Her fist shot out like a piston, a perfect uppercut to the unprotected terrain of the man’s groin.
A strangled sound erupted above her—a hiss, followed by a breathless groan that might’ve made her wince… if she hadn’t already launched herself up like a rocket.
She bolted, clutching her boots in one hand, red gown flaring around her legs like a cape as she rammed her shoulder into her poor, unfortunate rescuer.
The man staggered back against the gleaming mahogany wall with a solid thud. “Ah,gamoto—!” he grunted, his voice hoarse and guttural.
Not waiting for a second round, Dani took off down the corridor.
Run, Dani, run!
The hilarious comedic line flashed through her mind as she ran, causing her to stumble as an adrenaline-fueled snort of giggles slipped from her.
Plush carpet silenced her bare feet as she sprinted past antique brass sconces and decorative alcoves filled with sculptures that cost way more than her Vespa. The corridor felt endless—curved walls and soft lighting designed to lull the wealthy into a champagne-fueled haze.
But she wasn’t sipping bubbly. She was making a mad dash for freedom.
Behind her, a furious volley of curses and shouts, demanding she halt, filled the air. The curses were in Greek. The orders to halt were in a mix of Greek, English, and Italian. She had to admit she was impressed with his range of knowledge of multiple languages. None of them were easy to learn.
She also noted that none of the curses were flattering, and all of them were terse with anger.
A glance over her shoulder showed the man wasn’t giving up.
She swerved, dodged a steward with a tray of shrimp cocktail, and hit the staircase two steps at a time, praying her legs didn’t give out before she reached open air.
Freedom. She just needed to reach the deck.
“Ms. Collins! Dani!”
Dani winced at the sound of her name slicing through the music—and not in a good way, like a smooth DJ transition. No, this was more like a needle-skipping-across-vinyl moment, and it was aimed squarely at her.
She burst through the arched, gold-inlaid doorway and onto the upper deck like a cannonball of chaos hurled at a royal gala.
Instant silence rippled outward from her entrance. Conversations halted. Champagne glasses froze mid-air. One woman with a diamond choker large enough to fund a small nation blinked, uncertain if she was witnessing a mental breakdown, a social experiment, or both.
Dani didn’t care. She had bigger problems. Namely, the huge guy charging behind her. From the crash of metal and the loud expletives, he hadn’t been as nimble as her. Her sympathies went to the poor bloke who would be picking pieces of shrimp out of the carpet. The smell would be a bear to get rid of, not to mention the stains.
“He can afford it. No sympathies, Dani,” she muttered, veering in the opposite direction of Vito’s voice.
She could imagine just what her entrance into the posh occasion must look like. Her sequined red gown was barely clinging to her body. She hadn’t zipped it. The spaghetti-string straps holding the bodice drooped dangerously low, held up only by sheer willpower, desperation, and the help of her black, cotton sports bra.
Her hair—previously doused in champagne and cleaned with a quick shampoo in the shower before she realized Vito’s amorous intentions—had dried into a medusa-like halo of curls that swayed with each furious step she took. Her bare feet padded across the plush carpeted salon. She clutched her grimy, steel-toe work boots like twin weapons of mechanical justice.
A steward blinked as she stomped past him, gently rotating his silver tray so the foie gras didn’t slide off. The waitstaff exchanged sidelong glances of bemused alarm, but none stepped in. Clearly, this wasn’t their first yacht drama.
Dani frantically scanned the crowd as she walked—no, stormed—across the inner salon, her expression a mixture of righteous fury and ‘I’m two seconds away from lighting this whole damn boat on fire.’
“Dani!” Vito’s voice, syrupy and panicked, slithered over the crowd.
Her eyes locked on him—tan, oily, and far too smug for a man who had locked her in a glorified dressing room. He stood near a group of glamorous guests beside the piano, holding a flute of Dom Pérignon like it was an Oscar. His cologne reached her before he did.
“I can explain,” he said, flashing a sheepish grin that probably worked on drunken heiresses but only made Dani want to throw a shoe.
“Yeah?” she snapped, holding up one boot. “How about I explain my feelings… with a steel-toe demonstration?”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd as her voice—definitely not demure or dulcet—rang out like a rallying cry. One elderly gentleman snickered and was elbowed by his companion while a woman in a glittering silver dress choked on her shrimp canapé.
Dani was feeling pretty confident until she looked back the way she had come. From the lower deck stairs,heemerged. Her accidental victim. Her very furious, very male, very intimidating victim.
