This Year's Black (Killer Style 2)

“What about contacting the local police?”

Heat seared his lungs and spread through his shoulders, down his arms, and out his fingers. “Not gonna happen. If word leaks about this snafu, I can kiss the merger good-bye—and probably my job, too.”

“You think George would fire you?”

“He gave me a chance when no one else in the world would, and he’d still fight for me today, but the Dylan Corporation board is a whole other barracuda. Someone’s going to have to take the fall. It’s not going to be the guy with his name on the building.”

She clucked her tongue against the back of her teeth, drawing his attention to her glossy pink lips. “Your brief mentions Sarah’s originally from The Andol Republic.”

Glancing out the window to the patchwork green of South America below, he centered his focus back where it should be: catching Sarah. His career was riding on the merger deal. If this blew sky high, he might as well stay in The Andol Republic himself and become a beach bum.

“Most of her family is on the island. She had some kind of fight with them and left when she was young—shortly after George visited when his first marriage busted up. Sarah never went back to visit home, but she’d swore to George that she’d go back someday.”

“Looks like that day came.”

“But not for long.” He poured a finger of whiskey into a crystal tumbler, then poured a second. Leaning forward, he took a whiff. The strong scent of bourbon burned along his nostrils followed by the hint of orange peel and gingersnaps. He pushed one of the glasses across the table to Ryder. “It’s Four Roses Single Barrel.”

She wrapped her fingers around the glass and lifted it to her lips. Devin reached out, halting the tumbler inches from its intended target.

“This isn’t for shooting. It’s for sipping. It comes from specially aged bourbon barrels and has a high rye content that creates a spicy, yet fruity, flavor.” He released her glass and held his own aloft, touching the rims together. “To all of the things we have and all we still want—and to truces.”

A Mona Lisa smile curved her lips as she stared at the amber liquid. “To truces.” Despite his orders, the stubborn woman shot back half the glass.

They worked in companionable silence until Ryder started grumbling under her breath. “Tell me again why I can’t go online? I thought every private jet had wifi.”

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Irritation colored her cheeks as she twisted a long strand of dark brown hair around a finger. The move was the last thing he should be noticing right now, but damned if he could stop staring.

Pulling himself back from the brink before his cock realized where his thoughts were going, Devin shot back the last of his bourbon. “You ride a lot of private jets?”

“No, but my butt’s in coach every few months and even the discount airliners offer in-flight Internet.”

“You’ll have to ask George why there’s no wifi.”

She rolled her eyes, her expression clearly telling him to fuck off. “I’ll add it to the list.”

The plane bobbled in the air, sending the empty crystal tumblers onto their sides. They rolled across the inlaid table and bounced back from the wall a second before the captain’s voice sounded over the intercom. “Sir, we’re approaching a patch of weather. I’m going to do my best to keep things smooth, but I need you to please buckle up.”

Devin grabbed the glasses and put them in the designated container, then slid across the bench seat so he could get to the seats with the safety belts. But Ryder didn’t move. Her finger worked double time twirling her hair while her other hand held onto the table edge with a death grip. The sight kicked him somewhere soft and resurrected the protective instincts he thought had died after the accident that almost killed his brother.

“Come on.” Devin stood and held out his hand. “Let’s get you buckled in.”

Her gaze snapped up, scared but defiant. “I’m fine right here.”

As if the fates were mocking her, the plane did a little dip that nearly jostled him off his feet. He threw out his hands to maintain his balance.

She pinched her lips together tight enough that a white line zipped around the edges. He grasped her wrist and tugged, coaxing her out of her comfort zone. Like the skittish polo pony he’d had in prep school, she refused to make eye contact. Still, she inched across the leather bench seat, never fully loosening her hold on the table.

He kept his stance wide and his center of gravity low. The last thing she needed—or he wanted—was for her to see him go down like Joe Frazier in a bout with Muhammad Ali. “Just a little bit farther.”

“I’m not a moron,” she gritted out between clenched teeth as she stood.

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning at her surly attitude. “No one said you were.”

Sticking close together, they crossed the aisle to the bucket seats. He waited for her to clip her seat belt closed before settling into the chair across from her. Right on cue, the jet did another midair jiggle and Ryder’s olive skin turned green. She slouched down and closed her eyes, rubbing her belly.

If he didn’

t distract her soon, this was going to end ugly.