The shades of his Maui Jim glasses weren't dark enough to block out the sunlight glaring off the silver metal of the company Lear jet. Jack winced as he stretched his long arms after the brief ride in the back of the limo and punched the snoring Draven beside him.

"What the—"

"You can sleep on the plane. Get your ass moving."

Their last night in Vegas hadn't turned out quite like he planned, but he managed to salvage the evening despite the disappointment. The exhausted blonde he deserted in his hotel bed this morning was up to the challenge of satisfying his cravings, unlike the little tart who teased him but ran when the going got good. The two-bit waitress, Solana, didn't know what she was missing.

"There better be vodka." Draven crawled out of the backseat of the limo and slumped up the flight of stairs leading to the interior of the corporate jet.

"When is there not a fully stocked bar on any of my planes?" Jack trailed behind his friend; suit jacket draped over his arm. The morning was unseasonably warm for the first half of January and he didn't wish to wrinkle his shirt. Raised by his Uncle James, Jack learned the importance of image at an early age and a man dressed in an expensive suit had a distinct advantage, the clothing making the man. First impressions mattered, and his exquisitely tailored suits were a walking billboard for his wealth, status, and expectations. There was beauty in a well-made suit and the man who wore one.

Dipping into the dim interior of the plane, Jack caught sight of a fine ass in a tight black skirt. The hour-long flight to LA might not be as dull as he expected with that plump backside to fondle. Little Jack agreed. The cheap fabric of her outfit ended well above the woman's knees, revealing short but tanned toned legs he wouldn't mind running his fingers up. Jack drank in the supple skin as the legs turned.

"You've got to be shitting me."

His gaze found the mouth uttering those words, took in the familiar flecks of fire in her hazel eyes, and smirked. "Hello Sweetheart."

Solana glanced after Draven, who'd sunk into his favourite spot at the back of the plane. "Catching a ride with your friend?"

"Actually, all this is mine." He leaned a hip on the caramel leather chair near the entryway and reveled in the dawning of recognition on her face. The Blackhorne surname typically received one of two reactions; excited anticipation at the opportunity to schmooze the head of one of America's wealthiest corporations or disgust at how the family made its money. Blackhorne & Caldwell had been a struggling pharmaceutical company half a century ago until one of their research scientist discovered a powerful pain killer in their laboratory. Some people, typically the terminally ill or those with chronic debilitating pain, called his family a lifesaver. Those who became addicted to the little pink pills or their friends and family who watched their love ones drown in their dependence on the drug called him a killer.

"You're that Jack?"

She-devils who try to ruin my night don't get the first name treatment, no matter how attractive they are. Time to teach this woman a lesson. "Mr. Blackhorne to you."

Her lips squeezed together as if she was physically suppressing a smart comeback. Jack watched as the poker face she failed to employ last night slid into place. So the girl could play nice when she needed to. Wouldn't it be fun to find out how far he could push her? A little game of cat-and-mouse power play would make the flight fly by. Much more fun than reviewing the financials for this week's board meeting.

"Right." The tall thin glass in her hand shook with a slight quiver as she offered the 'welcome aboard' drink he insisted on with every flight. "Champagne Mr. Blackhorne?"

The professional tone glided over his skin, cool and crisp. He almost believed she wasn't hating every second of this. "Had too much champagne last night."

Her skin warmed with embarrassment, and her eyes fell to the floor. Jack appreciated the view.

"Scotch on the rocks for me. Vodka for him. No ice." He didn't stick around for a response, striding down the aisle confident she'd do his bidding. They all did in the end.

Suit jacket carefully laid on an empty chair, he slipped into the seat across from an already drowsing Draven. Beneath his feet, the jet rumbled to life as the plane prepared to leave sin city. A tumbler with an inch of golden liquid and a handful of ice cubes presented itself on the table between him and his friend.

Jack counted the solid squares in his glass. Four.

"Only three ice cubes in any of my drinks. Make it again." He planted his phone, screen side up on the table and ignored Solana. "A fresh one. I'll know if you just remove one out of this glass." He stole a glance at the reflection on the airplane window, the ghost of Solana glaring down at him. "Is there a problem?"

"I'll fix it."

He let her mumble go. If he'd learned anything from last night, there was a line with this woman and while he'd love nothing more than to make her implode, his luggage was stored in the plane's cargo bay. If she dumped another drink on him, he'd wouldn't be able to change until they landed. A picture of him exiting his jet, stained by scotch would make some paparazzo's day.

Half an hour later, Jack admired his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Back at his seat, he had a pillow he didn't intend on using, a newspaper he wasn't interested in reading and had insisted on speaking to the pilot. "In private." Once locked in the cockpit with the pilot, they talked golf for a few minutes and he left.

Solana pranced up and down the jet, succumbing to his whims. The feeling warmed his heart. Well, it would if he'd had one. His ex had once said he was black-hearted. Perhaps he was, but he was sure there was nothing but a gaping hole where that organ was supposed to reside. Still, the sight of the petite flight attendant rushing back and forth in the tight skirt definitely warmed something inside him.

Jack hadn't had such a pleasant flight since he took Michelle to St. Lucia for a weekend getaway. They'd joined the mile high club a few times during that trip. Michelle was a fun ride, a tiger in and out of the bedroom, great sense of adventure and part of the uber rich class. She understood his world. Too bad the heiress married Matthew Patterson six months later.

Well, it's not like he was going to marry her. Been there, done that. His uncle wasn't around anymore to insist he enter into any contracts of the matrimonial persuasion and with all the sweet treats offered on silver platters for free, he didn't plan on tying himself down again.

The plane hit a pocket of turbulence and Jack gripped the counter to maintain his balance. A smile spread across his face. If they were hitting a rough patch, that meant it was time to order more drinks.

"Coffee. Black. And I want to see steam it's so hot." Jack barked in the general direction of Solana as he took his seat. Before him, on a white china plate, rested a sandwich. With the tip of his index finger, Jack lifted the slice of multi-grain bread to expose three thin slivers of avocado.

"Solana."

"Yes,"

Her voice came from over his shoulder and he almost jumped. He hadn't realized she was so close. "What's this?"

"A chicken club sandwich." She moved to stand beside the table.

"I can see that." Jack glared up at her, the expression of wariness on her face worth the effort. "I want to know why there is green slime on it."

Her nose squished up. "You mean the avocado?"

"Yes, sweetheart." Ah, there it was, the first spurts of molten lava erupting in her hazel eyes. The sight gave him the tingles, right down to his core. "I don't like avocado. It's banned from all my meals."

Solana's mouth opened, then shut. She had no response to appease him. He recognized the fact she hadn't made or even stocked the sandwiches, the catering company was responsible for providing all the food and drinks. They were the ones at fault and would be fired as soon as he landed. It was Solana's job simply to serve him the food. Yet, she was the messenger.

"I'll get you something else."

"Good idea, Sweetheart." Up out of his seat, he accompanied her down the aisle. He'd push this issue, watch her sort through every cupboard on the tiny kitchenette. The thought of the view of her bending over for him tantalizing.

"Mr. Blackhorne," the captain's voice boomed over the speaker, "We're entering a bit of turbulence. Need everyone to fasten their seatbelts."

Solana stopped her scamper down the aisle and turned. "You need to return to your seat."

"I need my sandwich."

"Jack—" he opened his mouth to protest, but she corrected herself "—Mr. Blackhorne, this is serious. Please return to your seat."

The please from her pretty little mouth, the remnant of some bright pink lipstick that complimented the warm shade of her skin tone sticking to her lips, struck a cord deep inside him. Her begging seemed like something he'd enjoy very much. Besides, this was his plane. He'd sit when he wanted to. "I'll sit after I get what I want, sweetheart."

A bunched fist flew to her hip, a cute look if anger didn't ruin her face. "Typical."

"Excuse me?" The plane angled up as the pilot most likely tried to get above whatever was threatening to ruin the smooth flight. He shifted his weight to adjust to the new angle, coming closer to Solana.

She stepped toward him, so close he couldn't mistake the flecks of red-hot fire fighting for dominance in her hazel eyes. "You think because you have money you're immune to the laws of nature. Gravity has no effect on you."

"I think I'm hungry, and it's your job to remedy the situation. That's what I'm paying you for, sweetheart."

The plane plummeted. Instinct kicked in and they both reached out to the nearest thing to steady themselves. His hand on her shoulder, hers on his forearm.

There was a moment when time stood still. Her hazel eyes widened in shock. Or was it attraction? Jack knew the look of attraction, saw it often in his prey, the women who desired a night with him. But this was something else. Or rather, he felt the intensity of the look. He ingested the emotion and let the sensation course through his veins before offering it back to her.

As if a director had yelled action, everything sped up, a flurry of activity. His mouth on hers, her fingers burrowing into his biceps, his hand cupping her backside. Everything hot and wet and sumptuous. Her tiny body setting his ablaze.

The plane around them could have been crash landing, and Jack wouldn't have noticed. His hands raked up and down her tight, slim frame, testing out each inch for a flaw. He found none. She explored his chest, her touch searing his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric, pulling him down. Her mouth, hot and tasting like honey, demanded more. He was happy to oblige.

"Mr. Blackhorne, we're preparing for landing." The captain's voice came over the speaker, breaking through the spell she'd placed on him. "Ensure your seatbelts are fastened."

Jack wanted to fasten her.

But Solana froze beneath his grasp. The heat receded, cold air filtered across his flamed skin. A sharp smack on his cheek followed by a sting made Jack blink. She'd slapped him. He stared at her. At her slightly swollen lips. Lips he wanted back on his.

Wordlessly, she backed away from him, eyes locked on his, until she hit the leather chair behind her. She gawked as she sank into the seat and began fumbling for her seatbelt. The captain repeated his request and Jack stumbled into the nearest seat, never breaking eye contact with her.

The plane began to descend as she glared at Jack. The wheels left their storage area with a metal on metal grinding noise and he glowered back at her. Their world shook a little as the wheels hit the tarmac. They stared at each other across the small cabin.

The jet jolted, and Jack's mind caught up with his body. He had to have this woman.