Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Laurel
I step out of the boutique’s dressing room for the third time, tugging at the hem of the little black dress Tasha practically forced me into. The fabric clings in places I’m not used to noticing, and the mirror reflects someone who looks far more confident than I feel.
I haven’t spoken to Leonid since the night I agreed to the Paris trip. He only texted this morning to confirm we’re still on for tomorrow. That’s the reason Tasha dragged me out shopping for new clothes.
Tasha circles me like a hawk, arms crossed, head tilted. “Give me a 360.”
I do a slow spin. The dress swishes softly against my thighs.
“Perfect,” she declares. “Sexy but classy. Paris-approved. You’re buying it.”
“I haven’t even checked the price—”
“Buying. It.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hand and already has her phone out. “Next stop: lingerie. Then wax.”
I freeze mid-step. “Wax?”
Tasha looks up from her screen, one perfectly arched brow raised. “Yes, wax. Full Brazilian. You’re going to Paris with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Nine-inches. You have to be prepared, just in case.”
I roll my eyes, huffing a breath. “Tasha, I told you, this trip is professional. We’re only going to be talking about Alexei. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah, so you keep saying.” She slips her phone into her purse and links her arm through mine, steering me toward the register.
“But when was the last time you had a full-service wax?” I open my mouth, but can’t get any words out because I can’t remember.
“Exactly. Even if nothing ends up happening between you two on the trip, you should still get waxed. It’s part of taking care of yourself, and you deserve to treat yourself more often.”
“But I can do it after the trip,” I protest weakly, even as she hands the sales associate my credit card like it’s hers.
“Sweetheart.” She turns me to face her, hands on my shoulders. “You’re getting waxed today, so if anything happens on the trip, you won’t be caught off guard. End of discussion.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. There’s no point, she’s going to end up getting her way.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But only because you’re terrifying when you’re determined.”
Tasha grins, victorious. “That’s my girl. Now let’s go get you smooth as silk. Paris waits for no bush.”
An hour later I’m lying on a padded table in a softly lit salon, gripping the edges like I’m about to be launched into space, while a very calm esthetician named Mia preps hot wax and strips.
Tasha sits in the corner chair, scrolling her phone and offering unhelpful commentary.
“Breathe,” Mia says gently.
I try. Then the first strip rips away and I yelp.
Tasha snorts. “Drama queen. You’ll thank me when you’re naked on silk sheets overlooking the Seine.”
“I hate you,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“You love me.” She winks. “And you’re going to love Paris even more.”
By the time we leave the salon, with me walking like I’ve been riding a horse for three days, Tasha loops her arm through mine again.
“See? Fresh, fabulous, and ready for anything.” She bumps my shoulder. “Now let’s get you some killer lingerie.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she cuts me off fast. “Think of it as a Valentine’s gift to yourself. And girl, no offense, but those cotton pants you wear? They shouldn’t be anywhere near a woman our age.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. Sure, my cotton panties aren’t sexy, but they’re comfortable, and I like them that way.
Late afternoon the next day, as I wait for a taxi to the airport, a glossy black beast of a car rolls up outside my building, windows darkly tinted. Before I even have a chance to register it, a driver in a tailored suit steps out and opens the door for me.
“Laurel Harper?” he asks.
I nod.
“My name is Solomon. Mr. Volkov sent me.”
Of course he did. Last night, after he told me about the time for the flight, he added that he was sending his driver to pick me up. I told him there was no need for that. He obviously didn’t listen.
I sink into the plush leather seat, and Solomon clicks the door shut behind me. The city lights smear past the window, a dizzying blur, and a low hum of nerves stirs under my skin, not fear exactly, more like anticipation.
I’m lost in thought for most of the ride. It’s when we pull onto the private terminal side of the airport that my brain finally catches up.
I lean forward, peering out the window. The building is smaller, and there are no crowds or chaotic security lines. Just a smooth stretch of tarmac and a jet!
A freaking jet! My mouth parts before I can stop it. I’m going to be on that? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve never been on a jet before. I’ve never even flown business.
Leonid stands at the base of the jet’s stairs, tall and impossibly still, dressed in a charcoal suit that looks like it was tailored directly onto his body.
It’s the same kind of sharp, expensive cut I’ve seen in the online photos that kept popping up when I stupidly Googled him after our first meeting.
Crisp white shirt, no tie, top button undone just enough to hint at the skin beneath.
Since that mortifying afternoon in his living room, this is the first time I’ve seen him in person again, and it hits me with a fresh, unwelcome wave of embarrassment.
The driver comes around and opens my door. “Thank you,” I manage.
Leonid doesn’t move to meet me halfway. He simply watches, hands loose in his pockets, that faint, unreadable curve at the corner of his mouth, as his eyes track every step I take.
When I’m close enough, he finally speaks. “Laurel. It’s good to see you again.”
Just my name. Low, rough, accented. It lands in my chest like a stone dropped in still water, rippling outward until my pulse echoes in my ears.
“Hi, it’s good to see you too,” I reply, forcing my chin up.
He studies me another beat, then nods toward the stairs. “After you.”
I climb ahead of him, acutely aware of his presence two steps behind, close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough that he isn’t touching.
I inhale a sharp breath as the cabin opens up around me: cream leather, polished wood, soft golden light. Everything is so well coordinated.
A flight attendant greets us with a bright smile that lingers noticeably longer on Leonid. “Mr. Volkov, welcome aboard. Champagne is chilling, or would you prefer coffee?” she says, completely ignoring me.
“Coffee,” he says without looking at her. “Laurel?”
“Coffee, please. Thank you.”
She nods, lashes fluttering in his direction again before she disappears toward the galley. I bite the inside of my cheek. She’s stunning, long legs, glossy blonde hair. I’m sure she’s his type.
Leonid doesn’t even glance her way though. His attention stays locked on me as we settle into the wide leather seats facing each other across a small table.
Minutes later the attendant returns with a tray containing croissants, fruit, and two steaming mugs. She leans forward to set Leonid’s cup down, cleavage on display, smile dialed to full wattage.
“Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Volkov?” Her voice is syrup-sweet.
His eyes are now focused on his iPad. “No.”
She lingers one heartbeat too long, then retreats. I stare into my coffee, stirring it unnecessarily. Jealousy twists in my belly, but I quickly push it away. I have no claim on him. He can be with whoever he wants.
I raise my head from my cup to find Leonid looking at me. “You’ve got something on your mind,” he says as a matter of fact. “What is it?”
The reasonable part of me says to shut up, but I ignore it as always. “I think she likes you.”
He blinks, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “Who? The flight attendant?”
I nod.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And how did you figure that out?”
“I saw it in the way she looked at you… and the way she shoved her chest in your direction.”
He leans back, unconcerned. “You don’t say. And I didn’t notice. Are you jealous?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Of course not! I—just… noticed. Can we talk about your son now?”
His grin widens, teasing. “What’s the rush, Laurel? We have the whole weekend.”
I sense a teasing innuendo in his words, but I shove it aside. The captain steps in, announcing we’ll be wheels up in five minutes. Leonid nods without a word, and the man retreats to the cockpit.
I fish out my phone and text Tasha, letting her know we’re about to take off. Her reply is instant. Send pictures!
The engines hum louder as we begin to taxi. A low vibration travels through the cabin, up through the seat, straight into my spine. My fingers curl instinctively into the armrest. I shut my eyes, only daring to open them when the plane begins its ascent, the pressure shifting.
I glance toward the window despite myself. The world tilts. Buildings shrink, the sky stretches endlessly, pale and open and unreal.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Leonid watches my reaction instead of the view.
“Beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees softly.
I don’t know if he means the skyline. Or me.
The cabin air is chillier than I expected. I hug my arms to my chest, shivering, silently cursing Tasha for convincing me to wear just a dress and skip a coat.
Leonid notices immediately. “You’re cold,” he says.
Before I can answer, he’s up, moving toward me. He takes off his coat and drapes it over my shoulders. The heat of his body presses just enough against mine to make my pulse skip.
The smell of him hits me, faint cologne, soap, something masculine and warm that feels like it seeps under my skin. I inhale sharply, catching a little too much, and my cheeks burn.
His face is close, so dangerously close that I can feel his breath, soft against my ear. My heart hammers. My stomach twists. It’s as if he’s about to kiss me, and for one delicious, terrifying second, I want him to.
Then he pulls back. Most of me breathes a silent sigh of relief, but a small, stubborn part aches with disappointment. I force my eyes toward the window, swallowing hard, pretending the clouds are worth my full attention.
I pull his coat tighter around me, burying my nose in the collar for one guilty second, then force myself to breathe through my mouth.
God. This trip is going to be impossible. How am I supposed to survive the next two days?