Page 27

The gate agent took my passport and tapped her keyboard. Then she looked up. Her professional smile transformed into something warm and reverent.

"Ms. Caldwell, you've made a mistake." She stood, returning my passport with both hands and a slight bow. "Your ticket's been upgraded across the board by corporate administration. You're on AF007 in first class. Allow me to escort you directly to the VIP security lane and lounge."

First class? VIP lane?

I took my passport in a daze and followed her onto a plush red carpet, feeling like Alice stumbling into Wonderland.

Before this, my mental image of the "core executive" had been some vague "department VP." But now, staring at the VIP lounge's unlimited Dom Pérignon and caviar, my awe snowballed out of control.

Anyone who could casually bump a temp intern into transatlantic first class within hours operated at a level of power I couldn't begin to comprehend.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Flight AF007 to Paris Charles de Gaulle is now boarding. First class passengers, please proceed through Gate A."

I set down the club soda I hadn't actually tasted, took a breath, and wheeled my carry-on toward the gate.

Crossing the jetbridge into the cabin, the air changed. No more economy's mix of airplane food and body odor. This smelled of leather seats and expensive aromatics.

"Good evening, Ms. Caldwell. Your seat is 2A." A blonde French flight attendant smiled flawlessly and gestured forward.

"Thanks."

I swallowed hard. My heart climbed into my throat.

2A. That meant the boss sat in 2B or right in front of me.

I straightened my spine and ran through my pitch one last time. "Good evening, sir. I'm Ruby Caldwell from the secondary brands division. It's an honor to serve as your temporary fabric assistant on this trip. Over the next few days, I'll do everything in my power to—"

I carried that bulletproof smile down the aisle toward the second row's spacious semi-private first-class suite.

Someone already occupied the window seat.

He faced away from the aisle, broad shoulders filling out an obviously expensive dark shirt. He sat with legs crossed, long fingers holding an English edition of The Wall Street Journal, apparently absorbed in the financial section.

"Good evening, sir." I stopped, cleared my throat, and smiled. "I'm Ruby Caldwell, your—"

The fingers holding the paper paused.

Then he folded the newspaper with deliberate ease and turned his head slightly.

The cabin's warm reading light fell perfectly across his face—carved like marble, impossibly deep. Silver hair swept back without a strand out of place. Those storm-gray-green eyes locked onto mine through air thick with lethal notes of cedarwood and fig.

My rehearsed pitch, along with my breathing, my heartbeat, and all the blood in my veins, froze solid.

No unknown department VP.

No kindly business executive.

Sitting in that first-class window seat, watching me walk into his trap with unfathomable, crushing intensity—

The supreme ruler of the IS·MA Group. The man who'd taken my virginity in last week's midnight garden—

Marcelo Moretti.

Chapter 7

Marcelo

Air France AF007's first-class cabin hummed with the quietest white noise. I leaned back in the wide leather seat, a glass of perfectly chilled Dom Pérignon in hand.