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I turned just as Damian boarded—casual in jeans and a sport coat, looking infuriatingly awake for someone about to spend nine hours in the air. His duffel was slung over one shoulder, sunglasses pushed into his hair, and he was already flashing that Sinclair smirk that made rational women misplace their IQ points.
“Are the goods secure?” he asked, nodding at the crate.
I rolled my eyes. “Unless you plan on somersaulting this plane onto the tarmac, it’s not going anywhere.”
He dropped his bag into the seat opposite mine. “Good. I’d hate to have to break into a German prison to explain a missing Kandinsky.”
“Don’t joke,” I muttered, double-checking the tie-downs one more time. “Customs paperwork only buys us so much forgiveness.”
He watched me work for a moment, leaning one shoulder against the nearest seat, and I could feel his gaze like a low whisper across my skin.
Finally satisfied, I tugged my blazer straight and turned to face him.
“Ready?” I asked.
He grinned. “Born ready.”
The flight attendant reappeared with a tray of champagne flutes, but I waved her off. Damian accepted one because, of course, he did.
We settled into our seats—mine facing slightly away from his because, frankly, I needed the distance tonight.
As the jet taxied, I let my fingers skim over the corners of my notes folder, the Coral Gables estate records tucked neatly inside. Work. Focus. Professionalism. I was here for a job.
Not for him.
Not for the way his hand flexed around the stem of the glass or the way he loosened his collar when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The jet began its climb, engines vibrating beneath the carpeted cabin floor. I stole one last glance at the crate secured near the wall. Then another glance at the man stretched casually in his seat across from me. Neither one of them belonged to me, but tonight, for a little while, maybe I could pretend they did.
The first hour passed in that dreamy, pressurized haze that only comes from cruising thirty-five thousand feet above a world that keeps turning without you.
Damian had his laptop open, skimming emails he clearly wasn’t reading. I had my appraisal notes out, the familiar rhythm of work steadying me more than the champagne I hadn’t touched.
Across the aisle, the flight attendant approached again, polite but curious, her gaze flickering toward the large secured crate bolted near the galley.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, keeping her voice low and professional, “what’s in the crate?”
I smiled, setting my pen down. “A painting. Vasily Kandinsky.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “An original?”
“Original, yes. Stolen during the Nazi regime,” I explained. “It’s being returned to a museum in Baden-Baden. Near where the family who originally owned it lived before the war.”
She glanced at the crate again, her expression softening. “That’s… incredible.”
“It is,” I said quietly. “A lot of pieces from that era never make it home.”
Damian closed his laptop and leaned back in his seat, watching me now instead of his inbox.
The flight attendant thanked me, adjusted the strap on the crate for good measure, and left us alone again.
The whir of the engines filled the space between us, steady and private.
I looked down at my papers, tried to focus on the handwritten provenance notes, but I could feel him watching me.
Always watching.
Finally, I set the folder aside. I cleared my throat, casually—too casually. “So,” I said, stretching my legs out in front of me. “I should probably tell you... I’m off the pill.”