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AsIpadthrough narrow hallways and up spiral stairs barefoot, it’s easy to put my new colleagues’ catty comments to the back of my mind, because there’s a much more pressingissue at hand, and it’s waiting for me in the room behind the Captain’s bridge.
My office, ten minutes before the start of service. He didn’t say please, which would suggest I was in trouble, but, then again, in the handful of times I’ve had the misfortune to encounter Raphael Visconti, he’s never used pleasantries, anyway.
My nerves vibrate against the walls of my stomach as I tap out a timid knock on the mahogany door. Almost immediately, his deep, velvet-clad voice floats from underneath it. “Come in.”
I ball my clammy fists, remind myself to keep my smart-ass mouth shut, and step inside.
Raphael is sitting on the edge of his desk, forearms on his thighs and a poker chip spinning between his thick fingers. His gaze comes up from the floor, carves a laser-like path up my legs and over my chest, then narrows on my face.
The poker chip stops spinning.
“Is that the uniform Laurie issued you?”
Heart lurching, I only manage a nod.
His eyes fall down my body again, darkening with every square inch they cover. Why does it feel like he’s silently rating each of my features out of ten? And why do I feel like I’ve scored pretty low?
And why am I disappointed about it?
Eyes coming to a stop on my thighs, he gives a tight smile, then he pushes himself off the desk and mutters something I don’t catch. I can’t be certain, but it sounded like Christ.
A prickle crawls up the nape of my neck as he walks to the far side of the room and stands with his back to me, facing the large French doors that frame the moody sea. He slides his hands into his pockets, the broad planes of his shoulders tense.
I can feel a cocktail of embarrassment and annoyance staining my cheeks, because with every heavy second that passes, it becomes more and more apparent what he’s thinking.
He hires a type, and I don’t fit that. Now he’s wondering what the fuck to do about it without catching a discrimination case.
Just before the urge to tell him to go fuck himself overpowers my desire to hold down this job, he turns around and takes me off-guard with a much softer expression and a two-word command.
“Come here.”
My natural instinct is to scowl and shake my head, because I’m still embarrassed about succumbing to the curl of his finger at the wedding. But at the same time, there’s something so easy and charming about his tone that it makes my heart forget its next beat.
Ridiculous. I wonder if this is his real appeal. Not his looks or his easy wit, but the fact he has a talent for delivering crude commands in such a way that makes you want to follow them, instead of slapping him across the face.
Come here. Sit on my face. Moan my name louder, Penelope.
My feet move before my brain agrees to it. I come to a stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body.
I didn’t know warmth could radiate off an ice cube.
I freeze when he reaches out and gently cups my jaw. My head moves at his will, up and to the left, so I’m staring directly at the moon shining bright against the starless sky. His hand is large and hot, save for the ice-cold ring resting against my cheekbone. Christ. A warmth spreads to my lower stomach, and despite my attempt at keeping my expression neutral, I know he can feel my pulse beat a little faster in my throat; feel my breath grow denser as it skitters over the back of his hand.
“How’s the head?”
“Fine,” I bite back, before tugging myself out of his grasp. He lets me go easily, with little more than an amused smirk. I was definitely out of my mind when I thought I wanted him to treat me like he treats other women. I don’t like this side of him. Hell, I don’t like him. He makes me feel confused and out-of-sorts, like I’ve stepped outside on a February morning only to discover there’s a blistering heatwave.
“Take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
Acting like he hasn’t heard me, he reaches for a piece of paper on his desk. He studies it.
“Penelope Price.”
With a heavy heart, I realize he’s holding my dog-eared resume. The one I knocked out in the early hours under the white lights of Devil’s Dip’s diner. It’s a web of lies printed on one side of A4, and my fingers twitch to snatch it from his hands.
He takes a few leisurely steps across the room and tilts my resume toward the sliver of moonlight spilling through the glass.
