Page 16 of Mile High Ruin

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.