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I just woke up one morning, locked in my room. I looked out my little window and saw we were docked back in Ibiza. I pounded on the window, but none of the passersby were close enough to see or hear me. But I could see them. Happy, shiny people walking by hand in hand, in their tropical finery—linen for the gentlemen, and strappy dresses and shoes for the ladies. An hour later, the boat started moving, and Ibiza got smaller and smaller until I almost couldn’t see it anymore. Someone unlocked my door and walked away. When I came out, I headed upstairs to breakfast, where the table was set for one person.
Me.
All Karol would tell me was that the guys were out of town but would be back.
I can’t deny I haven’t thought a couple times of throwing myself overboard and getting the inevitable over with. I don’t think it would take much for these guys to kill me, and if Dad doesn’t come through, I’m sure I’ll end up at the bottom of some ocean.
The fact that I’ve messed around with them means nothing. I’m sure they’d cut me loose at a moment’s notice, given enough reason.
I keep thinking back to the night at the club, and the DJ, and how the guys had chased him off. But hadn’t it looked like they all knew each other?
Was it just a set up? Make the DJ look bad so the guys could come to my rescue?
And what about the French girls? Had that been a set up too? Why else would they have pushed so hard to get me to join them in Ibiza?
Was thereno oneI could trust? Shit, even my father had some bullshit going on I had no idea about.
I push my frustration into the baguette dough I’m kneading in the galley, when I hear a boat engine draw near. Chef is letting me help out, probably because he got tired of my standing there, watching him. I figure, at least I am acquiring a skill I can take home, if I ever get home. I look at Chef to gauge his reaction to the sounds, but true to form, he acknowledges nothing and just keeps stirring whatever it is he’s cooking.
The footsteps and voices grow louder.
I abandon my baguette and cautiously head toward the noise. It takes me only two steps to realize the guys are back.
I have this weird urge to run and hug them. What the hell is that all about? They’re my freaking captors.
Am I coming down with some sort of Stockholm Syndrome? Only at sea?
I may want to run to them, but I do not. They don’t need to see any weakness on my part. Even though I’ve been so lonely and bored, with no one to talk to, I can’t deny I am strangely happy they’re here.
At the same time, I also want to rage right in their handsome faces. Where do they get off leaving me? No communication, no goodbye, nothing. About that, I am pissed.
In fact, I’mreallypissed.
“Where were you?” I demand, interrupting their conversation.
The three turn slowly, and goddammit, why do they have to be so gorgeous?
Bogdan, in his crisp trousers and snug polo, lowers his sunglasses to look at me. While checking me out, and with a half-smile, he nods with approval.
Ilya, his blond hair lightly gelled, wearing faded blue jeans and a collared shirt, puts his hands on his hips, the little dimple in his chin so prominent I can barely stop looking at it.
And Fedor, his hair pulled into a hipster man bun, wears his usual long-ish shorts and a buttoned linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off his sexy ink.
These guys are the very definition of Mediterranean chic. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were trust fund babies from someplace like Monaco.
I’m screwed. So completely screwed.
“Well?” I snap.
Bogdan approaches me and I let him give me a kiss on the temple. “Is ourkrasotkafriend a little grumpy today?” The corner of his mouth turns up, and he affectionately tucks a curl behind my ear, ignoring my obvious discontent, made only worse by yet another Russian endearment that I do not understand.
I promise myself to no longer ask for translations. I won’t give them the satisfaction.
“You guys left me here. I had no idea where you’d gone or when you’d be back.”
They’re silent for a moment, as if truly surprised I expect anything of them.
And the truth is, I’m surprised, myself. These guys fucking kidnapped me to extort something from my father—what, I’m still not clear about. They’re criminals involved in some sort of organized crime, from what I can tell, so why should I be insulted they don’t treat me with any sort of consideration? How the hell else would they treat someone like me?
