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“I can’t marry him, Belva. And you know I will if I don’t go. They’ll talk me into it.” I looked around for somewhere to leave it, but she glared at me.
“You’ll give that back to him in person when you come back?” I nodded fervently. “And you’re going somewhere safe?”
“I promise.”
“Then I never saw you,” she murmured, zipping her lips with a finger.
I slid the hateful ring back on and watched her slip into the powder room. Then I tiptoed to the back door, my suitcase wheeling soundlessly behind me, and ran away from my nightmare life.
* * *
Two hours later, I was standing at the end of one of the private piers on King George Bay, staring at an even worse nightmare. The pier was well-lit, but the yacht sitting at a short distance from it was even more so.
A brilliant, enormous white behemoth of a luxury vessel, it had to be four hundred feet long, and looked like a futuristic starship had landed in the bay. There were four levels above the main deck with an observation deck on top, a helicopter pad up front, and what looked like a dance club with colored lights flashing near the back. The shining brass fixtures all along the sides were almost blinding, even at a distance.
The smaller boat waiting at the pier matched the yacht, down to the strange nautilus shapes on the windows. Someone had decorated it with white silk bunting and gold ribbons, mixed with fresh white peonies, calla lilies, and white roses with what I was almost certain was real gold foil pressed onto the petals.
My parents were millionaires, thanks to a few software patents my dad had filed a long time ago, and I was used to a level of luxury. But this was light years beyond anything we could afford, not that Dad would ever buy a boat. Or gold-leaf roses.
“Miss, are you here for the wedding?” A man stepped out of the small boat, dressed in a crisp white maritime uniform.
The wedding. The NDA had said this was a wedding gig. But this couldn’t be the place.
Not by the water. Theocean. The most dangerous place in the world for a person like me.
I’d rather be in the dentist’s chair.
I’d rather be slurping warm oysters by the bucketful.
I’d rather be marrying a man who smelled like the runniest blue cheese in the world, stuffed inside the dirtiest old socks.
“No, not me! No boats for me, thanks!” I chirped, walking backward while I fished in my purse for my phone. I’d sent off my contracts, but hadn’t received any details other than the address, length, and event type. I’d assumed the job was in a mansion near the waterfront. If I’d known it was a boat, I would never have taken it, no matter how much it paid.
The sailor called out again, “Miss? Can I at least help you with your case?”
I waved him off again, pulling my suitcase backward like a demented crab. “All a terrible misunderstanding!” I replied, starting to turn. But my heel caught on something, and I slipped. My knee buckled as I began to fall.
My suitcase tipped over with a thump, but I never hit the ground.
Something warm, hard, and smelling like warm chocolate and coffee, pressed against my back. I peered down at my waist. Massive, firm hands wrapped around me, the skin slightly darker than tan. No rings, but a sprinkling of dark hairs and—holy hell, I’d never seen fingers that looked like they worked out. But if I squinted I could actually see…definition.
“Finger muscles?” I murmured, touching one of them. “Who has finger muscles?”
“Fingerwhat? Who the hell are you?” The deep, alpha voice had every single one of the hairs on my entire body standing on end. I sucked in a breath to answer, got a lungful of that rich, decadent scent, and the words I meant to say came out as a moan.
The man actuallygrowled.“Are you on drugs?”
Holy crud, I was acting like I was in heat! I shook my head and pulled away from the addictive warmth of the arms that held me, and turned to face my rescuer. “I’m so sorry, Mr.…” I began, before I saw him.
I tried to speak, but my lips were no longer listening to my brain. No, the only parts of my body that were answering any sort of call to action were my ovaries. I pressed one hand against my abdomen as a thrumming pulse below my waist began to beat out the ancient, doubled drumbeat that chanted:Al-pha. Al-pha. Al-pha.
He was tall, well over six feet, dark-haired, with an olive complexion and near-black eyes that flashed in the lights from the yacht. His cheekbones were high, his jawline chiseled. A hint of silver flashed at his temples. The wind blew a lock of hair over his forehead like a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster, the shine on it as iridescent as a raven’s wing. His muscley hands flexed as he crossed his arms impatiently.
I’d never used hard drugs, but now I wondered if the ride-share driver had slipped me something. I had to be hallucinating. This man was the most beautiful, perfect, gloriously honed specimen of alpha-ness I’d ever seen. And he smelled like my favorite mocha latte. My mouth watered.
He wore a white dress shirt, open at the collar, over an obviously muscled chest that stretched the fabric slightly. A loosened gray silk tie hung around his neck like a promise. Or a threat.Or both.A pair of dark gray, pinstriped trousers that clung to his thighs ended in shining black dress shoes.
“Answer me now,” he demanded, a hint of his alpha bark in the words.
