For a wild moment Grace thought she was being hustled out of the country so Delilah could hammer some sense into Blake. Then the last line sank in. Julie, Alex and Delilah would care for Molly. She and her groom, apparently, were jetting off to France.

      Wordlessly, she handed the note to Blake. After a quick read, he speared a glance at this twin. “Were you in on this?”

      “I figured something was up when Mother had me ferry the Gulfstream V down to San Antonio. Where’s she proposing it take you?”

      “The south of France.”

      That produced a quick grin. “You get no sympathy from me, Bubba. She sent Julie and me to Tuscany on our wedding night. Good thing we’re both pilots and know how to beat jet lag.” He winked at his wife before addressing Grace. “Hope you have a passport.”

      “I do, but…”

      But what? She’d decided in a scant few moments to turn her whole world upside down by accepting Blake’s proposition. What possible objection could she have to capping an unreal marriage with a fake honeymoon?

      “But Blake probably didn’t bring his,” she finished helplessly.

      “He didn’t,” Julie interjected, fishing in her purse. “I did, however. Delilah had me race over and pick it up from your executive assistant,” she explained as she slapped the passport into her brother-in-law’s palm. “I forgot I had it until this moment.”

      He fingered the gold lettering for several moments, then shrugged. “Good thing you’re packed,” he said to Grace. “I can pick up whatever extras I need when we get to France.”

      * * *

      They said their goodbyes at the airport. Then Alex and Julie boarded the smaller Dalton International jet that had flown Blake to San Antonio and the newlyweds crossed the tarmac to the larger, twin-engine Gulfstream V.

      The captain met them at planeside and tendered his sincere best wishes. “Congratulations, Mrs. Dalton.”

      “I…uh… Thank you.”

      Blake stepped in to cover his wife’s surprise at hearing herself addressed by her new title. “I understand you just got back from Tuscany, Joe. Sorry you had to make such a quick turnaround.”

      “Not a problem. Alex and Julie were at the controls for most of the flight back, so the crew is rested and ready to go. We’ll top off our gas in New York and have you basking in the sun a mere seven hours after that.”

      Blake made the swift mental calculation. Three hours to New York. Seven hours to cross the Atlantic. Another hour or more to contact Madame LeBlanc and travel to the villa DI maintained in Provence. Eight hours’ time difference.

      He was used to transatlantic flights, but he suspected Grace would be dead by the time they arrived at their final destination. Just as well. She could use the next few days to rest and get used to the idea of marriage.

      So could he, for that matter. He’d lined up all his arguments, pro and con, before he’d flown down to San Antonio. Then Grace had opened the door in those cutoffs and he’d damned near forgotten every one. Only now could he admit that the hunger she stirred had him twisted in as many knots as her refusal to trust him with the truth. Helluva foundation to build a marriage on, he conceded grimly as he put a hand to the small of her back to guide her up the stairs.

      A Filipino steward in a white jacket met them at the hatch, his seamed face creased into a smile. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Blake. I sure wouldn’t have bet we’d be flying both you and Mr. Alex on honeymoons in almost the same month.”

      “I wouldn’t have bet on it, either, Eualdo. This is my wife, Grace.”

      He bowed over her hand with a dignity that matched his years. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Grace.”

      “Thank you.”

      “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your seats.”

      Blake had spent so many in-flight hours aboard the Gulfstream he’d long since come to regard it more as a necessity than a luxury. Grace’s gasp when she entered the cabin reminded him not everyone would view it that way.

      The interior was normally configured with high-backed, lumbar-support seats and generous workstations in addition to the galley, head and sleeping quarters. For personal or pleasure trips like this, however, the workstations were moved together to form an elegant dining area and the seats repositioned into a comfortable sitting area.

      “Good grief.” She gazed wide-eyed at the gleaming teak paneling and dove-gray leather. “I hope Dalton International isn’t paying for all this.”

      “You’re married to DI’s chief financial officer,” Blake replied dryly. “You can trust me to maintain our personal expenses separate and distinct from corporate accounts.”

      She flushed a little, either at the reminder that they’d just merged or at the unspoken reminder that she wouldn’t trust him with other, more important matters.

      The pink in her cheeks deepened when they passed the open door to the sleeping quarters. A quick glance inside showed the twin beds had been repositioned into a queen-size sleeper complete with down pillows, satiny sheets and a duvet with DI’s logo embroidered in gold thread. Blake didn’t have the least doubt that Julie and Alex had put those sheets to good use every moment they weren’t in the cockpit.

      Different couple, completely different circumstances. Blake and his bride wouldn’t share that wide bed. The reality of the situation didn’t block his thought of it, though. Swearing under his breath, Blake was hit with a sudden and all-too-vivid mental image of Grace stretched out with her arms raised languidly above her head, her breasts bare, her nipples turgid from his tongue and his teeth.

      “I’ve got a bottle of Cristal on ice, Mr. Blake.”

      He blinked away the searing image and focused on Eualdo’s weathered face.

      “Shall I pour you and Ms. Grace a glass now or wait until after takeoff?”

      A glance at his bride provided the answer. She had the slightly wild-eyed look of someone who was wondering just what kind of quicksand she’d stumbled into. She needed a drink or two to loosen her up. So did he. This looked to be a long flight.

      * * *

      It wound up lasting even longer than either Blake or the captain had anticipated. When they put down at a small commercial airstrip outside New York City to refuel, a thick, soupy fog rolled in off the Atlantic and delayed their departure for another two hours. The same front that produced the fog necessitated a more northerly route than originally planned.

      By the time they gained enough altitude for Eualdo to serve dinner, Grace’s shoulders were drooping. The steward’s honey-crusted squab on a bed of wild rice and a bottle of perfectly chilled Riesling revived her