Chapter 6

Three days later, Chloe was staring at the flight manifest for AA 107 to Paris, her blood running cold. There, in bold black letters, was the name: Gillespie, E. First Class, Suite 1A.

It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. He had specifically booked this flight. Her flight. And she was the designated First Class flight attendant.

She had tried to swap the trip. She had begged the scheduler, offered bribes, even faked a stomach bug. Nothing worked. "Staffing is tight, Carr," the scheduler had said. "You're going to Paris."

Now she was standing in the galley, her hands shaking as she checked the champagne temperature. The cabin was empty except for him. He was sitting in the private suite by the window, reading a financial report on his tablet. He hadn't even looked up when she boarded.

The doors closed, and the plane pushed back. Chloe went through the safety demo on autopilot, her voice a monotone. He didn't watch. He just kept reading.

After takeoff, the seatbelt sign dinged off. Chloe took a deep breath and grabbed the wine list. She had a job to do. She would be professional. She would pretend that night at Elysium never happened. She would pretend he was just another passenger.

She walked to his suite, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. "Sir, would you care for a beverage before dinner?" she asked, her voice steady.

He didn't look up. "Water. Sparkling. No ice."

She brought the water. He took it without a word. She brought the hot towels. He took one. She brought the dinner menu. He nodded. It was maddening. He was treating her like a ghost. Like she was invisible.

An hour into the flight, it was time to serve the wine. Chloe pushed the cart down the aisle, her movements precise. She poured the Bordeaux into a crystal glass. She reached over to place it on his tray table.

Just as she leaned down, the plane hit an air pocket. The floor dropped out from under her. The plane shuddered, a violent lurch that threw Chloe off balance. She stumbled, her hand jerking.

The glass tipped. The dark red wine sloshed over the rim, landing directly on Emilio's lap. It soaked into the light gray fabric of his tailored trousers, spreading like a stain across his thigh. A very sensitive area of his thigh.

Chloe gasped. "Oh my God. I am so sorry, sir." She grabbed a napkin, instinctively reaching out to dab at the stain.

Emilio caught her wrist. His grip was like iron, stopping her mid-motion. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The mask of indifference was gone. In its place was something dark, something predatory.

"My suite. Now," he said, his voice barely a whisper but cutting through the engine noise like a knife.

Chloe froze. "Sir, I can bring you a towel and some soda water-"

"I said now." He released her wrist and stood up, blocking the aisle. He gestured toward the private bathroom attached to his suite. "Clean it."

Chloe looked around. The other passengers were engrossed in their movies or sleeping. The curtains around the suite were drawn. She was trapped. He was the CEO. He was the boss. If she refused, she could lose her job.

She grabbed the cleaning kit, her hands trembling, and followed him into the bathroom. It was tiny, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. The door clicked shut behind her, and the lock engaged.

Emilio leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at the stain, then back at her. "Well? Get to work."

Chloe swallowed hard. She wet the cloth and knelt down on the floor. The position was humiliating. She was on her knees in front of her boss, in a bathroom on a plane, with a wine stain inches from his crotch. She reached out, her hand shaking, and began to dab at the fabric.

Her fingers brushed against him. He was hard. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt. She jerked her hand back, her face burning.

Before she could stand up, his hand shot out, fisting in her hair. He pulled her to her feet and spun her around, slamming her back against the door. The mirror was cold against her shoulder blades.

"You think a little spill makes us even?" he asked, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm on her cheek. "You think you can buy me for a night and then pretend I don't exist?"

"I didn't know who you were," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I thought you were-"

"A whore?" he supplied, his voice silky and dangerous. "Is that what you thought I was?"

He didn't give her time to answer. He kissed her, hard and punishing. It wasn't like the first night, when she was the one in control. This was a takeover. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her in place.

She struggled, turning her head away. "Stop. Someone will hear."

"Let them," he muttered against her neck. "You bought me for the night, remember? I'm just delivering the service you paid for." He bit down gently on her earlobe. "I'm just collecting."