The Dark Glamour (666 Park Avenue 2)

pushed her back on the couch and pulled her terrycloth robe open, glancing only briefly at the cocktail dress she still wore underneath. His large, capable hands found its invisible zipper without the slightest hesitation, and her body rose up to meet his hungrily.
    Danger,
a tiny part of her brain whispered, but the tension just sent a deeper thrill through her.
    I don’t care.

Twenty-two
    S UNLIGHT GLIMMERED OFF Jamaica Bay, refracting into a million bright pieces in the airplane’s cabin. Jane had always heard that private jets tended to be less glamorous than they sounded, but this certainly was not true of the Dalcaşcus’ plane. Heavy, gold-embroidered curtains worked as movable dividers to create as large or intimate a space as was needed, and André had opted for something fairly intimate. There were two oversize seats for takeoff and landing, and a low couch along the opposite side that was as deep as a bed. More curtains doubled as wall-hangings, obscuring the usual grey plastic of the plane’s shell. It wasn’t to Jane’s taste, exactly – the Romanian siblings favoured bloodred leather and velvet and a clutter of luxury over the clean, open spaces she preferred. But there was no denying that the thing was swank, and once their climb slowed and gravity relaxed its downward pull, it was as easy to believe that she was in a sexy lounge as thousands of feet up in the sky.
    Complete with sexy strangers,
she thought, glancing coyly at André, who was buckled in beside her. Two weeks would normally be enough time to at least start to get to know someone, but their bizarre double-double-agent game ensured that she had no real idea who the man sitting next to her really was.
It’s just as well,
she decided. She didn’t really want a romance and certainly couldn’t afford another entanglement right now. So if by some miracle André turned out to be a genuinely good and likable guy, she would really prefer not to know about it. And if, as she suspected was far more likely, he was as evil and soulless as Lynne Doran, she’d rather not know that, either. It was far more palatable to be sleeping with a stranger than with the enemy.
    He blinked against the slanting sunlight, his long black eyelashes settling briefly on his olive skin, and Jane nearly sighed out loud at the sight of him. It was definitely better to just enjoy the moment and not ask too many questions. As long as she didn’t make the mistake of actually trusting him, he was the perfect companion.
    André’s eyes were open a slit, and slanted towards her small, perky breasts. Jane had been pleased to realize that she no longer required a bra at all, and André seemed to greatly appreciate that new direction in her wardrobe. But they were both distracted by a subtle but noticeable light that flashed on over the cabin door, and Jane cleared her throat and sat up in her red leather seat. ‘Does that mean the plane’s going down?’
    ‘Not the plane, no,’ André leered, his accent a little thicker than usual. But he pressed a button on the wall, and the door opened to reveal a stewardess wearing what Jane could only describe as a black leather bustier.
    Seriously?
    The woman swished in with all the swagger of a professional dominatrix. Jane automatically pressed herself back against her chair, but all the woman did was drop a scrap of glossy paper in her lap, another one in André’s, and sashay through the cabin door again. ‘Dinner,’ André explained curtly, and if Jane wasn’t mistaken, he was blushing a little as he held up his piece of paper to show her the menu printed on it.
    Bet the flight attendant does more than just waitress duty, if asked,
Jane realized, blushing a little herself. She clenched the menu in one hand and read it over and over until a few of the words made sense.
Should you ever order oysters on a plane? How about on
this
plane?
    The meal, of course, turned out to be every bit as flawless as the ones she had enjoyed back on land when she had been a Doran fiancée. In addition to the oysters, there was caviar with toast points, red snapper tartare, medium-rare quail, and a boeuf bourguignon that rivalled Gran’s. The flight attendant swished in periodically with new plates, expertly matched glasses of wine, and the occasional lingering smile that made Jane feel uncomfortably as if her clothes had suddenly gone see-through.
    But eventually the meal was done, the sun was setting behind the Atlantic Ocean, and she