1. Sloane #3
The silver-haired man sits alone in the largest armchair. His coat is gone now, and one forearm rests against the chair. A heavy watch circles his wrist, understated enough to be worth a small house. He speaks quietly to the man with the portfolio without looking in my direction.
Warren has retreated into the cockpit, the door closed behind him.
At least the silver-haired tyrant has accomplished one useful thing since arriving.
Camille enters the galley after taking the passengers’ coats. “Why was your bag there?” she asks softly. There’s no anger in her voice, but there is tension.
“I put it down when you asked me to check the bar.”
“You should have stored it first.”
“I know.”
“He notices everything.”
“So I gathered.”
She lowers her voice. “Don’t become flippant with him.”
“I wasn’t flippant.”
“You looked him directly in the eye.”
“I was speaking to him.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I turn toward her. “What exactly are you warning me about?”
Camille glances through the opening toward the cabin. “That man owns this aircraft, the company managing it, and several businesses large enough to make the agency disappear if he chooses. He expects things to be correct.”
She studies my face, perhaps searching for panic or embarrassment.
I feel embarrassed. I simply don’t see the benefit of displaying it.
“I don’t repeat mistakes,” I tell her.
Something in my answer seems to satisfy her. She nods toward the manifest. “You should learn their names before we depart.”
“I was about to.”
I pick up the passenger roster. Four names are listed in neat black print.
Anton Vedenin.
Marek Yudin.
Iosef Tarlenko.
Vadim Chernovar.
I read the final name twice. Vadim Chernovar. I know almost immediately that’s him. The large man has to be the one called Vadim. It suits him.
Hard consonants. No softness anywhere.
Camille reaches past me for a bottle of sparkling water.
“Mr. Chernovar prefers this before takeoff,” she says.
“No ice. Mr. Vedenin takes black coffee. Mr. Yudin will ask for vodka even though we have not departed. Don’t serve it until the captain clears us.
Mr. Tarlenko usually takes nothing unless Mr. Chernovar orders first.”
I look at her. “You already knew which was which.”
“I’ve worked for them before.”
“You could have mentioned that before I started solving the manifest like a puzzle.”
“You didn’t ask.”
A smile threatens at the corner of my mouth. I suppress it.
She places a glass on a silver tray and hands it to me. “You can serve Mr. Chernovar.”
I look through the opening again. Vadim is reading something the man beside him has placed on the table. His face is expressionless. One large hand rests against his thigh. “I thought the goal was not to give him another reason to notice me.”
“The goal is to perform your duties correctly.” There’s a challenge in her voice now.
Fine.
I pour the water carefully. My hands are steady. They’re always steady when I’m working.
Whatever else I think of Vadim Chernovar, he is a passenger.
I know how to deal with passengers.
I step into the cabin. The men’s conversation stops before I reach them. Four sets of eyes turn toward me.
Vadim looks up last. His gaze drops briefly to the tray, then returns to my face.
“Your water, Mr. Chernovar.” I place the glass on the table beside him without making a sound.
His eyes remain on me. “The bag has been secured?”
There it is again. That quiet, infuriating condescension.
“Yes.”
“Properly?”
I meet his gaze with a calm smile. “I fastened the compartment myself. The aircraft is safe from my handbag.”
The younger man near the window coughs into his fist.
The man with the portfolio lowers his eyes.
Vadim doesn’t smile, but something cold and interested settles over his features. “You find safety procedures amusing, Miss…”
“Mercer. Sloane Mercer.”
“Miss Mercer.”
“I take safety very seriously. I simply don’t believe the bag requires further discussion.”
Silence settles over the cabin.
I’m aware of Camille watching from the galley. I’m aware that this man owns the aircraft and, apparently, the company that hired me.
I’m also aware that I’m right.
Vadim leans back in his seat. His gaze moves over my face slowly, not lecherously like Warren’s, but with an intensity that feels far more intrusive.
“No,” he says at last. “I suppose it does not.”
“Will there be anything else?”
“Not yet.”
I incline my head and turn away. My pace remains measured as I walk back toward the galley. Only after I’m beyond his direct line of sight do I release the breath sitting beneath my ribs.
Camille stares at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You should be more careful.”
“I was perfectly polite.”
“You told Vadim Chernovar that his concern didn’t require further discussion.”
“He agreed.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
Behind us, one of the men says something in Russian. Another replies with what sounds suspiciously like laughter.
I begin preparing the remaining drinks.
I know three things about Vadim Chernovar.
He is powerful.
He is rude.
And despite the silver hair, the expensive suit, and the force of his presence, I already dislike him enough to make this flight considerably easier.