Chapter 18
CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF (AND FEELINGS)
HARPER
By six PM that evening, I'm standing on the rooftop helipad of the Bellagio wondering if I've accidentally stumbled into a James Bond film.
It's been exactly three hours since Victor kissed me senseless and nearly made me come on the spot in his hotel room. Three hours since he told me exactly what he planned to do to me when we got back from dinner.
Three hours of replaying every filthy word in my head on an endless loop.
The November sun is setting over Vegas—all orange and pink and purple like the sky is showing off. The temperature has dropped to a pleasant sixty-eight degrees, and there's a breeze that makes my hair whip around my face.
And there's a helicopter. An actual helicopter. With "StreamEats" written on the side in the same elegant script as Victor’s private plane.
"You own a helicopter," I say to Victor, who's standing beside me looking criminally edible in a charcoal suit that fits his muscular frame like a second skin.
He raises an eyebrow. "I have access to a helicopter. There's a difference."
"That's a very billionaire distinction."
"I only use it a few times a year."
"For what exactly? Dramatic entrances?"
"For nights like this." He reaches out, pulling me close against him, his hand settling possessively on my lower back.
"Richard Francis's yacht is anchored off the coast of Santa Barbara.
We could drive—three hours in traffic. Or fly commercial—two hours with security and boarding.
Or—" His thumb traces a circle against my spine, right above the zipper he did up earlier.
"—we could do this in forty-five minutes and spend the saved time doing something more interesting. "
Heat pools low in my stomach. "More interesting how?"
His eyes darken. "Use your imagination, Mrs. Kade."
My knees nearly buckle. "You can't say things like that when I'm about to get in a flying death machine."
"Think of it as incentive to survive the flight." He leans down, his mouth near my ear, hand sliding lower on my back, dangerously close to inappropriate. "James is waiting."
James—Victor's driver who apparently also functions as his bodyguard and helicopter pilot wrangler—is standing next to the helicopter wearing a suit that doesn't quite hide the gun holstered at his side.
"Evening, Mrs. Kade," he says with a warm smile. "Your chariot awaits."
"This is not a chariot,” I groan. “This is a metal coffin with propellers."
"It's perfectly safe," Victor says, guiding me forward.
"That's what they say right before the horror movie starts."
"Harper." His hand tightens on my waist. "Do you trust me?"
The question stops me cold. Because the answer should be complicated, should be heavy with everything I'm hiding, everything I haven't told him.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes."
"Then trust me now."
James helps me into the helicopter, and I immediately understand why billionaires do this instead of sitting in traffic. The interior is obscenely luxurious—cream leather seats that look more comfortable than my couch, wood paneling, noise-canceling headphones, and what appears to be a full bar.
Victor slides in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine in the confined space.
"First time?" he asks, handing me the headphones.
"In a helicopter? Yes. In a situation where I question my sanity? No. That's becoming a pattern with you."
His smile is slow and breathtaking on his handsome face. "I like keeping you off-balance."
"I've noticed."
His hand finds my knee, thumb stroking the inside just above my kneecap as the pilot's voice crackles through the headphones. "Mr. Kade, we're ready for takeoff. ETA to the yacht is forty-two minutes."
"Copy that, Geoffrey."
The helicopter lifts off, and my stomach does something acrobatic and nauseating as Victor's hand slides higher on my thigh.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he instructs beside me.
"I am breathing."
"You're holding your breath.” His thumb traces another circle, this time on my inner thigh. "Focus on something else."
"Like what?"
His glacial gray eyes turn the color of a storm cloud as he simply stares at me.
Silent translation?
“Think about what I'm going to do to you when we get back to the suite."
“Think about how I'm going to strip you out of this dress. About exactly how I'm going to make you come. How many times. In what positions."
Heat floods my face, and other places, as I nod at him, refocusing. The helicopter banks left, and suddenly the Vegas strip is sprawling below us—glittering and bright against the darkening desert.
"Okay," I admit breathlessly. "This is kind of amazing."
"Wait until you see the ocean."
"Am I supposed to be impressed?"
His hand slides even higher. "Are you?"
"Maybe. Ask me again after you follow through on all those plans you mentioned back in the hotel.”
His laugh is low and warm. "Challenge accepted."
We fly in silence for a few minutes, and I try to keep my attention on the view instead of Victor's hand on my thigh, his thumb drawing idle patterns that are absolutely not idle.
"Harper," he says eventually. "About tonight."
"What about it?"
"Richard Francis is going to try to rattle me. Try to make me look unstable in front of his board members."
"Why?"
"Because he's embarrassed about his arrest. Because he's losing control of his company. Because making me look bad makes him look better by comparison." Victor's jaw tightens. "I need you sharp tonight. Present and focused."
"As opposed to my usual scattered and distracted self?"
He ignores the quip, his large hand squeezing my thigh again, reassuring this time. “Tonight, I need us to present as a united front. A couple who actually trust each other."
"That shouldn't be hard," I say quietly.
"No. It shouldn't." His eyes search mine. "So whatever happens at this dinner—whatever Richard throws at us—we handle it together. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out, my stomach already sinking before I even look at the screen.
VANESSA (FoodFirst): Francis's board members will be at dinner tonight. This is your shot. Get me the acquisition terms. Full details. I need them by tomorrow morning or the offer disappears.
The words blur in front of my eyes.
Tomorrow morning.
The timeline just collapsed.
"Everything okay?" Victor asks.
I delete the message with shaking fingers. "Fine. Just my sister checking in."
"Which one?"
"Amelia. Asking how Vegas is treating us."
The lie tastes like poison, but I force a smile.
"Tell her we're avoiding video game chapels this trip."
"Probably wise."
Victor almost smiles at that, and the guilt nearly destroys me.
Because he's sitting here, his hand on my thigh, telling me we're a team, that we handle things together, that he trusts me.
And I'm sitting here with my phone full of messages from his competitor, trying not to betray him in less than twelve hours.
I shove the phone back in my clutch and force myself to look out the window at the desert giving way to coastline. The ocean stretches out below us now, dark and vast—unforgiving.
Just like the choice I'm going to have to make.
Tonight, at this dinner, I'll be sitting across from Richard Francis's board members. The same people Vanessa wants me to extract information from. The same people whose trust Victor needs to close this acquisition.
And I'll have to choose.
My father's medical bills—the treatments he needs, the care my mother can't afford to give him without help.
Or Victor—the man who just told me I'm worth fighting for. The man who's planning to spend tonight showing me exactly what I mean to him. The man who trusts me.
The helicopter begins its descent toward the yacht, and I watch the lights of Santa Barbara spread out below us like scattered stars.
"Almost there," Victor says, his thumb still tracing patterns on my thigh. "You ready?"
No. I'm not ready.
I'm not ready to betray him.
But I'm not ready to let my father suffer either.
"Ready," I lie.
And as the helicopter touches down on the yacht's helipad, I realize that no matter what choice I make tonight—
Someone I love is going to get hurt.
The only question is whether I'll be able to live with myself after.
* * *
Less than a minute later, we're exiting the helicopter on a yacht that makes the Bellagio look modest.
There’s no other word for Richard Francis’s water-palace other than “stunning.” Complete with all white decks and teak wood and top-to-bottom windows, the boat is massive and luxe.
The sun has fully set now, and the exterior is lit with warm golden lights that make everything look like a magazine spread.
Before I can even take it all in, a steward appears, leading us through the yacht's interior—all marble and brass and esoteric art.
A minute later, we’re led to a dining room set for eight people. Covered in crystal glasses and fine china, the dark walnut dining table is already set, and to my surprise, Richard Francis is already seated there, holding court at the head of the table.
Looking as exactly as I remember him from our sole meeting—his late fifties, silver-haired, sporting a tan that lets me know he spends more time on yachts than in boardrooms, the CulinaryVision CEO is wearing a navy blazer and an expression that says he's very pleased with himself.
"This is over-kill,” I mutter under my breath.
"This is Richard," Victor whispers back, his hand finding mine. "Remember—united front. We're happy. We're stable. We're everything he's not."
"Got it. Happy. Stable. Not recently arrested in a man-thong."
Victor's mouth twitches. "Exactly."
I look up and notice two other people are seated at the table—a woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and sharper jewelry, and a man in his forties who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Victor!" Richard stands, arms wide. "Welcome, welcome! And here comes the now famous Mrs. Kade!"
He says it like he's announcing a circus act.