl knew who her mother was.

Kore smiled and stared at Terry from her mother's sure embrace, unashamed and unafraid of the takeoff, or of strangers. The girl wasn't really shy at all.
Isis looked proud. "I think she likes you."

"Budda-fwy," the child repeated, a big grin lighting her little face.

"Prettiest little butterfly I've ever seen," Terry charmed, and then turned the full wattage of that brilliant and sincere smile from the child to her mother. "Precious at that age…" A moment of guilt stabbed his gut. He hoped she hadn't seen it flash over his eyes.

"How many kids do you have?" The confidence of her question assured him that she'd seen his moment of weakness, though she reserved any measure of judgment, just cuddled her daughter closer.

"Just one," Terry answered. "He'll be at University next year. They grow up so fast. You have to cherish every moment. I…I missed all of it."

It was a painful admission, one that made him feel suddenly old in the face of this beautiful young woman and her baby. It had been months since he'd seen Henry, visited him at school in the UK. Terry was the first to admit that as a father, he'd been a failure. But the cost of his brutal honesty would be worth the investment if it helped Isis trust him. In Terry Thorne's line of work, trust was his bread and butter.

adad

Kore fussed a little as the plane climbed to cruising height, but once they leveled off and the pressure in her ears had a chance to even out, she settled down to sleep. Isis hummed quietly and rocked her daughter, while out of the corner of her eye she watched the butterfly catcher in the seat across the aisle.

He leaned back against the headrest with closed eyes, but he wasn't sleeping. He was tired, that was obvious, but she also had the distinct feeling he was letting her have a good look at him, willing her to scrutinize him without feeling self-conscious. As a celebrity, she was so used to being started at all the time, she hated to do it to others, but she took advantage of the opportunity. He was handsome, ruggedly so - for a white collar guy, anyway. About forty, tall, well-built, and well dressed. He wore a designer label suit and a crisp white shirt. Seemed a waste just for sitting on a plane, but these kind of guys were always overdressed, like David, her agent and business manager. She guessed they never knew when a golden opportunity might present itself.

The man's shirt sleeves were rolled up casually, so she could see the powerful muscles of his forearms, the big gentle hands folded comfortably in his lap. No wedding ring, she noted with interest. He's a father, but not a husband. Baby daddy? she wondered. Nah, probably divorced. Worked too many hours and wifey started doing the gardener. Listen to her! Those were the hands that caught Kore on her latest mad dash. If he hadn't grabbed her, she would have been in the back of the plane before they could have caught up, and then there'd be all kinds of hassle. "Isis Knox! Can I have your autograph? Blah, blah, blah!" She didn't mind talking to fans, she loved it in fact, but for a long time now every moment in public had been a chore. Tonight she just wanted to get home to LA.

The man sighed deeply and shifted in his seat, but still rested his eyes. She watched his deep chest rise and fall contentedly. He really was good-looking, a big man, comfortable in his own skin. He had a strong jaw shaded with a light five o'clock shadow, and a cleft chin that those Hollywood types paid big money for. His hair was really nice too: chestnut colored and thick with a natural curl. She wondered absently how it might look a bit longer. Isis loved that scruffy look, usually went for the grunge boys. Music and musicians, that was the grand passion of her life. But after Court died…well, there hadn't been anyone since Court. Not in almost two years. Not that she hadn't had offers, of course.

Her husband hadn't been in the ground for two days before his bass player, Tom, was offering to "comfort" her. She shut him down instantly, figured out pretty quickly that she couldn't trust anyone. And she'd been right. The lawsuit for song copyrights started a month later. Besides, in those first few months, the thought of anyone touching her besides her daughter made her physically ill. The wound was that raw. The only guy she could stand even to talk to was Cal.

No, this man across the aisle, he was totally different from any guy she'd ever been with. Older, sophisticated, totally straight…even kinda square. And that, she found herself thinking, was probably a very good thing. Something she should look for next time she was looking. No reminders that way.

Wow, that's pretty fuckin' bi-polar, Ice, she thought suddenly. Going from wanting to rip the guy's throat out because he had his hand on your daughter, to wondering what he smells like. Where the hell did that come from?

It was his voice, that's where it came from, her inner thoughts answered confidently. That comforting low rumble in the moment of panic, authoritative but gentle, with the lilt of his subtle accent. She'd felt it in her chest as well as heard it: "Good girl. Now go to mum." That voice had calmed them both, talked her down.

She'd been terrified until she realized that the stranger had only reacted with the protective instinct of a parent. She sure as hell couldn't count on her security man to do it. Steve wouldn't touch Kore, said it was against company policy. They were all afraid of getting accused of something or sued, she guessed.

Isis' eyes swept the first-class cabin, darkened for the night flight. Cal had his headphones on, twiddling his thumbs nervously. He'd always hated flying, even after all these years of touring. Shana rummaged through Kore's bag, and came up brandishing Binky, her favorite stuffed dog. Isis nodded with a smile and reached. Julie passed it over Steve's sleeping head. He didn't stir.

When she looked again to the butterfly catcher across the aisle, his eyes were open. Were they green or blue? She couldn't tell. Whichever it was, they were pretty, even in the low light of the cabin. His arrow-straight brows arched in a silent question, gesturing with a subtle tilt of his head towards the baby.

"She's out," Isis answered. "A bomb could go off now and she wouldn't wake up."

"Little trooper," he replied, impressed, and showed her that brilliant smile again. Something about seeing it made her knees go weak. Damn, now that was a spotlight, changed his face entirely from nearly brooding to brilliant.

The man shifted in his seat, leaned towards her and hesitated a moment before he spoke in a hushed tone. "I hate to mention it, Miss Knox - don't want to worry you - but your security man…" those pretty eyes darted to the sleeping lummox in the seat in front of him. "He didn't sweep the cabin before he let you on. Sloppy work. Real school boy mistake. This plane could have been full of kidnappers, terrorists, anything really. What was he thinking?"

Terry let the suggestion hang in the air, watched it go to work on her obviously sharp mind. She looked to her child's sleeping face and shuddered visibly, suddenly a little suspicious. Who was this guy anyway? Maybe he was dangerous.

He answered before she summoned the courage to ask: "It's my business, security. Risk Management, actually." He took a business card from the monogrammed silver holder in his suit jacket and handed it across the aisle. "Terrence Thorne, Thorne-McGrath, Risk Management Consulting."

"You're a bodyguard?" she asked as she scrutinized the card, her interest piqued.

"No, love."

Isis looked at him askance, even as she enjoyed the sound of the endearment 'love' in that deep whiskey voice. She scoffed in disbelief, "You sell insurance?" Mr. Terrence Thorne didn't look like any insurance salesman she'd ever met. He was so…well, manly. He looked more like a soldier than a salesman.

"Well, yeah," he chuckled, looked embarrassed to admit it. The expression made him seem almost boyish. Then he switched gears, suddenly all business, all man again. "But we're high-level risk management, specialists in kidnap and ransom situations. That's our expertise, and our real value add. Miss Knox, Thorne-McGrath employs only former high-end international military. So this is quite a fortunate coincidence. I've heard you've had threats recently."

Fortunate, certainly. But she had to wonder if this was a coincidence at all. This guy was smart, and he was definitely selling her. He wasn't trying to hide that fact at all. Could he have known she'd be on the plane? Could it be a set up? Her defenses went up again,

"You heard through your sources?"

"Actually, I read it in the Enquirer." They both laughed, dispelling the moment of tension. "Not my usual news source, of course. I noticed it in the airport. Is it true?"

Isis nodded grimly. "Give me a second, Mr. Thorne."

"Terry," he insisted.

"Then call me Ice. All my friends do."

She called the nanny to take the limp toddler from her arms. Then with a quick glance at her sleeping security man, Isis moved over and gestured for Terry to take the seat next to hers. As he stood, he took the opportunity to ask if she'd like a drink, and flagged the flight attendant. This guy was smooth. Slick, but not slimy. She wondered how honest he'd really be.

As he handed over the glass of wine she'd ordered, she asked, "So you're a Springsteen man, huh Terry? More your style than my music?"

"More my generation," he smiled, looking boyish again.

"Aww, you're not so old." Honestly, he didn't look old enough to have a kid in college. Must have started young.

"Glad you think so. Cheers," he raised his glass to touch to hers gallantly. "So the threats?"

She sighed heavily and sipped her wine. "Yeah. We tried to keep them quiet, but the papers got it right. Do you think we should take them seriously?"

"You have to take every threat seriously. Or I should say, your security people do. If they're doing their job, you shouldn't have to worry."

"I'm worried, Mr. Thorne," she confessed.

"Thought we'd agreed on Terry, Ice," he scolded mildly, then grew serious. "Do you know who's making the threats?"

"Which ones? The terrorists, the fanatics, or worst of all…my mother-in-law."

Terry chuffed a laugh until her wounded expression stopped him.

She hesitated a moment, then dared to open up. "I'm afraid that's not a joke, Terry. My mother-in-law, Court's mother, ruined his childhood and his life. Treated her only son like a dog. She beat him, did drugs in front of him, brought home all kinds of trash to do worse, and now she tries to call me an unfit mother. Wants to sue for 'grandparents' rights' to see our daughter. Over my dead body. I wouldn't put anything past her, even kidnapping."

Thorne nodded gravely. "I'm afraid that's called a credible threat, love. You have every reason to be worried. Statistically, most children are abducted by someone they know."

A grim silence filled the space between them. Terry watched Isis' little pearl teeth worry her bottom lip. Pretty mouth, he thought absently. Wonder how it might look wrapped around my...Christ. Back in the game, mate. He needed to lighten the mood again before it could become all too maudlin. Terry cracked, "So, shall I arrange to have her killed, then?"

Isis actually choked on her wine, had to recover herself with effort while this pleasant stranger handed her his napkin and patted her back. Carlson shifted in his seat, but didn't wake.

"Jesus! Is that a 'risk management' service?" she asked, incredulous.

"It's not usually part of the premium, but everything is negotiable. I'm sorry love, that was an attempt at a joke, and a bad one in any circumstance. Of course I'm not suggesting…"

"But just the thought of it, God…" tears sprang to her dark eyes. She fought to control her emotions, dabbed at her eyes with the napkin before her eyeliner could run. "I'm sorry, Terry. I'm really tired - of all this shit. It's a terrible thing to even consider, but my life would be so much easier if that woman would just disappear. Christ, there goes my big mouth again." She looked at him, suddenly fearful. "You're not a journalist, are you, Mr. Thorne? That's all I need, for the papers to get a hold of that one. Isis Knox Plots Mother-in-Law's Murder."

Terry listened intently, compassionately, "I'm not a journo. Promise, love," he said gently. His deep voice was so soothing. "Your mother-in-law, do you have a restraining order against her?"

It seemed so simple. She wondered why none of her people had suggested it before.

"No."

He nodded confidently, "That would be a good start. If her history of child abuse is on the record, it should be a no-brainer."

Finally, someone who knew what he was talking about! "Have you dealt with this kind of thing before?"

His smile and easy manner lightened the mood, even while he discussed the issue seriously, professionally. "Disgruntled grandparents? Not specifically. But Al-Queida, the Taliban, rogue KGB, your assorted drug lords? Yes. They're all cut from the same cloth, really. It's always one of two things: they are either A, greedy bastards out for money, or B, crazy. Paying off your mother-in-law would be the easy route, if that's her game. But if she's crazy…well, it's the crazy ones you have to worry about."

Isis sat back against the first-class seat and just stared, her mind swimming. "Jesus, who are you? James Bond or something?"

That boyish grin made a reappearance, and it made her happy to see it. She was really beginning to like Terry Thorne. And her gut told her she could trust him.

"I sell insurance, remember?" he quipped lightly with a silly waggle of his brows. "But in all seriousness, Miss Knox, I want you to feel secure. I want your daughter to be safe. Your current security firm is obviously not doing their job. If you'd like to schedule a meeting in LA, my partner and I would be happy to speak with your business manager or lawyer about our services. With these threats, I really do think you need to upgrade your policy. Your daughter deserves it. You both do."

If this guy was lying, he was a master. The best she'd ever seen. She had a pretty good bullshit detector, and through the whole conversation it had been silent. Isis felt more confident and hopeful than she had in a long time. "We don't need a meeting, Mr. Thorne. I make my own business decisions, and I've made up my mind. You're hired."

Terry tried to cover his shock. For once, he found himself nearly speechless. Isis grinned in triumph, proud of the reaction she'd gotten. Thorne was about to counsel the spontaneous young woman to at least sleep on such an important decision, when she stood. He rose to let her cross the aisle.

"Steve," she called, slipping into the seat next to the sleeping guard.

Terry could see what was happening. He watched it as if it were playing out in slow motion. And his mind went into high gear, cried out Abort! "Ah, Miss Knox, you really should consider the immediate ramifications -"

But he was too late. And then it went loud.

"Steve, wake your lazy ass up," she crowed. When the guard's eyes had opened and he'd sat up and swiped the drool from his chin, Isis grinned and delivered the news: "When we land in LA, call your boss and tell him you're all fired. I just hired a new security firm."

"Isis…what the fuck?" Steve gasped.

Cal removed his headphones and turned to gape. Julie just shook her head. "Oh shit, here we go again," she grimaced.

Isis turned back to Terry in the aisle and looked up to him, her face lit up like a beacon. She offered her hand to shake, and he took it gladly, even as he struggled to recover from the shock of it all. So tiny, but such a powerful will, he mused. Definitely a queen, and maybe a little bit of a bitch too, but he liked the combination. This was going to be a challenge, and a hell of a lot of fun.

"Thank you Mr. Thorne. I'm looking forward to working with you."

"What the fuck?" Carlson repeated stupidly.

"Thank you, Miss Knox. You can count on Thorne-McGrath. Take it to the bank."

When Terry had handed Isis back into her seat, he leaned over Carlson and pushed him back before he could rise. He spoke low in a threatening growl, "You snooze, you lose, mate. Shoulda been doing your fucking job. So make it easy on everyone and go back to sleep till we get to LA, hey?" He thumped the guy's shoulder hard. "Thanks, mate."
Carlson shot daggers from his eyes as Thorne took the seat next to Isis. Terry touched his glass to hers again playfully. "Relax, love. Everything's under control. The flight attendants have restraints if we need them"" He raised his voice to call to the blonde.

"Don't you, sweetheart?"

"That's right, Mr. Thorne," she answered confidently.

Isis tucked herself in close to Terry, trying to ignore Steve's resentful and accusing gaze from across the aisle. "Jesus, I guess I should have waited until we landed, huh? It's gonna be a long flight. There I go again, shooting my mouth off." She caught his eye and looked up to him hopefully. "Can you make that part of the policy, Terry? Protect me from myself?"

He smirked. "Everything's negotiable, love."

Dino wasn't going to believe this, so he was going to give him every fucking detail, just like he wanted. And when it all sank in, 'Ron Jeremy' was going to kiss Terry's arse all the way to the Porsche dealership.

Isis reached over and squeezed Terry Thorne's forearm, felt the solid muscle beneath his warm skin. It felt good having him to hold onto, so solid and steady. Like a rock. It took her a moment to realize that this was the first time she'd touched a strange man since her husband died. But with Terry Thorne, she felt safe; felt like for once everything was going to be okay.

The sensation made her a little giddy, so she flagged the stewardess down for another glass of wine. She wanted to celebrate. "So, what's the plan, Boss?" she wondered, eager to hear more smart conversation in that deep whiskey voice, even if it was about insurance.

"You're the boss, Miss Knox," Terry assured with gentle confidence.

"Yeah, but you're the Springsteen man," she insisted. Isis couldn't help it, she was happy, so she sang. "Tramps like us, baby we were born to run ...