Chapter 12
Alistair flicked a few imaginary specks of dust from his shirt, then smoothed his hand over the material.
Wait, he’d mentioned Italian clothes, and it wasn't a painfully bright Hawaiian shirt this time. He was actually wearing a khaki one, paired with jeans and a leather jacket. The man cleaned up well, I had to admit, but that didn't make me want to strangle him less. “How did you have time to buy clothes?”
“He called a friend who lives here and wears the same size,” Zelana explained.
Should have known.
“There you go. Easy-peasy. So, back in NYC, I called a couple buddies of mine, too. One happens to own a private plane, and he let me hitch a ride here,” he said after a pause.
He spoke like crossing the Atlantic was akin to sticking your thumb out on 34th Street and waiti
