2. Vadim
VADIM
I should be listening to Iosef.
He’s seated across from me with a file open on the table, walking through numbers that should have my full attention.
The men waiting for us in Paris have changed the terms again, and one of our shipping routes is now exposed because someone on the inside has begun speaking too freely.
Usually, that would be enough to keep my mind occupied.
Instead, I’m thinking about the flight attendant.
Sloane Mercer. Her name has been sitting in my head ever since I first heard it.
She’s not my type. That fact should make the problem disappear.
It does not.
I’ve always preferred tall women. Blonde, usually.
Elegant, polished, and accustomed to being looked at.
Models, actresses, women who understand the arrangement before I have to explain it.
They know what they want from me, and I know what I want from them.
There’s no confusion, no sentiment, and no expectation that the evening should become anything more than what it is.
Sloane Mercer is none of those things.
She’s not short, exactly, but she is smaller than the women I usually notice.
Her hair is dark and drawn into a severe knot at the back of her head, though several strands have already begun to work themselves loose near her face.
Her uniform is conservative, her makeup restrained, and there is nothing deliberately seductive about her.
Yet I noticed every detail the moment I stepped aboard.
The straight line of her spine when the captain stood too close to her. The way she told him to move without raising her voice. The expression in her eyes when she looked at me after I sent him back to the cockpit.
For three seconds, she had been grateful.
Then I mentioned the bag, and the gratitude vanished.
I shouldn’t find that amusing.
I shouldn’t still be thinking about it.
“Vadim.”
I lift my gaze.
Iosef has stopped speaking. He sits opposite me in his charcoal suit, one hand resting on the documents spread across the table. He has worked for me for eleven years and is one of the few men who can interrupt me without first considering whether it will cost him a finger.
“What?” I ask.
“The revised percentage.”
“I heard you.”
His expression says he doesn’t believe me.
Marek is seated beside the window with a glass of water he has not touched. Anton occupies the chair nearest the front of the cabin, positioned where he can see the cockpit door and the main entrance even though we are already in the air.
Marek leans back. “Then what did he say?”
I look at him. He smiles.
Marek has survived this long because he knows precisely how far he can push before I stop tolerating it. He has also known me since we were boys, which has given him an unfortunate confidence in his own immunity.
Iosef closes the file. “He said they want twelve percent more and control over the eastern terminals.”
“They can have neither.”
“That’s what I told them,” Iosef says. “They believe the delay puts them in a stronger position.”
“They are mistaken.”
“I agree.”
“Then why are we discussing it?”
“Because shooting everyone who inconveniences us is not always an efficient negotiating strategy,” Marek says.
“It is frequently efficient.”
“Messy, though.”
Anton doesn’t smile, but I see the movement in his jaw.
I turn back to the documents.
The aircraft has been in the air for almost an hour. The climb was smooth, the weather is clear, and the cabin is quiet enough that I can hear the faint clink of glassware from the galley.
I don’t look in that direction.
I’m not waiting for her to return.
I read the first page of the agreement and absorb none of it. The new attendant served the predeparture drinks, completed the safety briefing, and then disappeared behind the galley curtain shortly after takeoff. Camille has been handling the cabin alone since then.
There is no reason for me to notice. Cabin crew move in and out of sight constantly. That is the point of competent service.
Still, I know Sloane has not returned. I know because every time footsteps approach from the rear of the aircraft, I look up.
“Remove the clause on independent access,” I tell Iosef. “They use our terminals under our supervision or they find another route.”
“They will threaten to walk.”
“Let them.”
“They may.”
“They won’t.”
Marek watches me over the rim of his glass. His attention is irritatingly direct.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You are staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“Stop.”
He looks toward the galley. I follow his gaze before I can prevent it. The curtain is closed. When I look back, Marek’s smile has deepened.
I should have him moved to the rear of the aircraft.
Possibly outside it.
“Something interesting back there?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then why do you keep looking?”
“I’m not.”
Anton turns his face toward the window, wisely removing himself from the conversation. Iosef opens the file again, though he’s no longer reading.
Marek glances toward the galley once more. “Are you looking for her?”
The question is delivered casually. Too casually.
“Who?”
“The new attendant.”
I stare at him until most men would begin apologizing.
Marek merely waits.
“I’m looking toward the galley because that is where the crew keeps the drinks.”
“You have a drink.”
“I may want another.”
“You haven’t touched the first.”
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Of course not.” His agreement is far too easy.
Iosef clears his throat. “The insurance documents still require your signature.”
“Then give them to me.”
He slides them across the table, and I sign the first page with more force than necessary.
Marek continues to look entertained. “You have become very interested in service standards,” he says.
“The service has been inconsistent.”
“Has it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?”
“Left her bag unsecured.”
Anton finally looks over.
Even Iosef appears confused.
Marek blinks once. “A handbag.”
“In the cabin.”
“Before takeoff.”
“It should not have been there.”
“No,” Marek agrees solemnly. “We are fortunate to have survived.”
I set down the pen. “You are becoming tiresome.”
“I became tiresome twenty years ago. You have only just noticed because the flight attendant is not here to distract you.”
I lean back in my seat and study him. Marek’s amusement doesn’t falter, but his eyes sharpen slightly. He knows there’s a limit.
He also knows I’m unlikely to kill him at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic because the cleaning costs would be excessive.
“She is not distracting me,” I say.
“Then you dislike her.”
“Yes.”
“Strongly?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His expression suggests the opposite.
I return to the contract.
The truth is that I do dislike her. I dislike the way she looked at me after I corrected her. I dislike the careful politeness she uses as a weapon. I dislike that she didn’t lower her eyes when I spoke to her, and I dislike that I noticed.
Most people react to me before I say a word. They know who I am or understand enough from the men around me to be cautious. They become nervous, eager, or silent.
Sloane Mercer became annoyed.
It should have been an insult. Instead, I keep remembering the dry edge in her voice when she informed me that the aircraft was safe from her handbag.
The corner of my mouth almost moved. That irritates me most of all.
The galley curtain opens, and I look up immediately.
Camille emerges carrying a tray. Not Sloane. The disappointment is so immediate that I resent her for causing it, despite the fact that she is not present.
Camille serves coffee to Anton and replaces Marek’s untouched water. She asks whether I require anything.
“No.”
Her eyes flick briefly toward my glass. I’ve not touched it.
“Dinner will be served in forty minutes,” she says.
“Where is the other attendant?” The question leaves my mouth before I decide to ask it.
Camille pauses.
Across from me, Marek goes completely still with the effort of not laughing.
“She is completing the inventory in the rear galley, sir.”
“For nearly an hour?”
Camille’s face remains professionally blank. “She is also reviewing the service notes. This is her first flight aboard this aircraft.”
“I’m aware.”
“Would you like me to call her?”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly.
Camille inclines her head and returns to the galley. Silence remains after she leaves. I look at the men. Anton studies his coffee. Iosef studies the contract. Marek looks directly at me.
“Say it,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You are already daring.”
“I was only wondering whether there was an emergency in the rear galley.”
“There is not.”
“Then I’m relieved.”
I turn to Iosef. “Continue.”
He does, though the discussion has already lost whatever discipline it had.
Another hour passes, and Sloane does not appear.
I tell myself I’m grateful. Without her in the cabin, I manage to review the amended deal, reject two proposed conditions, and issue instructions for the men waiting in Paris.
I make three calls through the encrypted satellite line and receive confirmation that the leak within the shipping office is being contained.
Work restores order.
By the time dinner service begins, I’ve almost removed her from my thoughts. Then she walks into the cabin carrying a bottle of champagne.
Her hair is still pinned back, but more strands have escaped around her face. She has changed nothing else, yet she appears less tense than she did before takeoff. Calm. Collected. Entirely focused on the work in front of her.
She serves Anton first. Then Iosef.
Marek watches her with open interest, though not the kind that bothers me.
It bothers me anyway.
When she reaches my side, she doesn’t look at me immediately. She displays the bottle, waits for my acknowledgment, then pours a small amount into my glass. Her movements are precise. Professional.
I pick up the glass and taste it. “It will do.”
Her gaze meets mine.
There’s a pause. A very small one.
Then she says, “How fortunate.”
Marek lowers his head.
I understand the insult immediately. It is my own phrase returned to me in the same calm tone.
I should rebuke her. Instead, I feel the dangerous pull of amusement in my chest.
I set the glass down. “You have been absent for some time, Miss Mercer.”
“I was working.”
“Elsewhere.”
“Yes.”
“Camille managed without you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Her face remains composed, but I can see the challenge beneath it.
She is angry. Still.
Over the bag.
The realization should make me dismiss her as childish. Instead, it holds my attention.
I glance at the bottle in her hand. “Are you fully trained, or is this flight intended to serve as your education?” The words come out colder than I intend.
Something changes in her face. Not much. The polite expression remains, but her eyes lose the spark they had a moment ago.
“I’ve worked international first class for six years, sir.”
“Commercial service is not the same.”
“No. It isn’t.” The answer is perfectly controlled.
She has made one minor error. She corrected it immediately. Since takeoff, the service has been flawless. There was no reason to insult her again. I know it as soon as I’ve done it.
But I don’t apologize. I’ve not apologized to anyone aboard one of my aircraft in years, and the instinct does not arrive naturally.
Sloane reaches for my glass. “Would you prefer something else?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll continue service.” She turns toward the table.
I tell myself to let her go. Instead, I add, “Try not to overlook anything this time.”
Her back stiffens.
Marek looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.
Sloane turns slowly. Her face is serene. Too serene.
“Of course, Mr. Chernovar.”
She moves to my right with the bottle. Iosef extends his glass for more champagne. She pours for him without incident, then steps back toward me, apparently to refill mine.
Her hand tilts.
The champagne misses the glass. A pale yellow stream lands directly across the front of my white shirt and the upper leg of my trousers. It looks like I’ve fucking pissed myself.
The cabin goes silent.
The liquid is cool against my skin. A drop falls from the edge of the table to the carpet.
Sloane stares at the stain. Then she looks at me. “I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a trace of sincerity in her voice. Not one.
She did it deliberately. I know because her hands are too steady. Because she served three other men without spilling a drop. Because the corner of her mouth is held too carefully still.
Anton rises halfway from his seat.
I lift one hand. He stops.
If anyone else poured wine over me with intent, they would not remain standing long enough to invent an apology. In another setting, with another person, the response would be immediate.
A hand broken against the table.
A gun drawn.
A body removed.
Instead, I look at Sloane Mercer and feel laughter pressing against the back of my throat. She is either remarkably brave or catastrophically foolish. Possibly both.
“I’ll get it cleaned right away,” she says with the same false concern.
Marek has turned toward the window because he doesn’t trust his own face.
I look down at the spreading stain, then back at her.
She expects anger. I can see that much. She is prepared for it, shoulders squared, chin level, every inch of her braced behind that polished professional expression.
I stand. She takes one involuntary step back.
I’m nearly a foot taller than she is. At this distance, I can see the quick movement of her pulse in her throat.
I remove my jacket slowly and place it over the back of the seat. “Very well,” I say.
Her brows draw together.
I unfasten the cuff of my shirt. “You may do that.”
For the first time since she boarded, Sloane Mercer loses control of her expression. Her eyes widen. Her mouth opens slightly. She looks from the champagne soaking my shirt to my face, clearly waiting for me to clarify what I mean.
I don’t.
“You said you would clean it,” I remind her.
“I meant the garment.”
“It is still on me.”
Marek makes a strangled sound behind his hand.
Sloane glances at him, then back at me. Her composure returns in pieces, but not quickly enough to hide the surprise. “That is not usually how stain removal works, sir.”
“Then perhaps this can be part of your private aviation education.”
Her eyes narrow.
There she is again. The fierce woman behind the calm voice.
I should regret provoking her.
Instead, I want to see what she does next.