“Can’t you have a private jet like every other billionaire?” she grumbled while he slid into the front next to her.

“It’s more fun to fly your own toys,” he told her with a grin, buckling in. “You get to really appreciate them.”

“Appreciate is not the word I’m thinking of,” Violet muttered, and made sure her seat belt was on tightly. Then, she closed her eyes and began to bite her nails, praying that the flight would be over soon.

—

The weather was great all the way across several states, and the flight itself was a breeze. Jonathan tried talking to Violet at first, but when it became clear that she was surly with anxiety, he left her alone and she fell asleep. So instead, he just watched her as she dozed, slumped over in the copilot’s seat.

She was still incredibly lovely. For all her prickly demeanor, he could spend every minute of the rest of his life with Violet and not grow tired of her. He was fascinated with the thick fringe of her dark eyelashes, for one. They hid those lovely dark brown eyes he couldn’t forget. The stubborn curve of her jaw was just as he remembered it, though, and he remembered pressing kisses there.

Not that she’d let him do that now. She loathed him.

Jonathan was disappointed she’d clearly nurtured hatred toward him over the years. Sure, they’d had a messy breakup, but time had passed and they were both adults. He didn’t hold a grudge for her running home and leaving him. He didn’t hold a grudge because she’d changed her mind on what she wanted overnight and demanded that they start a family, and when he hadn’t liked that idea, run off back home to her mother. He figured they were both young and stupid at the time, and now they could be adults. Friends, if nothing else. But she acted like he was her mortal enemy, and he didn’t understand it.

He’d just have to win her over again.

He’d won her once, back when she was a closed-up teenager. He’d talked and smiled and flirted and made an utter fool of himself until she’d broken down and started responding. He could do the same with a stiff, angry Violet. Just keep talking and bothering her until she exploded and told him what was pissing her off so bad, so he could fix it.

Fuck, he’d do anything to fix it. He’d never wanted anyone but Violet. She was everything to him. He didn’t care what it took.

As if she could hear the turn of his thoughts, Violet shifted in her seat, snuggling down farther against the leather, her cheek cradled against the seat belt that separated her still-magnificent br**sts. “Mmm, Jonathan.”

He froze, staring at the instrument panel. He no longer saw the gauges in front of him, or the sky that filled the windows. His mind was on Violet’s sleepy moan.

Obviously she was dreaming. Obviously. He repeated this in his mind, but it wasn’t sticking. His dick had gotten hard as a rock within seconds. What was she dreaming about? What was she imagining that he was doing? His hands grasped the yoke tightly, the dual sticks reminding him of gripping his cock, of all things. Fuck. Fuck. Like he needed to be thinking about jerking off at the moment? Just because she’d moaned his name in her sleep?

“Mmm,” Violet said again sleepily, and he glanced over at her sharply. Was she just f**king with him? But she didn’t stir. Against the thin fabric of her proper blouse, her ni**les were stiff.

Oh, Jesus.

Jonathan began to sweat. He wasn’t going to ogle her while she was sleeping. He was going to ignore it. Ignore the fact that those delicious ni**les were poking against the filmy blouse, just begging to be touched. He remembered how much she’d loved to have her br**sts played with, how she’d cried out and thrashed when he’d tugged on her ni**les with his lips . . . He wiped his brow, surprised that it wasn’t coated with sweat. Violet always talked in her sleep, he remembered. No big deal. She was just dreaming.

Hear that, dick? She’s just dreaming. Now go f**k off. She still hates us when she’s awake.

Of course, his dick was listening about as well as Violet was. The cockpit of the Socata was small. Too small, he thought. His traitorous mind was telling him to reach over and put a hand on her thigh, slide it up her skirt and see if she was wet . . .

And then she’d really f**king hate him, wouldn’t she? Jonathan scrubbed a hand over his face and then returned it to the yoke, staring grimly ahead. He’d just have to ignore her. So he concentrated on things that would make his rearing dick go back down to normal. Things like his wrinkled old housekeeper who worked in his NYC town house. Spotting the paparazzi waiting outside of a hotel he was staying at. His new lineup of sportscars rolling out as lemons. Jumping out of a plane and his parachute cord not responding.

After a few minutes, he was under control again. Good.

She shifted in her seat again, her skirt riding higher up her thighs. “Mmm, oh, yes—”

“Violet,” he barked. Jesus. A man could only take so much.

She jerked awake with a small snort, limbs flailing a bit. Then she looked around, eyes glazed and narrow with sleep. “Huh?”

“Wake up,” he said gruffly.

She raised a hand and rubbed her face. “I was trying to sleep, you know.”

“Yeah, but I want company,” he lied. She’d flip out on him if she knew the real reason he’d woken her up. “Talk to me.”

“Grow up,” she muttered, straightening in her seat. “I can’t believe you woke me up because you were bored.”

He glanced over at her, noticing that she crossed her arms over those erect ni**les to hide them, and her cheeks were flushed. Was she aware she was having dirty dreams about him? Sounded like they both needed a distraction. “Tell me, why is it you never opened the letter your father sent?”

She stared out the window to her right, avoiding his gaze. “You’re kidding me, right? You should know more than most people that my father and I were never exactly on good terms.”

“You never saw eye to eye. I remember that.”

“Understatement,” she said flatly.

“Still, he must have loved you quite a bit to put in all the work to set up some sort of scavenger hunt after his death. I assume we’re not going to find what we’re looking for at your childhood home?”

“Nope,” she drawled out the word. “It’s going to lead us to a clue, which is going to lead us to another clue, which is going to lead us, ultimately, to disappointment. Trust me on that one.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Dr. DeWitt had put a lot of effort into this while sick and dying. It didn’t strike Jonathan as a whim. As long as this trip had his stele at the end of it, and Violet’s company during it, it would be a win in Jonathan’s book.

“I’m sure,” Violet said flatly. “This is my father we’re talking about. Everything was always a disappointment with him.”

“Yes, but for him to send both of us letters, it’s clearly intimating that it’s something we should work on together.”

“Or, it’s all part of my father’s plan to keep you funding his projects after he dies. He dangles me under your nose, and you keep throwing money into the things that mattered to him.”

“You don’t know that’s true.”

“He sent you a list, didn’t he? Of foundations and projects he wants continued after he’s gone?”

Jonathan’s mouth quirked slightly at that, though he bit back the smile that threatened. She knew the old man well. Dr. DeWitt had, in fact, sent Jonathan a laundry list of causes dear to his heart that he wished to continue to see supported after his death. But the old man knew he didn’t have to throw Violet in Jonathan’s path to get Jonathan to support him. “I’ve already handled his wishes.”

“Of course you have,” she said flatly. “You’ve always been his little puppet, haven’t you?”

Irritation flicked in Jonathan’s mind. He ignored her needling words. Violet could lash out at him, but he wouldn’t respond in kind.

So he only said, “We’ll be landing shortly.”

—

Violet was silent as they rode in the back of the sedan through the streets of Alamagordo. It wasn’t an elite sort of city—Alamagordo was anything but—so she’d been surprised to see that Jonathan had a chauffeur waiting for them when they landed at the tiny private airport. Apparently he had really efficient assistants.

She hated to say it, but she was feeling . . . guilty. Just a bit. She could tell she’d hurt Jonathan’s feelings by lashing out at him in the plane, calling him her father’s puppet. It wasn’t fair, she knew that. Her father had been the most manipulative man she’d ever met. He was friendly and pleasant and dynamic to be around precisely because he knew it got him what he wanted. You didn’t realize he was trampling all over your own wishes until much, much later. Most people didn’t mind that Phineas had been a manipulative old goat, but then, Violet wasn’t most people. For Jonathan to be completely swept up in the old man’s charm was understandable.

So, yeah, she felt a bit like a jerk for being so short with him on the plane.

It was just that . . . she’d been having the most disturbing dream. Violet absently bit her nails, remembering. One of the things she held against Jonathan—one of the many, many things—was that he’d been incredible in bed. He practically vibrated intensity at all times, and to have that intensity focused on her pleasure had been a multi-orgasmic experience each time. Post-Jonathan? She’d been dissatisfied with quite a few of her lovers, simply because they hadn’t put in the time or care to make sure she got off until her brains were mush. Not like Jonathan had. That was another thing that irritated her—that she’d peaked sexually with an ass**le who dumped her.

And apparently her body recalled just how good he’d been in bed, because it was reminding her as she slept. She’d been having the most erotic dream about him. Images of Jonathan’s body poised over her own still filled her mind. Of him drilling into her from behind until she was screaming with pleasure. Of her begging for him to flip her over and eat her pu**y until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

Of him pushing her onto her back and doing just that.

She cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her br**sts, staring mutely out the window. Her stupid ni**les were responding again, and she knew her panties were wet, all from that dream. She hated that. Her loins needed to remember how badly he’d treated her in the past.

“We’re almost there,” the driver said, turning in to an old subdivision.

“Thank you,” Jonathan replied. He looked over at Violet. “Shall I take the lead?”

Like she wanted to be in charge. “Be my guest.”

He nodded and seemed to visibly tense as they approached her old house. An old memory of Jonathan rose in her mind. He was an extremely focused person, but when given a task he was excited about, he seemed to grow in intensity. She remembered that, and the determined set of his shoulders was bringing back a wealth of memories that she wanted to forget.

They pulled up in front of the house and Violet stared at her childhood home. It seemed smaller and much older than she remembered. The house had been blue when she’d lived there and was now a cheery yellow with ruffled curtains in the windows. The tree she remembered in the front yard was nothing but a stump.

“Let’s go,” Jonathan said, opening his door and getting out of the car before the driver could get out to open the door for him.

Violet hesitated, but when Jonathan moved to her side and opened the door, she followed him. Memories were just that—memories. No need for her to be upset over them. Still, it was hard not to see her childhood home and imagine her mother inside, sobbing out of depression and unhappiness. And when she wasn’t crying, she’d been drinking. Violet couldn’t remember which one was worse.