3. Sloane
SLOANE
I know it was stupid the moment the champagne leaves the bottle.
Stupid.
Impulsive.
Potentially career-ending.
I stand there with the bottle still in my hand, staring at the dark stain spreading across Vadim Chernovar’s white shirt and the front of his trousers, while every man at the table looks at me as though they’re waiting to see whether I survive the next thirty seconds.
What exactly did I expect? That he would apologize for being rude? That he would admire my spirit?
That the billionaire who owns the aircraft, the company operating it, and probably half the city we are flying toward would laugh and tell me I have taught him an important lesson about manners?
Of course not.
I need this job. I need the money, the reference, and the chance of another assignment after this one. Less than two days ago, I was fired from the airline. This morning, I promised myself I would be controlled, composed, and impossible to criticize.
Now I’ve deliberately poured champagne over the owner of the aircraft.
He rises from his seat. My fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle.
Vadim says nothing at first. He removes his jacket and places it over the back of the chair, then begins unfastening one cuff with slow, deliberate movements. The silence in the cabin becomes unbearable.
The large man nearest the aisle has already started to stand. Vadim stops him with a slight lift of his hand, without taking his eyes off me.
“I’ll get it cleaned right away,” I say. My voice is steady.
It’s the only part of me that is.
“Very well.” He straightens to his full height. “You may do that.”
For one second, I simply stare at him.
Then I realize he’s serious. He’s standing there in his stained shirt, waiting for me to deal with the mess I made.
Every sensible thought in my head tells me to fetch Camille, hand him a cloth, or suggest he change into something from the bedroom wardrobe.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Please come with me.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Where?”
“To the restroom.”
He cocks his head. The movement is small, but something in his pale eyes shifts. The men around the table remain perfectly still, though the younger one looks as though he’s one breath away from laughing.
Heat creeps up my neck.
The restroom. Seriously?
Did I just invite Vadim Chernovar into the restroom with me in front of three other men?
“Yes,” I add, because apparently humiliation has not yet killed me. “There are cleaning supplies inside.”
He watches me for another second. Then he steps away from the table. “Lead the way, Miss Mercer.”
I turn before he can see how badly I want the floor to open beneath me.
The aisle feels longer than it did before. I move toward the rear of the aircraft with Vadim behind me, aware of every quiet step he takes. He doesn’t need to touch me for me to feel him there. His presence follows like heat at my back. I don’t look over my shoulder.
I float through the cabin like a ghost escorting herself toward execution.
Camille appears from the galley just as we reach the rear corridor. Her gaze moves from me to Vadim, then drops to the wine soaking his shirt.
The color drains from her face. “What happened?”
“A spill,” I say.
Her eyes snap to mine. She knows. She watched me serve the others without so much as trembling the surface of their glasses. She looks horrified enough that I almost apologize to her.
“I’m taking Mr. Chernovar to the restroom to clean it.”
Camille’s mouth parts.
Behind me, Vadim says nothing.
“I can handle it,” Camille says quickly.
“No.” The word comes from Vadim.
Camille falls silent.
“She offered,” he continues. “She will do it.” His voice is calm, but I hear the amusement he’s refusing to show.
I hate him for enjoying this.
I hate myself more for giving him the opportunity.
I open the restroom door.
The space is far too small. I know that immediately. It’s designed for one person, not two, especially when one of them is built like Vadim. There’s a narrow sink, a mirrored cabinet, and barely enough room to turn without brushing against the walls.
I should tell him to wait outside. I should retrieve the stain remover and bring it to the cabin. Instead, I step inside and turn toward him.
He follows.
I don’t close the door. There’s no reason to.
The open doorway does nothing to make the space feel less intimate.
Vadim stands directly in front of me, broad shoulders almost filling the opening. The ceiling seems lower around him. He smells faintly of cedar, smoke, and the wine now soaking into his shirt.
I reach for the cabinet above the sink. My hand misses the latch the first time.
Behind me, he is silent.
I open it and find a small bottle of stain remover, clean cloths, and a packet of wipes. My fingers feel clumsy despite the fact that I’ve performed far more complicated tasks in worse conditions.
I turn back.
The stain begins near the center of his chest and spreads down over his abdomen. More of the champagne stain blooms across one thigh.
My mouth goes dry. “I’ll start with the shirt.”
“An excellent plan.” His voice is dry.
I look up at him. “Do you want this cleaned or not?”
“I’m standing in a restroom at your request, Miss Mercer.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
His pale eyes hold mine. “Yes,” he says. “I want you to clean it.”
The way he says it sends a warm, unwanted pull through my stomach. I look down before he can see the reaction in my face.
I wet the cloth, apply the stain solution, and press it against his chest. The white fabric is warm from his skin. So is the body beneath it.
He doesn’t move. Not even slightly.
I begin blotting the stain, careful not to rub it deeper. The cloth passes over the hard plane of his chest. His shirt is fitted closely enough that I can feel the muscle beneath every movement of my hand.
He’s much larger than I realized. The suit hides some of it. In the cabin, he looked broad and powerful. Up close, with my hand pressed against his chest, there’s no mistaking the strength in him.
I move lower. The restroom is too cramped for me to step back, so I have to lean closer. My breast brushes his arm. The contact is light, accidental, but my whole body notices. His arm is hard beneath the fabric, the muscle tightening slightly when I touch him.
I freeze for half a second.
Vadim’s gaze drops to my face.
Neither of us mentions it.
I continue working.
My chest brushes him again as I reach toward the stain near his side. This time the contact lasts longer. The stiff material of my blouse drags against his sleeve, and heat gathers beneath my skin.
He still doesn’t move.
That’s almost worse.
If he stepped back, the moment would break. If he said something rude, I could become angry again. Instead, he stands there and lets me touch him.
My breathing becomes too shallow.
I imagine, suddenly and vividly, what would happen if he stopped pretending this was only about the wine.
If one of those large hands closed around my waist. If he pulled me forward until there was no space left between us.
If he bent me back against the sink and put that hard mouth on mine.
The thought arrives fully formed and completely unwelcome. Heat floods between my thighs.
I press my lips together. Absolutely not. I’m not becoming aroused while cleaning champagne off the man I just assaulted with a bottle of wine.
I’m not.
My body disagrees. I can feel the dampness gathering beneath my underwear, humiliating and immediate.
I move the cloth lower, focusing on the stain. The shirt clings to his stomach now. The fabric outlines the hard ridges beneath it, and my fingers brush the edge of his belt.
Vadim inhales slowly. It’s the first real sign that he is affected.
I look up. His jaw is tight. His eyes are no longer cold. They have darkened, fixed on me with an intensity that makes the tiny room feel even smaller.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then the aircraft drops.
The turbulence comes without warning. My balance disappears, I lurch forward, and Vadim catches me around the waist before I can hit the sink. My hands flatten against his chest. His body is solid beneath mine, one arm locked around me, the other braced against the wall.
The restroom door swings shut behind us with a sharp click.
We are suddenly enclosed. Alone. My face is inches from his, and his hand spans almost the entire width of my waist.
The plane steadies, but he doesn’t release me.
Nor do I step away.
I can feel the heat of him through our clothes. His chest rises beneath my palms. One of his thighs is between mine, not pressing, but close enough that another shift would bring it exactly where my body is already aching.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
I should move. I should open the door. I should apologize again and leave before I make another mistake.
Instead, I remain still in his arms, aware of his fingers tightening against my side.
“You did that deliberately,” he says. His voice is lower now.
I could lie, but there would be no point.
“You were rude.”
“That is your defense?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t have one.”
His mouth almost curves. “You poured champagne on me because I questioned your experience.”
“You insulted me.”
“I made an observation.”
“You made several.”
“And you believed damaging my shirt was an appropriate response?”
“No.”
“Yet you did it.”
“Yes.”
His eyes remain on mine.
I can feel every beat of my heart.
“If another person had done that,” he says quietly, “they would already be regretting it.”
The words should frighten me.
They do, a little.
But the hand at my waist is not hurting me. His thumb shifts once against my side, almost absently, and the movement sends another pulse of heat through me.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. I hate how breathless the question sounds.
His gaze drops to my mouth again. “I have not decided.”
The aircraft trembles once more, less violently this time. His grip tightens. My breasts press fully against his chest.
A sound catches in my throat.
There’s no pretending now. He knows, and I know he knows.
My body is warm, my nipples hard beneath my blouse, my thighs drawn too close around his leg. The air between us feels charged and heavy, filled with everything neither of us should be thinking.
I push gently against his chest. He lets me go. The absence of his hand feels immediate.
I turn back to the sink, mostly so I don’t have to look at him. “The stain is lighter,” I say. My voice sounds almost normal. “It may need professional cleaning.”
“I assumed as much.”
I set down the cloth. My hands are no longer as steady as they should be.
“I’m sorry.”
This time I mean it. Not because he didn’t deserve the champagne, but because I need the job, and I’ve almost certainly destroyed the one chance I had left.
I face him. “For the spill,” I add. “And for being unprofessional.”
He watches me.
I force myself to continue. “I understand if you ask the agency not to assign me again.”
The words hurt more than they should. I hadn’t expected this job to matter when I boarded. Now it feels like another door closing before I’ve managed to get through it.
I reach past him for the door latch.
“Miss Mercer.”
I stop.
His voice is close behind me.
I turn. He’s nearer than I expect.
There’s no warning. Vadim catches my face in one hand and kisses me. His mouth comes down on mine with the force of something he has been restraining since the moment he boarded the aircraft. My back hits the door, and his other hand settles at my waist, holding me there as his lips move over mine.
For one stunned second, I don’t think.
Then heat explodes through me.
I grip the front of his stained shirt and kiss him back.