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fingers, I snagged two and slipped them into my pocket, looking around to make sure no one had noticed me.
    No one had. I could probably sneak a few more.
    This time I yawned, covering my mouth and making a huge display of how dreadfully tired I was. I snagged three small vodkas on my way down. I turned to peer down the aisle again, just to make sure no one was watching me.
    Unfortunately, I turned straight into Kent Hudson's chest.
    Well, shit, I thought.
    Kent raised an eyebrow and stared down at me. “Why Rebecca, are you waiting for the restroom?”
    Mutely, I nodded. Had he seen me take the alcohol? Was he going to rat me out? Was this the end of my illustrious career as a babysitter for a grown man? For some reason, I felt a flash of disappointment at the thought. No matter what kind of fresh hell Carter Hudson would have put me through, at least it would be something different. Being a personal assistant to a rock star would have changed my life. And since my life was pretty crappy at the moment, there was nowhere for me to go but up.
    He took a step forward, backing me up into the drinks cart.
    I felt the heat rolling from his body, and his blue-green eyes burned as he stared down at me. "Mr. Hudson..." I said. I hated the reedy, thin sound of my voice, as though I were pleading with him. I should be demanding. I should be ordering him to back off. Instead I just hoped he would take one more step, and press that body up against mine. He may have been an asshole, but he oozed sex from every pore. I could hardly breathe.
    "Please," he said, "call me Kent. And I will call you Rebecca."
    I licked my lips. "Kent," I said. I forced myself to stand up straighter, even though it brought me even closer to him. My breasts, thrust out as I threw my head back and looked him straight in the eye, grazed over his chest. I felt the contact bolt all the way from my nipples down to my clit.
    "That's better," he said. "So, Rebecca, were you going to share your ill-gotten gains with the rest of the class?"
    Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. "They never mix drinks right on a plane," I said. "I wanted to do it myself."
    "And does it taste better if you don't pay for it?"
    Shit.
    On the outside I tried to project an air of calm and confidence, but on the inside I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. He'd seen me. The jig was up. I was doomed. I would be arrested, held for theft of approximately three point three ounces of alcohol, not even enough to get properly toasted from. You always hear about the people who get busted for less than half a joint in their car and you wonder why they just didn't throw it out the window when they were finished with it. Well, that was me. I was the idiot.
    "It tastes the same either way," I told him. "But I don't have any money and you are stressing me out."
    He tilted his head. His dark locks fell across his forehead, brushing against his strong, dark brows, bringing his blue-green eyes into further focus. "And you drink when you are stressed out?" he asked.
    This was a trap. I could feel it. I set my jaw. "Actually no," I told him. "I clean when I get stressed. But since there's nothing for me to clean on an airplane, I thought I'd try to calm my nerves instead."
    His eyes widened slightly at this. "You... clean?" he asked me incredulously.
    "Yes, I clean. You know, scrub floors, dust, tidy up. I'm very good at it. That's why I was applying for a housekeeping position. I'm stressed, I might as well get paid for what I'm going to be doing anyway."
    "What a strange way to get your stress out," he said. He lowered his voice, so that only I could hear it through the buzzing of the engines. "Me, I like to fuck." And his eyes narrowed as he leaned in. His hips butted against mine and I felt, through his trousers, the hot bulge of an erection.
    Oh my god. Oh my god. What was going on here? I scrabbled for sanity.
    "You said I wouldn't be a whore," I said breathlessly.
    "And I'm not paying you, am I?" he replied.