Page 108 of Mile High Ruin

“Because it was in her bag,” Anton says. “And she’s the only person who’s been a regular on our flights for the past few weeks. You’re the one who told us that there are never any coincidences.”

I look at him.

He doesn’t back down. “She may be innocent, but until we establish who had access to that bag, we can’t treat that as fact.”

I know he’s right.

I dislike him for being right.

“She poured champagne on you, and we all know she did it deliberately. Maybe she wanted your attention for some reason,” Marek says.

“And it worked,” Anton adds.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “I saw through her, didn’t I?”

“And what were you doing when I called you last night?” Anton asks.

This time I don’t say anything. I open the folder again and look at her photograph. Professional expression. Hair pulled back. Calm eyes.

The file gives me pieces, not answers.

Sick brother.

Money problems.

A juvenile record that sounds more desperate than dangerous.

A career she nearly lost because another wealthy man thought he could put his hands on her.

None of it clears her. None of it condemns her either.

What it still doesn’t explain is who had enough access to her bag to open the lining, place a tracker inside, and close it again without her noticing.

And that matters more than anything else on the table.

17

SLOANE

I wake slowly, with the uncomfortable sense that I’m somewhere I don’t belong, and for several seconds I stare at the ornate ceiling above me while my brain tries to assemble the previous night into something that feels remotely plausible.

The private jet, Vadim, Hale, the attack on the tarmac, the hospital, the hotel, the tracker, and then Vadim looking at me like I might have been sent to get him killed. It all comes back in an ugly rush, followed by the memory of exactly how close we came to having sex before everything went spectacularly wrong.

I groan and turn onto my side, reaching automatically toward the bedside table for my phone, because if I have to relive the entire disaster, I at least want to know what time it is.

My hand closes over empty wood.

I frown, blink the sleep from my eyes, and reach again as though the phone might somehow materialize if I’m persistent enough.

It doesn’t.

There’s a lamp, a half-empty bottle of water, the charging cable I remember plugging in, and absolutely no sign of my phone.

I sit up.

For a few seconds, I tell myself I must have left it somewhere else in the room, so I check beneath the pillow, then the sheets, then the chair beside the bed, even though I distinctly remember placing it on the bedside table before I fell asleep. By the time I crouch to look beneath the bed, annoyance has already begun turning into anger.

There are not many explanations available.