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someone with your skills to speak to my mother.”
    “Your mother?” I said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.
    “I told you earlier, but you were a bit... preoccupied,” he said, winking at me. “She is deaf. You studied Croatian Sign Language. I need a person who can talk to her, especially since she is pretty angry at me right now and probably will throw a teacup at me when I walk in the door.”
    I stared out the window silently, thinking over his offer as I watched the streetlight streak past.
    “Or I could just drop you off at your apartment with the promise that I’ll pay for your tombstone. Your call,” he said, glibly reiterating the morbid first option.
    “You didn’t leave me much of a choice, did you?”
    “No... but I am feeling nice and thought you could use the extra hazard pay,” he answered, and then he winked again.
    No kidding, I thought, and I rubbed my aching ribs.
    ****
    “Champagne, Miss?” asked the flight attendant from over my shoulder.
    “Yes, please. Thank you,” I answered as my ears popped for the fifth time. My lesson of the day was that international flights took a damned long time to reach cruising altitude.
    The prim and proper flight attendant poured me a second glass of the bubbling beverage, and I took a sip before leaning back in my comfortable seat.
    I had never been into the mythical realm of “International First Class” before, and I had to admit: it had already exceeded my expectations. Dinner had been warm, filling, and positively delicious, the flight attendant friendly and professional, and the accommodations more than comfortable.
    The first-class section of the plane wasn’t so much an airplane cabin as it was an airborne lounge. The seats folded out into long, luxurious sofa beds, and there was so much leg-room that even if I stretched out as far as I could, I still couldn’t reach the other row of seats.
    “Can I get you anything else, Mister Ibramovic?” asked the attendant. I glanced at Peter, who was sitting in the seat to my right.
    “No, I’m good. Thank you.”
    “Given the unusual circumstances of your flight, is there anything else we can offer you assistance with?” asked the attendant courteously. She had probably read the passenger list and noticed just how much it deviated from reality, I assumed.
    “No... it’s a long flight, and we’re exhausted, so just stay out of our hair and let us sleep,” he answered, smiling tiredly.
    The attendant bowed politely, shut off the cabin lights, and tied off the curtains behind her as she retreated toward Economy Class.
    I sighed and stretched my legs out again, and as I sat back in my seat, I noticed that Peter was staring at me.
    I stared right back at him and dared him to blink first. Two could play at this game.
    How the hell does he stay so composed this late at night? I wondered as I stared at him. His suit still looked clean and pressed, while mine were dirty, wrinkled, and probably pretty smelly too. When I’d gone to the lavatory before take-off, I’d noticed a huge oil stain on the back of my white blouse from falling down in the garage, too.
    Long story short, I was a mess, and he looked like he’d just arrived at the office!
    It’s just not fair, I thought. He’s smoking hot even after being shot at all day.
    My eyes were starting to water, and just as I thought I was going to have to give in, Peter blinked and then burst out laughing.
    “What’s so funny?”
    “Oh, nothing really,” he said between giggles, and he smiled and leaned toward me as he regained his composure.
    “I just love it when you assert yourself like that,” he whispered in my ear.
    “When I what?” I asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow and staring at him like he had two heads.
    “Like when you started yelling at me in the car, or in the elevator before that,” he purred.
    My mind perked up as thoughts of the elevator burst to life. I remembered the tingle on my skin as he touched me, as he pushed me