Page 90 of Boardroom Sins

A private airfield.

The car pulls through a gate and onto the tarmac. There’s a jet waiting. Sleek, white, audacious.

And standing at the bottom of the stairs is Lukas.

He looks like every bad idea I’ve ever had.

He’s wearing a dark suit, the top button of his shirt left unfastened. His silver hair catches the last of the fading daylight. Even from here, I can see the scars on his hands—pale lines crisscrossing his knuckles, souvenirs from a life I know nothing about. As always, it strikes me just how massive he is. Not just tall, though I feel like he could look down on the top of the plane if he chose. No, Lukas Lazarev takes upspace. His shoulders strain against his jacket. His chest is a wall. His thighs look thick enough to crush watermelons. Or skulls.

His eyes settle on mine through the tinted window. Gray as gunmetal. Cold as a January grave.

But there’s something else there, too… Something that makes my breath catch and my thighs clench together on the leather seat…

Hunger.

The driver stops the car and gets out to open my door. Cold air rushes in. My shoes ring out against the pavement as I cross the asphalt hesitantly toward him.

Lukas watches me approach. His eyes travel down my body. Taking inventory of his newest prize, I presume.

“Where are we going?” I demand as soon as I’m close enough for him to hear.

His mouth curves into a vicious, sinister smile. “You didn’t think I’d spend five million dollars on a simple dinner, did you?” He turns and gestures toward the stairs. “After you, Ms. Everett. We have a long night ahead of us.”

30

RAE

FRENCH CUSTOMS DECLARATION

Passenger: Everett, Rae

Flight: Private (N-339LZ)

Arriving From: United States

Items to Declare:

?Currency over €10,000

?Alcohol or tobacco

?Goods for commercial use

?One virginity (about to be lost)

I white-knuckle the railing of the plane stairs and ascend one careful step at a time.

I’m painfully aware of Lukas shadowing closely behind me. His gaze burns into my back. Maybe lower. Probably lower.

The interior of the jet is predictably luxurious. Cream leather seats wide enough to qualify as couches, burled walnut accents, sconces on the wall. A damn vase of flowers, of all things. Surely that’s a hazard?

There’s a bedroom visible through a door at the rear—why does that not surprise me?—and what looks like a full en-suite bathroom beyond that, including a clawfoot bathtub big enough to drown an elephant.

Or a Lazarev.

I sink into one of the massive seats and clutch the armrests. The engines roar to life the second my ass hits leather.

Lukas settles across from me, perfectly at ease. His legs spread wide, eating up the space between us. He looks unbothered in every way, like he flies off to undisclosed locations with auction-purchased women every day of the week.