Page 30 of Mile High Ruin

“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.

6

VADIM

I spend the first twenty minutes of the meeting thinking about Sloane Mercer’s mouth.

This is not ideal.

Across from me, three men are arguing over access to two shipping terminals and pretending the disagreement has anything to do with percentages, when the real problem is that one of them believes I have become easier to negotiate with because I agreed to meet in person.

He’s wrong.

I know that. Anton knows that. Marek, sitting near the windows with one ankle resting over his knee, certainly knows it.

The only people who don’t appear to understand are the men on the other side of the table, which means somebody has failed to explain me properly.

Ordinarily, I would be paying close attention to every word. Today, however, my mind keeps returning to an aircraft restroom barely large enough for one person and the woman who stood inside it with her hands pressed against my chest, looking at me as though she could not decide whether she wanted to slap me or kiss me.

I wanted both.

Possibly in that order.

I look down at the document in front of me.

Twelve percent. Control over the eastern terminals. Independent access to cargo inspection. They have changed nothing important since the flight.

“Sorin,” I say.

The man speaking stops.

He is perhaps fifty-five, heavy through the middle, expensive suit stretched across his stomach, with the particular confidence of someone who has spent too long being important in rooms where nobody more dangerous was present.

“Yes?”

“You are repeating yourself.”