Page 193 - EAMMV9covers

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
“Just what the doctor ordered.” I held up the cup
and the half-eaten sandwich. “Thanks.”
By the time we reached the car the sandwich and
the coffee were history. Kayla took the packaging and
held the back door open for me.
Alone in the back I thought, ‘Robert knows where
I’m going. This is where I go to sleep.’ I shut my eyes
and winced at the thought of replacing my clothes in a
few hours. The next flight carrying my bags wouldn’t
arrive until after my speech and there was no way I
could go on stage in front of fifteen hundred financial
planners at the Nelson Mandela Convention Center in
jeans, Blundstones, a denim shirt and a tweed jacket.
My go-to travel uniform. Not exactly keynote speaker
chic.
I came around belted into the rear passenger-side
seat. Denis at the wheel. I sat up. We were cruising
along an empty expressway between brightly lit office
towers.
A massive white pillow, a puffy barricade against
the jet lag, was wedged against the window in front of
me. An arm draped over a shoulder, the curve of a
wrist exposed just enough for a glint of gold to snag
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