Mile High Ruin (Forbidden Silver Foxes #26)

1. Sloane

SLOANE

The call comes at six forty-three in the morning, less than twenty-four hours after I’m officially informed that the airline no longer requires my services.

An impressive phrase, really. It sounds far more dignified than we have decided to protect a wealthy passenger with a recognizable surname instead of the flight attendant he cornered near the rear galley.

I’m awake when the phone rings because I’ve barely slept. My termination letter is still open on the small dining table across from my bed, three pages of carefully selected language explaining that my conduct failed to reflect the values of the company.

The airline’s values, as far as I can tell, involve smiling while being insulted and apologizing when a passenger puts his hands somewhere they don’t belong.

I stare at the unfamiliar number for one ring before answering. “Sloane Mercer.”

The woman on the other end introduces herself as a coordinator from a private aviation staffing agency.

She speaks quickly, the way people do when they’re trying to fill a position before someone above them realizes it’s still empty.

They need a flight attendant for an international departure from Teterboro that afternoon.

It’s a private aircraft, the usual attendant is unavailable, and the assignment could lead to more work if the client is satisfied.

Then she tells me the rate.

I sit up. “What time do you need me there?”

By two in the afternoon, I’m standing inside a private jet that looks more expensive than my entire apartment building, wondering whether the cream carpet beneath my shoes costs more than I made last year.

I’ve worked first class for six years. I’m familiar with polished wood, chilled champagne, handcrafted menus, and passengers who consider eye contact part of the service they purchased.

This is different.

There are no rows of narrow seats or overhead compartments packed with luggage.

The cabin is wide and quiet, furnished in pale leather and dark wood, with pairs of armchairs arranged around low tables.

The gold fixtures are subtle rather than gaudy, which only makes them look more expensive.

Soft lighting runs beneath the cabinets, and the air smells faintly of leather, cedar, and whatever cleaning product rich people use to make a space appear untouched by human hands.

Toward the rear is a dining area, followed by a closed door that leads to a bedroom.

A bedroom. On an aircraft.

I managed not to react when Camille mentioned it during the walk-through. It took some effort.

Camille Laurent is the senior flight attendant assigned to the aircraft.

She’s tall, elegant, and probably somewhere in her late thirties, though she has the kind of composed face that makes guessing her age feel impolite.

She has worked private aviation for more than a decade and moves through the jet as though it’s an extension of her own body.

I know how to evacuate two hundred people from a burning aircraft.

At the moment, I can’t find the proper drawer for the linen napkins, but I don’t mention that to Camille.

I’m checking the temperature of the champagne when the pilot enters the galley for the third time.

Captain Warren Hale introduced himself when I arrived. He’s in his early fifties, with carefully maintained dark hair, a deep tan that has never seen honest sunlight, and a wedding ring he keeps rotating around his finger whenever he looks at me.

In the forty minutes since we met, he has asked whether I’m single, whether I live alone, and whether the fitted skirt is part of my personal wardrobe or the agency uniform.

I answered none of those questions.

He leans against the galley entrance now, one shoulder against the frame, taking up more room than necessary. “Settling in?”

“I am.”

His eyes move down the front of my blouse before returning to my face. “First time on a private bird?”

I close the champagne compartment. “Is there something about the cabin preparation that concerns you?”

“No. Everything looks good.”

“Then I assume you’re asking for personal reasons.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. He has the confidence of a man who has rarely been told to stop and has mistaken that for charm. “The agency mentioned you came from commercial.”

“The agency appears very generous with information.”

“You don’t have to be defensive.”

“I’m not.”

He steps further into the galley. The space is compact, designed for efficiency rather than conversation, and his presence makes it smaller. I stay where I am, back straight, expression neutral.

Years of dealing with men like him have taught me that composure is often more effective than anger. Anger excites them. Calmness reminds them that they are not controlling the interaction.

Warren rests one hand on the counter beside me. “You’ll like private aviation,” he says. “Fewer passengers. Better money. More freedom.”

“That sounds promising.”

“The crew gets close.”

There it is.

I pick up a folded napkin and inspect the edge, though it doesn’t need inspecting. “I prefer professional distance.”

“Everybody says that on the first flight.”

I look at him. “And yet I meant it.”

His smile stays in place, but something behind it hardens. He’s not accustomed to being challenged, especially not politely enough that he can’t accuse me of making a scene.

Before he can answer, footsteps sound behind him. Camille enters carrying a tray of bottled water. Her eyes move from Warren to me, taking in the distance between us, his position, and the way his hand is resting on the counter.

She understands immediately.

“Captain,” she says, “the updated weather report came through.”

“I already saw it.”

“Then perhaps you should discuss it with the copilot.”

“We have time.”

“And several checks to complete in that time.”

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then Warren pushes away from the counter. He glances at me. “We’ll finish this later.”

“No,” I say pleasantly. “We won’t.”

His eyes narrow.

Camille lowers her head, pretending to examine the water bottles, but I catch the faint movement at the corner of her mouth.

Warren disappears toward the cockpit without replying.

I wait until the door closes before turning back to the champagne.

“He likes new crew,” Camille says.

“I noticed.”

“He gets bored eventually.”

“I’m sure disappointment will speed up the process.”

That earns me a brief smile.

“You handled him well.”

“I’ve handled worse.” The words come out before I can decide whether I want to discuss what happened at my previous job.

Camille doesn’t ask. I appreciate her for that.

She places the water in the refrigerator, then begins inspecting the dinner setup. Her movements are quick but never rushed. She adjusts the position of a silver fork by less than an inch and smooths one corner of a folded napkin.

Private aviation, I’m beginning to understand, is built on details so small that ordinary passengers would never notice them.

“You worked international first class?” she asks.

“Six years.”

“Then the service itself won’t be difficult. The expectations are different.”

“How different?”

“They don’t want enthusiasm. They want accuracy. You speak when addressed. You anticipate without hovering. You remember every preference, even if it was mentioned once six months ago.”

“I can do that.”

“I assumed you could, or I would have objected when the agency sent your file.”

I glance at her. “You reviewed my file?”

“Of course.”

“And you still let me on the aircraft?”

Her hand pauses over the cutlery. It’s the only sign that she understands what I’m referring to.

“I read the official report,” she says.

“That must have been entertaining.”

“I’ve been doing this long enough to know official reports are written to protect whoever signs them.”

My opinion of her improves considerably.

She straightens and checks her watch. “They will be here soon.”

“Four passengers?”

“Yes.”

I glance toward the manifest lying face down near the service phone. I’ve not reviewed it yet. I should have, but the agency brief was rushed, and Camille began walking me through the aircraft the moment I arrived.

“What should I know?”

Her expression becomes guarded. “The principal values discretion.”

“Most wealthy passengers do.”

“He values it more than most.”

There’s something in her voice that makes me stop what I’m doing.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you don’t discuss anything you see or hear on this aircraft.

Not with the ground crew, not with the agency, not with friends.

You don’t ask where they’re going after we land.

You don’t comment on the people who meet them.

You never touch their documents, phones, or luggage unless you are specifically asked. ”

“I don’t search passengers’ belongings as a hobby.”

“I’m not questioning your professionalism.”

“It sounds a little like you are.”

“I’m telling you that these men are powerful enough that mistakes don’t become amusing stories later.” Her eyes hold mine.

I can tell she expects nervous questions. I don’t give her any.

“Understood.”

She nods once. The answer is enough for her.

I turn back toward the cabin and complete another inspection. The glasses are spotless. The champagne is chilled. The linen is secured. The fruit platter is covered and refrigerated. The coffee machine is ready. The emergency equipment has already been checked twice.

My personal bag sits beside the galley wall, tucked out of the aisle. I placed it there when I arrived because Camille immediately handed me a list of tasks. I mean to store it in the crew compartment before departure.

The cockpit door opens again, and Warren steps out, adjusting the cuffs of his uniform.

“They’re coming through the gate,” Camille says.

The change in him is immediate. His shoulders straighten.

The lazy grin disappears. He looks through the window toward the tarmac, then smooths a hand over his tie.

For all his confidence around women he believes cannot affect his career, he appears remarkably nervous about the men approaching the aircraft.