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Juan lifted a contesting eyebrow, as if he wasn’t convinced, but didn’t push the issue. He turned to his wife. “We have to go.”
A luxury yacht had pulled into the harbor and anchored by the jetty. The bottom and top decks were laid out with tables, ice buckets, and food. Sean stepped aboard with the others. He let the porter take his bag and found a quiet place at the back by an open-air bar. From the rail, he watched the staff board their much humbler vessel. Dark blond curls with sun stripes caught his attention, but before he could lock down on the visual, the image was obscured by the mass of taller people milling around on the deck. He could strangle Cain for what he’d gotten the lass into. A week on a kingpin’s party island was no place for a sweet kitten, no matter that she could be a hissing pussycat.
Isla del Pirata was a privately owned resort on a small island thirty miles into the sea. If they traveled at top speed, which he estimated to be around twenty-seven miles per hour for this kind of vessel, they’d be there in just over an hour. Most of the guests had gathered on the upper deck for the journey. Some of the women had changed from elegant dresses to flimsy bikinis. The men already had their hands all over the women’s bodies.
He requested a beer from the barman. Taking a long swig, he leaned against the counter and watched the spectacle upstairs. The partygoers hadn’t waited long to let down their hair. Champagne flowed and raucous laughter pierced the loud music. Through the window directly in front of him, he saw a man cut white powder on the glass tabletop in the lounge. His female companion brushed her hair over her shoulder before bending down with a silver straw to her nose. He looked away. He hadn’t expected anything different. It didn’t mean it bothered him less. His gaze fell on a young girl with an older man who stood in an embrace to the side, barely hidden from view. The guy’s slacks were unzipped and he was pivoting his hips hard. Sunglasses hid the young woman’s eyes, but her mouth was open in an ecstatic expression. It was clear what they were doing.
Jeanne’s appearance next to him caught him off-guard. He looked away from the fornicating duo quickly, but not fast enough. Jeanne’s gaze had already followed the direction of his.
She studied the couple with a tilted head. “Quite a turn-on to watch.”
He clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
Like most of the females, Jeanne had swapped the fancy dress for a scrap of fabric covering her plastic breasts and so little of her pussy, there was no doubt she waxed. She angled her hips forward and cushioned his dick. Mrs. Hernandez coming on to him was the kind of danger he didn’t want or need in his life. Mr. Hernandez’s retaliation would most probably entail being tied up to a chair, beaten to a pulp, and end with a bullet in the head.
Ignoring his lack of response, she snatched the beer from his hand and took a sip. “Didn’t you get the formal invitation?”
“Should I have?”
She ran her gaze up and down his body, coming to a stop on the front of his jeans. “You were supposed to wear white, but…” she sucked her finger into her mouth and drew it out slowly, “black makes you stand out.”
He took back his beer, not that he had any intention of drinking it now that her lips had been on it. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing but—”
His words were cut off when she dropped her hand to his dick, tracing the outline through the fabric of his jeans.
Her red lips curved into a smile as she tilted her face up to him. “This kind of game.”
He froze, partly in surprise and partly in shock. Taking his silence for something she shouldn’t, the kingpin’s wife started stroking him.
When he cupped her hand, her smile turned sultry, but only until he moved her unwelcome fingers off his crotch and back to her side.
Lowering his head, he said next to her ear, “Don’t let there be any misunderstanding. I’m here for a job. Nothing more.”
She took back a step, her heavily made-up eyes flaring. “Are you blowing me off?”
“I’m not your plaything.”
“This body isn’t hot enough for you?” She ran her palms over her breasts and uttered a snide laugh. “You prefer blondes?”
“I’m not into married women.”
A sneer contorted her features. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking religious.”
“I’m Scottish. What does that tell you?”
She spat the words at him. “That you’re fucking Catholic?”
He wasn’t a staunch believer. He hadn’t attended Mass in years, but marriage was sacred, at least to him.
