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“The ride over was a little choppy,” I mutter, wringing out the hem of my faux-fur jacket. Fat water droplets splatter against the deck. “Is there anywhere I can dry off?”
“Sure, there’s a whole locker room for the girls onboard.” Catching my raised brow, she adds, “Yeah, the yacht ishuge. I’ll grab you a uniform, make yourself presentable and then I’ll give you a tour.”
She bustles back down the side deck and disappears through a door. I follow her in and find myself in a small laundry room. She spins around and stabs a finger at my Doc Martens. “No shoes on deck,” she barks. “Take them off. Your coat too. I’ll dry it during your shift.” I slip off my boots and shake my coat off my shoulders and hand both to her. She places the boots on a rack under the counter and tosses my jacket in one of the dryers. It whirs to life, and for a few seconds, she watches the drum spin before clutching her stomach. “Gotta go,” she grunts, shoving past me and heading back out to the deck. “Uniform is on the counter, locker room is on the first door on the—”
Her instructions are cut off by a gurgle, and then her head dips between her shoulder blades as she feeds the fishes in the water below.
Well, then. Feeling my own stomach churn at the sound of Laurie’s guttural moans, I skim over the row of bags on the counter, find one labeled with my size, and slip out of the internal door and into a narrow hallway. Plush cream carpet compresses underfoot; a glossy mahogany wall grazes my wet shoulder. Christ, if the servant quarters are this posh, I can’t imagine how fancy the rest of the yacht is.
Halfway down the hall, I come to a stop in between opposite doors. Laurie’s lunch decided to make an appearance before she could tell me whether the locker room was on the right or the left, so I suppose I have to guess. I go for the right, twisting the golden knob and breezing over the threshold. My tights-clad feet transition from soft cream carpet to polished wooden floors.
I blink under the yellow glow of recessed spotlights, and immediately the weight of a wrong decision clamps down on my chest.
Twelve pairs of eyes fall on me, but there’s only one that has the power to stretch across the boardroom table and warm my frozen skin.
His gaze, green and indifferent, starts at my toes, skims over the hemline of my wet dress, then hardens on the four-leaf clover around my neck. As if meeting my eye is a reluctant favor to a friend, he slips the pen he’s holding between his teeth and finally drags his eyes to mine.
“Yes?”
One simple word, but coming from Raphael Visconti’s lips, it feels like a bead of condensation sliding down the side of an ice-cold glass.
What the hell is he doing here? Out of all the establishments this man owns, why does he have to be at this one? But now I feel like an idiot. He’s got every right to be here; it’s his fucking yacht after all. It’s my own fault for assuming he wouldn’t be and coming unprepared to be assaulted by that steady gaze.
A hot unease rises to the surface of my skin. It’s not because I’ve burst into a meeting barefoot and soaking wet. Not even because it looks to be a serious one, judging by the sea of solemn faces and sharp suits.
No, it’s because Raphael’s presence is electric. Even when he’s still and silent, it spills out from the head of the boardroom table and crackles between the four mahogany-clad walls. An invisible force, I don’t doubt I’d feel his static even if I curled up in the darkest corner.
I can’t take my eyes off him; I suppose he’s used to that. His appearance, as always, is as crisp as his tone. Fresh fade, fresh shave. Tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones punctuated with a lazy stare that makes my blood burn. His suit is signature—black jacket, white shirt, gold collar pin—and he wears it like armor.
He cocks a brow.
I shake my head.
“Wrong room,” I mutter, taking a squelchy step back and bumping my head against the door. The impact wasn’t hard at all, but the way the thud echoes in the silence makes me cringe and someone in the room takes a sharp intake of breath.
Raphael’s apathetic expression doesn’t break. “Are you lost?”
“No.” Yeah. I hold up the bag with my uniform in it.“I’m just looking for somewhere to get changed.”
Only a man with real power can let silence marinate for as long as he does. Six drops of water drip from the hem of my dress and onto the wooden floorboards before he drags the pen from his mouth and uses it to point to a door over his shoulder.
Eleven pairs of eyes trail after me as I muddle across the boardroom toward the door on the opposite side. None of them belong to Raphael; he’s too busy writing something down in a leather-bound notebook and pretending I don’t exist. But as I pass, I catch his gaze dropping to my feet while a muscle tics in his jaw.
I slip through the door and click it shut. Inside, I rest my back against the cold wood with the intention of waiting for my heartbeat to slow. It doesn’t get the chance to, because only a few seconds later, Raphael’s deep, silky voice floats through the crack.
“My apologies for the interruption, gentleman. Clive, please continue.”
Another voice, this one old and gruff. “Of course, sir. As I was saying, the major challenge we faced last quarter was the dramatic rise of input costs. We responded with pricing actions, delivering an underlying price growth of four-point-nine percent, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, is quite impressive considering the current climate.”
There’s a ripple of awkward chuckles. I have no doubt none come from Raphael, and my suspicion is confirmed when I hear his voice harden. “I wasn’t asking about the last quarter, Clive. I was asking about your outlook for the upcoming one.”
A shuffle of papers ripples through heavy silence. Someone clears their throat. “Y-yes, of course, sir. Um, Phillip, would you like to take over? I think you’re better placed for this…”
Painful excuses and numbers plucked out of thin air go in one of my ears and come out the other; the only thing that lingers within the space between them is the satin-like calmness of Raphael’s tone. He sounds so normal. So…businesslike. I wonder if the men on the other side can see the truth, too, or if they think he’s the perfect gentleman like everyone else on this damn Coast does?
I wonder if they know he carried a gun to his brother’s wedding. I wonder if, while he’s sitting there, reclined in his large leather chair talking business, that gun is tucked into the waistband of his bespoke slacks?
For some reason, the thought vibrates through my core in the most inappropriate of ways.
