Page 2 of Frequency of Attraction

Work questions she could answer. “OrbitAll is my home base. I work for the parent company, based out of Paris, but I wanted a change.”

He raised a sandy eyebrow. “See? Fancy.”

He’d really think so if he knew Quinn had recently dropped two million on a Boston brownstone she’d slept in only once so far. It had been a busy year for The Geier Group: new products, supplier emergencies, the rumors she’d had to squash about unsafe working conditions at one of their warehouses in Sri Lanka, OrbitAll’s successful test launch under Chen, their new astronaut. She’d been to seven countries for work already, and it was only June. She’d had no time left over to focus on making that brownstone her home, or to figure out what kind of life she wanted to make there.

No free time, no orgasms, just work. That was Quinn’s life.

A call of “Order up!” in the kitchen drew the bartender away. He came back with a steaming basket and a plastic cup of what must be his custom, and hopefully spicy, avocado ranch.

Quinn couldn’t stop her happy squeal from slipping out. The bartender chuckled, which should have affected her more than it did. She knew that. He was cute and attentive and had nice hands, but she felt nothing. What did it mean that she was more excited about the hot food in front of her than the hot guy?

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Quinn.”

He rapped his knuckles on the bar and straightened. “I’m Trav. Enjoy your pickles, Quinn. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

She popped a hot, crispy pickle in her mouth, breathing easier as he walked away. After a few minutes, she pulled out her phone to scour Yelp and Google reviews of some of their newer stores. She lost the next half hour to things she actually understood: public perception and the positive effect of fried food on PMS.

She didn’t allow worries about what she might be missing—in life, in Boston, in bed—to creep in.

2

Seville was beautiful at night.

Hell, everything was beautiful at night. Night was his time. Always had been.

During the day, Vadim’s descent into Seville from thirty thousand feet would take place over red rooftops and patchwork fields. Now, he could decipher nothing but the clash of darkness against the lights of the city.

He activated the fasten seatbelt sign and announced their imminent landing, though he doubted the team in the main cabin could hear him over the chanting of their fight song. The football club he flew for had just won their match against Liverpool, an old rival.

“Wasting your breath,” his first officer told him in Spanish, grinning.

“I know.”

The team had been rowdy the whole flight home, since the match had signaled a break in their losing streak. Vadim had no doubt the players would keep the celebration going at one of the late-night clubs around the city. Well, most of them would. Some had girlfriends or wives to get home to. Pitiful.

Vadim would join them at the club, as he always did. He didn’t have anyone waiting at home, nothing to tie him down—not a mortgage, not a houseplant, certainly not a woman. For years he’d been skipping across the face of continents, flying from place to place, never sharing more than a few hours with anyone. It was a lifestyle that suited him fine, with two exceptions.

One was called Mila. The other was the fact that becoming a pilot had been his backup plan. A stepping-stone to the ultimate destination. Now it was his life.

Ninety minutes later, Vadim strode through the Seville airport with purpose. The players had long since deplaned, but the shutdown and debrief with his copilot had taken longer than expected.

Crowds always parted for pilots, even when they were walking away from the gates, and at six-foot-four Vadim knew he looked more imposing than most. He reached for the phone buzzing in his pocket and read the message without slowing. Elian, the team’s powerful defender, with the location of the after-party.Carambola Lounge. It’s fucking crazy, man. Saved you a seat.The footballers usually drank free anywhere in the city, especially when they won, which meant it was shaping up to be a wild night with the boys.

Or not.Vadim slowed his stride when he spotted Luciana behind the Vueling Airlines desk. Excitement poured into his veins when her dark, sultry eyes connected with his. He’d spent many, many hours with the stunning Catalan woman wrapped around his body. He’d gladly exchange a night of free drinks in a crowded club for her singing his name in pleasure.

Luciana’s lip curled as she mentally devoured him from top to toe. Vadim smirked at her naked interest. He knew how he looked in his pilot’s uniform—and out of it. So did she. He also knew which move made Luciana come so hard that she cursed in two languages. He raised his eyebrows in question, still walking but at a more deliberate pace. She gave a little headshake and tipped her chin to the side. Vadim followed the gesture with his eyes.

Damn. Her husband was on shift tonight, too. He gave her a “your loss” shrug and kept walking.

The looks followed him through the airport. They followed him everywhere he went. Vadim barely noticed anymore. The way people watched him was background noise.

His physique, the tattoos. He hadn’t purposely been trying to get attention. The opposite, in fact. With the tattoos, he’d had something to hide. Same with the muscles. Getting stronger had been necessary. Now, ink covered nearly every inch of his body. Every muscle that could be developed had been. His body and its art had taken on a life of their own. Now they made him who he was, or who people thought he was.

Vadim found his older-model Mercedes in the car park and dumped his bag in the trunk. He debated hitting up his flat for a shower and a change of clothes but decided to skip it. He was never at clubs for very long anyway. One drink, one lingering look, then his night would continue in a much more intimate, though not necessarily quieter, setting. Leaving the bar with a woman had become a foregone conclusion. He didn’t have to try to get women in his bed. He didn’t have to try to please them. Those things just happened. At twenty, he’d been a horny bastard who’d reveled in his burgeoning body and the attention he received. At thirty-two, he was starting to miss the challenge.

He peeled off the starched white button-down with epaulettes in favor of the snug undershirt beneath it. Inside his car, he tuned to thumping techno and left for the bar. Twenty minutes later, inside Carambola Lounge, raucousness greeted him. Three floors of sweaty, bass-filled hedonism. Vadim made his way through the throngs to a group of tiny tables in the back that had been taken over by the footballers and their hangers-on, where he perched on a teal suede chair that looked and felt like doll furniture underneath his frame.

---