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“You’re not on the yacht, right?” he asked. He probably knew the answer.
“Of course not,” I lied, and I ripped the sheets off the sleeping girl on the bed, who stirred and grunted in protest.
I gave her bare ass a slap that made her wake up with a yelp. Covering the speaker of the phone, I said in a loud whisper, “Need you gone soon, hun. You can get some breakfast at Jerry’s on the dock and put it on the Kincaid tab. He knows me.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Rob asked, and as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped out of bed to get dressed, I made my way into the bathroom.
“A little company,” I said shortly. “Look, I’ve got to go, Rob. I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“The broker will be there any minute, Mr. Kincaid,” Rob said wearily.
“I heard you the first time, Rob,” I said, and I ended the call. I could deal with an upset broker later. The headache was a much more present threat.
I shut the bathroom door behind me just in time to hear the girl from last night starting to stir, and I hoped she didn’t expect me to show her the way out. I threw the shower on before getting out a few aspirin and popping them, looking at myself in the mirror.
It was the same me as always, my dark hair mussed by the long night in bed and my blue eyes glaring back at me in the mirror, a little bloodshot. That would pass with the shower, though.
I climbed into the shower and felt the hot water washing away the night’s sweat, sex, and booze, rippling down my tight abs and the V that pointed to my manhood, still at half-mast from waking up next to a woman.
My body always wanted to go for another round first thing in the morning, but I almost never let myself do that. Too many strings attached where they didn’t need to be. I hoped that the Greek chick didn’t need to be told twice, though. Wouldn’t do to make it awkward. It wouldn’t have been the first time a one-night stand had awakened in one of my yacht suites and suddenly decided we were in love and going to get married.
Turning my face, I let the hot water run through my hair as I ran a hand through it, breathing in the steaming, hot air. In the shower, the urgency of needing to get off the ship seemed to melt away. It did wonders for a hangover.
I’d come to Ft. Lauderdale to sell this yacht. And I expected that deal to happen one way or another. I’d heard Rob mention that this broker was a she, though. I smiled up at the showerhead.
Sure, the broker was expecting an empty yacht to do her work in peace. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t meet her when she got off the boat to sweeten the deal a little.
I lathered my rock-hard body in soap and let the scent fill the bathroom. Maybe a personal touch was just what a deal for a ship like the Mirabella needed. While I was rinsing off, I heard the door handle click, and I turned to see the girl’s dark eyes and plaintive face peering in at me, then look me up and down.
I smiled. Okay, maybe just one string attached for the morning wouldn’t be the end of the world.
4
Jillian
An email dinged on my phone and I quickly whipped it out of my skirt pocket to check as I walked briskly along the flat wooden boards of the docks. I squinted at the screen through my sunglasses, my heart already starting to pound. It was an email from the broker I was working with on this deal. He was letting me know it was time for me to check out the yacht, and complete my professional inspection. It was safe to go onboard. The coast was clear and the ship was ready for my tour.
I stopped for a moment to hammer out a quick, courteous reply. I clicked send and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I t
ook a deep breath and straightened my navy-blue skirt, smoothed down my starched white shirt that was tucked in and form-fitting. I knew I looked good, even if I felt like I was about to melt into a puddle and spill into the harbor.
Keep your cool, Jillian, I thought to myself. Nobody can tell how stressed out you are, how fast your heart is racing. If you just smile and act like you’re totally at home, everyone will think you really are. Fake it ‘til you make it had always been my secret motto.
In my line of business, it was of the utmost importance that my clients believed one-hundred-percent that they could trust me. Rely on me. I helped them make huge decisions, financially and in regards to the lifestyles they wanted to lead. And even though this time I was just buying a yacht for my brother, someone who would love me no matter what, failure or success, I still felt that drive to do the best I could. I had to write down everything, record every tiny detail, no matter how trivial it might seem to a third party.
I kept moving down the docks until I reached the yacht with a name emblazoned in flashy gold lettering on the side: Mirabella. It was a gorgeous ship, even larger than most of the yachts I had bought and sold in the past. In fact, this one was of the category unceremoniously named “super yachts.” It had to have at least eight to ten rooms on it. A yacht like this was more like a house, a mansion on the waves, than just a boat. It was its own little world, complete with a full crew to staff it.
I had spent a good chunk of my adult life cavorting around on big boats, touring them, measuring them, judging them by size, price, and opulence. But nothing had ever come close to how magnificent Mirabella was. I actually gasped a little when I first stepped in front of her. The hull was a gleaming white, nearly glittering in the hot sun, and the ship loomed so tall and majestic that it nearly blocked out the sun from my view, casting me in its hulking shadow.
I was already impressed.
But I needed to keep my wits about me and not rush to such a quick positive judgment. In the past, I had occasionally come across ships that looked amazing. Fantastic. Miracles of modern engineering, marvels of high-class luxury. But when I would step inside and start really, truly sizing them up, I would usually find flaws. Just tiny details that could have been done differently or better, the kinds of interior design choices or structural integrity issues that would dock thousands, even millions off the price point. When you were dealing in such a lucrative—or potentially financially devastating—market, those little things that might seem unimportant to the average layperson really did add up fast. And today, it was my job to stay critical and objective. I couldn’t let myself be swayed by the jaw-dropping first impression Mirabella gave me. I was here to criticize her, pick her apart, determine whether or not she was truly a good fit for my brother, who was arguably the most important person in my life.
Sometimes, it almost kind of felt like I was walking into an interview room to appraise some beautiful stranger’s audition. Only instead of a young, idealistic actress, it was a boat. A really big, really expensive boat.
I walked up the gangway plank, careful not to get the stiletto heels caught in the gaps between the wood boards. As I reached the top, a young man in an immaculate white uniform rushed over to offer me his hand and a brilliant smile. I could tell he was a little nervous, but I wanted to put him at ease. I wasn’t here to judge him, by any means, but I figured he probably worried that with the sale of the yacht, he might either be out of a job or forced to relocate. I knew how scary it was, not knowing where your vocation was going to take you. And this guy was young, probably hardly older than nineteen. I gave him a big smile.
“Thank you,” I said graciously as he helped me onto the main deck.
