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Lucky for Him
ISBN # 978-1-78184-272-0
©Copyright Rachel Randall 2013
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright March 2013
Edited by Eleanor Boyall
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 3.
This story contains 37 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.
LUCKY FOR HIM
Rachel Randall
Take the risk to win the prize.
Industry rumours whisper that Argentinian billionaire Renzo Vega has invested in a secret project known only as ‘Lucky’. Eager for his next challenge, entrepreneur Rob Ray tracks Renzo to his luxury yacht. Rob’s determined to get in on the deal, so when Renzo refuses to meet with him, he stows away on the ship.
Soon Rob’s sailing into uncharted waters with the most charismatic man he’s ever met. And as the Mediterranean heat intensifies, he discovers that Lucky’s not only real, she’s a sexy ex-hacker with a talent for pushing all of his buttons.
She and Renzo want Rob to be their onboard entertainment. Now Rob just has to survive their attentions long enough to close the deal—and to make it back to port in one piece.
Dedication
For F and Dr B, yachtrotica enablers.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
James Bond: Ian Fleming Publications
Veuve Clicquot: Veuve Clicquot
Guinness: Guinness & Co
Forbes: Forbes Media LLC
Financial Times: The Financial Times Ltd
Angry Birds: Rovio Entertainment Ltd
Lycra: Invista
Chapter One
The problem with chasing rumours is that they’re nothing but whispers. Run down a rumour, and you might end up with nothing.
Standing in a luxurious lounge within the megayacht Estrella, watching his quarry hold court, Rob feels the now-familiar bite of frustration. He’s been trying to make contact with Renzo Vega for weeks now, using every personal connection and favour owed. Now he’s come in person, leaving London, tracking him from Vega’s headquarters in Buenos Aires here to the harbour at Valletta, Malta. And still Rob has nothing to show for it—not one meeting, not much more than industry gossip fuelling his chase.
Lucky, he thinks. Not so lucky for me.
Rob snags another glass of champagne from the passing waiter and considers his dwindling options. The ship’s due to leave at midnight, like bloody Cinderella. With it go Rob’s chances of making what could be the deal of his career. All he needs is one conversation. One shot at convincing the billionaire that he and his tech consultancy are more than up to the challenge of taking on Lucky, Vega’s latest and very secret project.
Yet Vega won’t take his calls. Won’t schedule face-time. Apparently he’s ring-fenced himself from formal business for the next six months to concentrate on ‘personal projects’. Which, given Vega’s track record of off-the-cuff brilliance, makes Rob even more determined to get in on Lucky.
It’s proving more difficult than anticipated, though, to concentrate on the business at hand. One of the world’s wealthiest, most attractive men, Vega is always surrounded by the most beautiful people Rob’s ever seen. Not even his own bloody-mindedness can overcome distractions quite like these.
A gorgeous Indian woman in a gold silk sari, like a Bond villainess with her painted eyes and crimson mouth. A young man with razor cheekbones and a designer suit. A busty blonde, poured into spangled sequins and the highest heels he’s ever seen. The party guests crowd around Renzo, drawn by his charisma and held by his uninhibited laughter, until Rob can only see tanned skin and expensive fabrics and the red of his own irritation.
Am I so worked up because they’ve cut off my last line of approach or my view of the man?
Downing the last of his champagne, he prises open a porthole and flings the flute overboard. Rob’s far from a fool, but Renzo is making him look like one.
“Veuve Clicquot not your taste?” The question is soft, Irish, amused.
“I prefer Guinness,” he says, and gives her his most friendly smile.
She’s dressed in a figure-hugging little black dress, and he’s seen her before—across the room, always near to Renzo but not obviously part of his group. He first noticed her because of the confident way she holds herself. Now he’s wondering if she’s another possible route to Vega.
She follows his line of sight across the room. “Ah. You want to join the admirers.” She pauses, her gaze tracking out of the porthole, at the distant lights visible from shore, before glancing back with an arch smile. “To be honest, I’m surprised at your restraint. Given that you’re already trespassing on private property.”
Bodyguard? he wonders. Her bare arms are sleekly muscled, and she certainly looks capable. Trust Vega to have a beautiful ninja on his staff.
“I lost my invitation?” he tries, hands up mea culpa.
“I don’t like liars.” She narrows her eyes. “But you’re certainly persistent. Is there a good reason for it?”
This is as much opening as he’s had in weeks, but her frosty tone and his own frustration have him wrong-footed.
“I need to speak to Vega about an important business matter.”
She doesn’t like his charm, and his lack of finesse is no improvement.
“So your messages say. He’s on personal leave, Mr Wright. As you’ve been told several times before by Señor Vega’s staff.”
So Vega does know who I am and why I’m here. Interesting. Encouraging. “I’m not leaving until we’ve spoken.”
“That may be difficult,” she says coolly. “Given that his mouth is otherwise occupied. I’d tell Renzo that you’re as stubborn as you look, but he won’t want to hear about it. You may be his type, but he doesn’t talk business aboard the Estrella. If you don’t like our champagne I suggest you get the hell off our ship. Bubbles are all we’re offering.”
Jaw clenching, Rob stares over at Renzo Vega, now sprawling on a leather sofa with Blonde and Cheekbones draped across him. Vega raises his glass at him in a silent toast.
Rob, well-versed in powerful men, knows a dismissal when he sees one. On the other hand, as a powerful man himself Rob doesn’t need a master tugging on his leash. Especially not one who seems to tug at his cock at the same time.
Rob stays exactly where he is, watching as, at Vega’s command, the billionaire’s companions touch him, kiss him. The blonde tw
ists on Vega’s lap, encouraging the twink next to her to slide near. Rob’s lips part as their kisses deepen into a sensuous display. He takes an involuntary step closer.
“So you do like our little party after all. If you prefer to watch, I’m sure that can be arranged.”
There’s sudden warmth in her words, a hint of co-conspiracy in her lilt, like she’s discovered something worth forgiving in his unwilling attraction. He’s suddenly, vividly aware of her nearness, so close she’s all impression—dark eyes, dark skin, a little hitch to her breath.
She’s excited by me. Then it flashes for him, that instinct of his that hasn’t steered him wrong since it led to his first million-pound deal. Our champagne, our ship. There was something here, something about this woman that could hold his answers. “You don’t like liars,” he says, “but what about gamblers? How much will it take for you to change sides?”
She frowns, but her stance opens. It’s a striking juxtaposition—warning him off while inviting him into her space. His mind wonders how to use to his advantage, while the more primal parts of him continue their slow, consuming burn.
“Renzo’s right,” she says flatly. “You’re after Lucky.”
“Money’s no object,” he says, because it isn’t, not if she’s involved enough that she can casually take ownership of this floating palace and throw around a name like that.
Lucky. Rumour made substance, that elusive something that will deliver him from a lifetime of boring projects for boring people. It’s taken substantial effort from Rob to breach Renzo’s defences in order to get close enough to deal, but she’s not going to be part of any victory. He can see that he’s blundered by trying to buy her off. So much for those instincts of mine.
“Have a pleasant journey home, Mr Wright.”
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
Her teeth are very slightly crooked. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip as she flashes those teeth in a predator’s smile. “If that’s the case, I sincerely hope you can swim.”
The two security personnel who arrive to make him walk the plank are much showier than she is, with bulging muscles and Mediterranean machismo. He means to go quietly, with only a brief scuffle as he dislodges their meaty hands from his person so he can make his own way out to the speedboat, but they make such a fuss that they draw everyone’s attention.
No doubt Vega wants it this way as entertainment for his legitimate guests, but Rob won’t put it past his mystery lady either. She’s conversing with an older couple, but when he’s frogmarched past her, that smirk is back on her face. He wonders briefly what she’ll do if he objects violently to his eviction. Judging from her nakedly bloodthirsty expression and his own steadily rising temper, he thinks they’d both probably enjoy it.
Coming outside, he’s struck afresh by the impressiveness of his surroundings. Multi-layered and svelte, a functional fairytale in chrome, white and azure, the yacht is unquestionably state-of-the-art. He’s no expert, but even he can tell that the design’s unique, that there’ll be nothing like it in the world. Somehow this evidence of Vega’s creativity, of his limitless resources, makes Rob’s resolve even firmer.
The guests are streaming up onto the deck behind him, forming a semicircle that includes his mystery lady. Her dark eyes are fathomless in the shadows, giving nothing away. Staff move silently among the throng, lighting torches that throw eerie firelight across the evening sky. It’s a cloudy evening with no stars, but Rob’s not really looking—he’s spotted the man who holds the rest of them in his orbit. He climbs to his feet, ignoring the two thugs who are ready to restrain him at an order.
Renzo is on an upper deck, his three companions still twined around him. Rob has the sudden, startling impression that the man might unfasten his trousers, lift Blonde up against the railing and fuck her right there, in full view of them all. His stomach tightens.
Nerves, he lies to himself, and steels them.
“Vega,” Rob calls. His shout echoes, quieting the crowd. “Talk with me.”
For once, Renzo Vega listens. He leans against the rail, gazing down. He’s a strikingly handsome man, this definition of a modern billionaire. He keeps his hair and beard cropped close, and there’s no glimpse of grey amidst the red-brown strands. His white linen shirt gapes open at the navel, revealing a firm stomach, and his shoulders and legs have the useful muscle that comes from a serious obsession with sailing. Rob’s mouth goes dry now that he has the man’s full attention.
“Why? Do you have anything interesting to say?” There’s a ripple of laughter at the Argentine’s faintly accented question.
“I want to know your secret.”
“And which secret is that?”
Rob gestures, taking in the party-goers in all their decadent glory, the shining ship. “I’m sure we’d all like to know just how you got so lucky.”
There’s danger in the way Vega’s hands fasten on the railing. Even from this distance, Rob feels the shock of the man’s personality.
“Jade, bring him to me.”
“Nice to meet you, Jade,” Rob says when his mysterious Irishwoman gestures for Rob to precede her.
As they make their way up the laddered stairwell to the deck above, she says, “I hope he leaves some of you for me to play with. You’ve got a cute arse for a complete idiot.”
Rob chokes back a surprised laugh, then he’s pulling himself upright onto the rough surface of a helipad. Jade steps aside to let Vega’s playmates leave. He catches deadly glares from them. Clearly they resent the fact that their own assignations are at an end.
Vega’s a tall, rangy man, six-four if he’s an inch. Rob, in contrast, is compact muscle, flirting with six feet but never minding that he’s missed it until this moment. They circle each other, sizing each other up, oblivious to the crowd below them to the right, and to the sheer drop down to the sea on the left.
“Jade’s angry with you,” Vega says. “She’s protective of my privacy.”
“You’re a difficult man to get hold of. Can I blame her for that?”
Another circuit of the helipad. Vega moves fluidly and there’s no aspect of tension at all in the long lines of his body. He unbuttons an upper fastening of his shirt with a casual flick.
“For a man who made his million designing algorithms to tell retailers what their shoppers want, you’re shit at understanding women, friend.”
“Yeah, but I make up for it by knowing how to say ‘I’m sorry’.” Rob darts a glance to the rail to make sure she’s not going to come after him for that one, before allowing himself a satisfied nod. “You know me. Why I came.”
“You don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, you invite yourself onto my sanctuary and make it clear you wish to have me alone.” Renzo’s hand drifts down to the next button on his shirt. “You tell me why you’re here.”
The feint works and Rob is momentarily thrown. “I—”
By the rail, Jade wolf-whistles. The sound of it jolts Rob back into the moment.
“Vega—”
“Call me Renzo. You’ve earned it, since you’ve pursued me with such dedication. I’ve enjoyed feeling so…desired.”
Rob struggles to hold focus. Renzo is very near and he’s not sure how that happened.
“It’s Lucky I’m after.”
Renzo clips him on the jaw. Not hard enough to knock him flat, but enough to rock Rob back on his heels. Adrenaline fires through every synapse. He grins as frustration, distraction, confusion fade into nothing as the blood pounds in his ears. Rob grabs for Renzo and discovers he was wrong about a lack of tension. Pressed close to the other man’s body, he can feel coiled muscle, the rapid heartbeat, an interest that mirrors his own.
“I can do this all night,” he warns, a strange jubilation growing within him. His instincts are singing, telling him that he was right to pursue this after all. “If you know my CV, you know my skills. You know that I’m the missing ingredient. I want to work with you.”
“You’re
asking to share Lucky with me? Do it again and you get more than a warning shot.”
“Bring me onboard. You won’t regret it.”
“Impossible,” Renzo snaps. He jerks up his arms, breaking Rob’s hold, then steps back, ending their conversation.
“I can bring more to the table than you may realise. Fix flaws you don’t even know you have. Let me in on the design stage, whatever it is—”
Vega shakes his head. “I admire your ambition. But Lucky’s her own woman, and you made a poor first impression.”
…What?
Rob’s so bemused he doesn’t notice the shadow behind him until Jade’s hooked her feet between his, unbalancing him against the rail. Warm hands on his shoulders, the rake of fingernails, then the vertiginous sensation of falling. He hits the pitch-black water, fast and painful, and all he has time to think as he sinks below the surface is, Well, she did warn me.
Chapter Two
Fifteen years previously, in the ridiculous sunshine of California, a younger version of Rob Wright had thrived on the free-wheeling culture of the place. Climbing walls in the ‘office’, the best tech in the world at his fingertips to play with, surfing whenever the mood took him and the weather was fine. Paradise, until the bubble had burst. Ten years onward, a pioneer adding the money-making backbone to the cheerful face of Web 2.0, he’s moved to a loft in grey Clerkenwell and found freedom in London’s streets on a stripped-down road bike. At no point in his history, however, has he imagined himself moving hand by hand up a trailing cable and out of the water, searching for a way onto one of the largest private yachts in the world.
If I’m looking for a change of pace, I think I’ve found it.
The reverb from the engines is rattling through his aching body. He flexes his cramping palms and risks a look over his shoulder. He’s been treading water long enough that a steady stream of water taxis are now busily taking guests back to shore in readiness for the ship’s departure. His bribes have earned him the information that Estrella’s next destination is the Greek Islands. It could be any number of days at sea, depending on the whims of its billionaire owner.
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