Page 91 of Boardroom Sins

Maybe he does. What the hell do I know?

“Relax,” he advises, watching me strangle the leather. “If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t need international airspace to do it.”

“You know,” I remark with a high-pitched laugh, “that’s really not as reassuring as you seem to think it is.”

He reaches for a hidden compartment next to his seat. “Would a drink be more reassuring?”

“I’ll pass.”

“It’ll help with the nerves.”

“Who says I’m nervous?”

“Your knuckles, for one.”

I look down and see that my fists are balled up so tight that you could turn these babies into an anatomy chart. I force myselfto take mercy on the armrests and let go. My fingers ache from gripping so hard.

“Fine. Maybe I’m a little nervous. But that’s a completely rational response to being kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” He laughs. “You walked onto this plane of your own free will.”

“After you left cryptic messages on my computer and sent me a dress code!”

“I’d call that an invitation, not a threat.”

“Coming from you, I fail to see the difference.”

His gray eyes glitter. “You know, Ms. Everett, you may understand me better than I suspected.”

The plane begins to taxi. I watch through the window as the airfield melts past, then falls away entirely. The lights of the city grow smaller and smaller until they’re just pinpricks against the black velvet of night.

We’re really doing this. I’m really on a private jet with Lukas Lazarev, wearing clothes he picked out, destination unknown.

Lord help us both.

“At least tell me where we’re going,” I say.

He pulls out the stopper of the decanter and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. “You’ll see soon enough.”

That’s yet another non-answer from a man who seems allergic to the concept of calming a woman’s nerves. I’m prickly and anxious from head to toe.

What does it say about me, then, that I let the subject drop? Is it a death wish that’s brought me on-board tonight? Is it a decade of unrequited post-pubescent lust? If I’d done the deed even once before, would Lukas Lazarev lose his hold on me?

Or is there something abouthim in particularthat would’ve always ensnared me, in any timeline, in any life? Was Ialwaysdestined to board this plane, to have this conversation? Was healwaysfated to look at me with those hungry, wolfish eyes, never blinking, never shying away? Are webothtrapped in this thing?

Like Lukas himself, the universe has only non-answers for me. These anxious prickles are going nowhere any time soon.

“So how does this go, then?” I blurt, unable to stand the awkward lull. “We just sit here in silence until we land at Mystery Destination X?”

“We can talk, if that’s what you’d prefer.” He combs a hand through his beard, which releases a wave of his scent. Smoke, mint, aquamarine mayhem.

“Talk about what?” I ask.

“Whatever you’d like.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass. “Is this your first time on a private jet?”

I scowl. “What doyouthink?”

“I learned a long time ago not to presume.”