5. Sloane
SLOANE
By the time we are two hours from landing, I’ve replayed the scene in the restroom in my head so many times that I would happily open the emergency exit and throw myself into the Atlantic if cabin pressure were not such an inconvenience.
I kissed him back.
That’s the problem.
Not that Vadim kissed me. Not even that he put his hands on me in a restroom barely large enough for one person and made me forget every intelligent thought I have ever had.
I kissed him back. Enthusiastically.
There is no version of what happened where I can pretend I froze or got swept up for three unfortunate seconds.
My hands went into his hair. I pulled him closer.
I let him kiss my neck and touch me until I was practically trembling against him like a woman in a terrible romance novel who has misplaced all sense of professional judgment.
Then, because the universe clearly felt I had not embarrassed myself enough, Captain Hale was standing outside when we came out. The memory makes heat climb up my neck all over again.
I focus on stacking clean glasses in the galley.
Camille has asked me twice whether I’m all right. The first time, I told her I was fine. The second time, I gave her a look that apparently convinced her not to ask a third.
Vadim has not approached me again. I’m grateful.
I’m also, irritatingly, aware of exactly where he is at all times.
Every time his voice carries from the main cabin, my spine straightens before I can stop it.
Every time one of the men laughs, I wonder whether they’re discussing what happened in the restroom, although logically I know they can’t possibly know the details.
Marek—at least I think that’s his name from the roster—probably knows enough. The man looked at Vadim’s half-cleaned shirt when we came back and smiled like somebody had just handed him a private joke that would keep him entertained for years.
I avoid all four of them as much as my job allows. Camille handles most of the service, and when I do have to enter the cabin, I make sure my attention remains on what I’m doing. Water. Coffee. Plates. Linen.
Never Vadim.
This works surprisingly well for almost an hour. Then I feel his eyes on me while I’m collecting a glass from the table.
I refuse to look up.
“Miss Mercer.”
Damn him.
I turn with a professional smile that feels glued to my face. “Yes, Mr. Chernovar?”
He has changed into a dark shirt and fresh trousers. The white shirt I stained is gone, which should make it easier not to remember my hands pressed against his chest.
It doesn’t.
His gaze rests on me for a moment. “Coffee.”
“Of course.”
Nothing else.
I take the cup and leave.
That becomes the extent of our interaction for the remainder of the flight, which should make things easier, except somehow avoiding Vadim requires almost as much awareness of him as speaking to him.
Every time I enter the cabin, I know where he is before I look.
Every time I hear his voice, something in me tightens before I can stop it.
He doesn’t call me over again, doesn’t ask for anything beyond the occasional drink, and makes no reference to the restroom, the wine, the kiss that went considerably further than either of us had any business allowing before common sense finally caught up with us.
By the time we begin our descent, I have almost convinced myself that I imagined most of the tension.
Almost.
The landing is smooth, the kind of landing that makes the cabin feel briefly suspended before the wheels settle completely onto the runway, and within minutes Camille and I are moving through the familiar rhythm of arrival, collecting glasses, checking the cabin, securing everything that needs to be secured before the passengers disembark.
I don’t look at Vadim until I have to.
He stands near the door with Marek and Anton while I wait beside Camille.
His coat is back on, his expression composed, and whatever passed between us several hours ago has disappeared so thoroughly that I begin to wonder whether men like him simply know how to shut things off when they stop being useful.
Marek says something to him quietly. Vadim answers. Then his gaze shifts to me.
For one second, neither of us moves.
There is no smile. No acknowledgment of what almost happened. Only that strange, steady look that makes me feel as though he can see considerably more than I want him to.
“Miss Mercer,” he says.
“Mr. Chernovar.”
That’s it. He walks down the stairs and disappears into the waiting vehicles with his men.
I remain by the door for several seconds longer than necessary.
Camille notices. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m looking at the ground crew.”
“The ground crew is in the opposite direction.”
I turn toward her. “Do you enjoy this?”
“A little.”
I give her a look and go back inside.
The aircraft feels different after he leaves. Quieter. Larger somehow. Less charged.
I should be relieved. Instead, I feel something absurdly close to disappointment, which is ridiculous. I have known Vadim Chernovar for one flight.
One.
I insulted him, poured champagne on him, let him kiss me in a restroom, and spent the rest of the journey avoiding eye contact because I apparently lose all professional judgment around silver-haired billionaires with control issues.
The safest possible outcome is never seeing him again.
I tell myself that several times while we finish clearing the cabin.
It doesn’t help.
Camille insists on taking me out that night.
I object initially because I’m exhausted, jet-lagged, and still deeply aware that I have just completed the strangest assignment of my career, but she dismisses every excuse and tells me that sitting alone in a hotel room replaying the day will only make things worse.
Unfortunately, she’s right.
So three hours later, I’m standing inside a crowded club with music vibrating through the floor and a drink in my hand, wondering how private aviation somehow turned into this.
The place is elegant without being pretentious, all low lighting, dark wood, mirrored walls, and people dressed like they expect to be photographed without warning.
Camille looks completely at ease.
I don’t.
She leans toward me. “You’re thinking about him.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “I’m not.”
“You’ve been quiet for ten minutes.”
“That doesn’t automatically mean thinking about Vadim.”
“It does tonight.”
I stare at her. “How much do you actually know about him?”
Her expression changes slightly. “Not much.”
“You’ve flown him before.”
“Yes.”
“So you must know something.”
“I know what he drinks. I know he hates delays. I know Anton handles security, Marek enjoys provoking him, and Iosef usually works through most flights.”
“That’s service information.”
“That’s most of what I need.”
I swirl the ice in my glass. “What about who he is?”
Camille watches me for a second. “I don’t ask.”
“That sounds healthy.”
“It is.”
I look at her. “You really don’t know anything else?”
She shrugs. “He owns several companies. He travels constantly. People become very attentive when he enters a room. Nobody who works around him likes discussing him.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It sounds like private aviation.”
I’m not convinced.
Before I can ask more, Camille’s attention shifts toward someone behind me. “Speaking of distractions.”
I turn. A man is standing near the bar.
He’s handsome in a polished, deliberate way, with dark hair brushed neatly back from his forehead, a well-cut charcoal jacket, and the kind of composed expression that suggests he’s accustomed to being welcomed wherever he goes.
He looks a little older than the men who usually approach me in places like this, though still younger than Vadim, and there’s something about the steadiness of his gaze that makes me think of him immediately.
Not because they look alike. They don’t.
Vadim is broader, rougher around the edges, his face marked by old violence and years of apparently refusing to soften for anyone. This man is smoother, almost elegant, but he carries himself with the same unnerving certainty, as though he expects the space around him to make room.
He catches me looking and smiles.
Camille follows my gaze, and straightens. I’m not blind. I know he’s good-looking, I’m just not interested.
The man approaches slowly enough that I have time to decide whether I want him to. “Can I buy you another drink?” His voice is pleasant, lightly accented in a way I can’t place.
I glance at Camille. She gives me the smallest possible nod.
“Sure.”
He orders without touching me or leaning too close, which already puts him several miles ahead of Captain Hale.
“I’m Viktor,” he says when the bartender moves away.
I give him my first name. “Sloane.”
He repeats it once, thoughtfully.
There’s nothing strange about that. Still, something in the way he looks at me feels unusually attentive for a man who supposedly wandered over because he liked what he saw.
“You’re not from here,” he says.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only because you look like you’re still deciding whether you like the city.”
I smile. “That is frighteningly specific.”
“Was I wrong?”
“No.”
His drink arrives.
He lifts the glass slightly. “Then I will take the victory.”
We talk.
At first, it’s easy. Travel. Hotels. Places neither of us particularly liked. He asks what brings me to the city, and I give him the safest version of the truth: work.
“What kind?”
“Aviation.”
“Pilot?”
I laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Flight attendant.”
I look at him. “Good guess.”
He shrugs as though it was nothing. He probably saw the hotel, the way Camille and I are dressed, something.
His expression remains pleasant. “Interesting work.”
“That depends on the passengers.”
“Difficult ones?”
“One or two.”
Vadim appears in my mind before I can stop him.
By now, Camille has walked away, so it’s just him and me.
Viktor notices the change in my face. “There is someone.”
I blink. “What?”
“The difficult passenger.”
“No.”
His mouth curves. “That sounded convincing.”
“I’m not discussing passengers.”
“Professional discretion.”
“Exactly.”
“I respect that.”
The answer should relax me. Instead, it makes me think about Camille’s warning on the aircraft, about how carefully she told me not to discuss anything I saw or heard around Vadim and his men.
I take another drink.
Viktor is attractive.
Very.
Up close, his features are almost too refined, his smile controlled, his hands elegant around the glass. There’s nothing threatening about him on the surface. So unlike Vadim.
We talk for a bit, but I mostly keep things superficial. Then, when my watch flashes with my night-time alarm, I pretend to hold back a yawn.
“Tired yet? I hope I didn’t bore you,” he says with a gentleman’s smirk.
“I’ve had a really full day,” I tell him.
“I should let you enjoy your evening.”
“That’s unusually considerate.”
“I have moments.” His smile returns. Then he reaches into his jacket and places a card on the bar beside my drink. “If you decide you would like better company than difficult passengers.”
I look at the card. When I lift my gaze again, he’s already walking away.
Camille watches him disappear into the crowd. She has returned to my side again.
“What?” I ask.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“That face said several things.”
“He was asking a lot of questions.” Camille gives me a look.
I pick up Viktor’s card. The cardstock is heavy. I slide it into my bag without thinking much about it.
He was handsome. Polite. Interesting enough.
But when I close my eyes for even half a second, it’s not Viktor’s face I see. It’s silver hair, pale eyes, and a mouth that kissed me in an aircraft restroom.
I open my eyes again.
This is getting ridiculous.