Mixed paella. Served with a Bodegas Muga Rosado—”
“Wait. A what? Served with a what?”
“Paella.”
“Pie what?”
“Rice and chicken and seafood, cooked with saffron”—I read his expression—“...which is a spice that colors things yellow.”
He looked thoughtful. “Yeah, that makes sense. I knew a stripper once called Saffron. Her hair was yellow.”
I tried not to gape at that comment. He was nothing like the people who normally chartered yachts. They were either old money or Silicon Valley, but either way, they were all about image, all about appearing classier and more sophisticated than they really were. Adam was the polar opposite. He didn’t seem to care what I or anyone else thought of him.
“I don’t know….” Adam said, running a hand over his jaw. “I’m not really into foreign stuff. ‘Ave we got anything else?”
I blinked a few times. Okay. He was the guest. “Of course, sir. A whole kitchen full of food. We have some fresh sea bass—”
“Pizza? Or maybe some chips?”
“Chips?” I asked weakly.
“Oh! You call ‘em fries.”
I stared at him. Who hires a gourmet chef for a two week trip on a yacht if he just wants to eat pizza? I had visions of the next two weeks stretching out before me, cooking nothing but junk food. Urgh.
I looked at the pepper I’d just been chopping. “Of course,” I said icily. “I can whip up some pizza dough.”
“Top banana! And what was that other thing?”
“A Bodegas—A Spanish rosé wine, sir.”
He shook his head. “I don’t drink wine. ‘Ave we got beer?”
I tried not to let my eyes flick to the wine cooler, where fifty bottles of white and rosé lay cooling to precisely-set temperatures. Nor to the fifty bottles of red I’d selected for the yacht’s wine “cellar.” He doesn’t drink wine? Who doesn’t drink wine?!
“Of course.” I always made sure the galley was loaded with a wide selection of beers, both domestic and imported. The rich like to party, after all. “We have beer from Belgium, France, Italy, and the Czech Rep—”
“Any. I’m not fussy,” he said.
I counted to three. “Of course, sir.” I grabbed a bottle at random and put it into the rapid cooler. “Give me three minutes and it’ll be frosty.”
It probably sounds as if I’m a snob. I’m not. I like pizza and beer too. But it sounded like Adam lived on that stuff. To never even try more varied food, to never try wine…that just seemed like a massive waste, like never seeing the sea or never walking in snow. I wasn’t so much angry with him as frustrated on his behalf. He didn’t know what he was missing.
He clapped his hands together and walked closer. The tight t-shirt turned his abs and his pecs into a show that was difficult to look away from. “Three minutes? Good. How about bourbon on the rocks in the meantime?
I looked at my watch. It was only mid-morning. But he was the guest.
I found a whisky tumbler and dropped in three fat balls of ice, then a generous hit of buttery-rich bourbon. I’m not a liquor gal myself, but even I had to admit that the vapors coming off it smelled pretty good. I checked the bottle and saw it was twenty years old and, judging by the label, eye-wateringly expensive. When I looked up, he was standing even closer. Within touching distance.
“Ta.” He took the glass from me, then stood there swirling the ice. “So you’re stuck down here all alone the whole time?”
He was trying again, I realized. He’d come back for round two. And this time, I was close enough to notice the little things. The fine, elegant nose. The way that full lower lip twisted into a gorgeous smirk. I could feel my defenses melting away…..
So I restocked them. I thought about the last guy I’d fallen for, the one who’d lit the burning, unquenchable anger inside me, and that was enough to slam my shields back into place. I swept the pepper I’d been chopping into a bowl and reached for a thick, foot long chorizo sausage. I’d been going to use it in the paella, but I figured I could slice it thin and make it work on a pizza. “Not stuck,” I told him. “I like it just fine down here, sir.” I thought that if I kept calling him sir, it would set the boundaries.
And I needed to set them. My chef’s whites had stopped feeling thick and hot and cumbersome and started to feel thin and insubstantial. My heart had started thumping and I could feel that low, insistent throb between my thighs.
He’s a jerk, I told myself. He’s just trying it on with you. Plenty of guys came onto me and this one was a bigger asshole than most. So why did this feel so different?
He put one huge hand on the edge of the stainless steel counter and leaned over towards me, watching as I worked. “You’re the replacement, right? Simone’s normal chef got...what, dodgy stomach?”
I nodded. “Some bad shrimp,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “And a lot of crew are on vacation, this close to the end of the season.” Don’t stare at his hand. Don’t think about it cupping your breast, lifting it, squeezing…
“So we were lucky to get a hold of you,” he said with a smile.
I caught my breath and looked away, willing myself not to blush.
It had been pure dumb luck that I’d been free when the agency called, asking me to fill in. All I’d had to do was dump my paltry wardrobe into a suitcase, shove the rest of my kitchen kit in and lock up my apartment. I was getting my normal daily fee, plus a bonus for the short notice. I’d make my rent for three months from the trip, and for that I could put up with Simone. Plus, what else was I going to do? Stay home and mope?
When I finally felt safe enough to lift my gaze to his face, I said, “Happy to do it, sir.”
“Well, I’m glad you did. And I’m glad I came down here and found you,” he said, and sipped his bourbon. “I could have gone the whole voyage and never met you, with you buried away down here.” God, it was insane—the confidence just came off him in waves, melting away your resistance. I could see why women adored him. He moved closer, and I tried not to stare at the way his pecs pushed out the front of his t-shirt. I felt something inside me tighten. It was difficult not to wonder how they’d feel, if I ran my palm over the smooth muscle. Then, as my eyes tracked down, I saw how his black jeans were tight on his muscled thighs. Tight enough to show a bulge that could only be—
I quickly looked down at the sausage in front of me. I could feel his gaze on my face...my breasts...my hips. And with every passing second, my breath ratcheted tighter and tighter, my heart rate speeding up a little. He’s a jerk, I reminded myself. He’s a jerk. He flirts with everyone. Don’t fall for it. I reached for my anger, trying to draw strength from it, but it kept slipping away from me. He was too damn charming!
I shrugged. “Down here’s probably the best place for me. I don’t always have the best temper.” Heat was starting to twist and pulse between my thighs, now, despite my anger.
He leaned a little closer. “Really? I don’t get that impression at all, Hannah.” His lips twisted into a wicked grin that promised dark delights. Cocky. Assured. Focus on the chorizo, Hannah! I stared at the sausage, figuring out how to slice it. Not a difficult problem, normally. I wouldn’t even think twice about its thick, solid length. I ran my fingers down it. Firm, yet slightly pliant. And so long. Were chorizos normally that long?
My hands were trembling. What the hell was going on? I was behaving like a nervous teenager, just because some guy was coming onto me. I had to snap out of this, before I did something I regretted. However much of a jerk he was, however much I knew that this was just an old, familiar routine for him, probably run on every woman he met, it was still working. I could feel my anger burning away and a much more dangerous heat taking its place. All it would take now was something small to push me over the edge….
And then it happened.
“You have a—” He reached out towards me. One lock of dark hair had escaped from my hat and was trailing down my cheek. My heart
started thumping faster and faster as he hooked it with a finger, his skin warm against mine, and pushed it back behind my ear.
I thought of the sausage on the chopping board between us, hard and thick and—
Adam set his drink down on the counter and leaned in even closer, his lips parting—
I brought the knife down hard and fast: a hiss of air and then a solid thunk as it hit the chopping board. We both looked down.
The sausage was cut cleanly in half.
“I’m busy, sir,” I said, holding the knife casually between us. “And your beer should be ready, now.” I turned and plucked it from the rapid cooler, which gave me a chance to get my breathing back under control. The bottle was as frosty as I’d promised.
When I turned around, Adam was gazing at me in total shock. For a second, he looked angry. Then a slow smile spread across his face. He took the beer, his eyes never leaving mine for a second, nodded his thanks and retreated through the door.
I staggered backward and leaned against the refrigerator, then pulled the door wide and bathed in the rush of freezing air, letting it cool my face and soak into my body. Oh, great. I’d meant to push him away; I had a horrible feeling I’d just made myself into a challenge.
Chapter 2
That night, I lay in my bed and tried to sleep.
Simone had been right about the tiny crew cabins. The rich spend millions on their yachts, but they’d rather have an extra foot in the games room than an extra foot on the chef’s cabin, so there was only just enough room for a bed and some storage space. It can be claustrophobic, sleeping below deck, but at least there was a porthole. I’d kept the curtain pulled back so that some moonlight came in; I’ve never been able to sleep in total darkness.
I rolled onto my side, gazing out at waves turned silver by the moon, and tried not to think about what was keeping me awake.
Who was keeping me awake.
I hadn’t been in a relationship in two years. I’d kidded myself that I was just fine on my own, and that was all fine…until the long-idle engine between my legs had suddenly throbbed into life. Now it was revving and humming, eager for the off. I rolled over onto my other side, but it was no good: I couldn’t ignore it.
I turned onto my back.
Adam. Sykes.
He was a jerk. And a drunken mess. I knew that. He probably came on to every woman he met. I knew that, too. So why couldn’t I get him out of my head?
And why did he have to be so damned good looking? From his soft brown hair to his thickly muscled forearms, from those clear blue eyes to the pecs that a girl could very comfortably nestle her head on as a pillow, the guy was scalding, achingly hot.
He probably flirted with the maid, too, I told myself. Maybe even Simone. He’s a jerk. Come on, he’s a billionaire rock star. If something was to happen it would be a one-night stand—
I tried to close off the thought, but it was too late.
He’d just be using you. And then he’d be gone. Just like Nathan.
And this time, because I was alone, it wasn’t anger that bubbled up when I thought of the past. It was cold, icy pain. I forced myself back to the present.
Which led me right back to Adam, in the galley.
That scoop of tanned skin at the neck of his t-shirt. Those big hands, and how they’d feel around my waist, drawing me to him.
I let my own hand creep down my body. Not going anywhere in particular, just...down.
What exactly had he had in mind? If I hadn’t...umm, cut off his approach, where would I have found myself? Up against the refrigerator, the cool steel hard against my back? Down on the tiled floor?
It was a warm night. I’d put on an old t-shirt to sleep in, but stripped it off when it became unbearable, leaving me in just my panties. Now I hooked them down my legs and off.
Wait. This was ridiculous. I wasn’t really going to—No, of course I wasn’t. I mean, the guy was clearly a jerk. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
My hand was on my naked thigh. I snatched it away and clutched it to my chest, which only brought it into contact with my breasts. Breasts that I could just imagine pressing against those broad, firm pecs as he moved in to kiss me. Maybe he liked full breasts, and curves. Maybe he’d pull me tight to his muscles and—
I will take a damn stock inventory before I jill off to him, I told myself furiously. Pasta. Eggs. Tomatoes. Tabasco. Honey—
Honey. Honey drizzling from a spoon held high above me, twisting and coiling into melting spires on breasts and thighs. Right here on this bed, him hulking over me as he moves his head down—
My hand slid back between my thighs.
I could feel the warmth of his breath on the upper slopes of my breasts. Then his lips brushing the sensitive skin, tasting the sticky ropes of honey, smearing them. His tongue snaking out, hot and firm, licking across my trembling nipple, the flesh puckering and stiffening under his touch. He’d press my breasts together in those big hands, squashing them, switching his mouth between the two.
My fingers were at work between my legs now, teasing and stroking. I imagined his mouth working its way down my stomach, following the trail of honey lower and lower, me squirming and gasping beneath him, longing to feel his tongue on my sex. But he’d make me wait. He’d take his time, pausing at the tops of my thighs, trailing more honey across the sensitive hollow where my leg met by body, until I bit my lip and begged him.
Only then would he let more honey drizzle from the spoon, my own impatient heat melting it as soon as it touched me, making the sticky liquid run and flow. His tongue would ravish me in long licks, all the way up one side and then all the way down the other, stopping only to tease the swelling bud at the top. He’d bring me to the brink, taking my aching clit into this mouth and sucking and sucking and then, when he couldn’t wait any longer….
I could almost feel his palms, sticky with honey, on my inner thighs. Pushing them open just a little roughly, his lust taking him beyond control. And then the full, shining head of him would push up against me and—
I writhed and bucked against my own hand; my fingers buried deep inside me, and thumped my head into my pillow a few times. I was almost sure that no one heard me.
Chapter 3
Maybe it was the orgasm or maybe it was the gentle rocking of the boat, but I slept better than I had in months. The open curtain meant that the sunrise woke me, though. I sat there for a moment, yawning, faintly embarrassed and yet with a silly smirk on my face. I knew there was no way I was going to get to sleep again.
No one else was up and the yacht was anchored. I figured it was a good opportunity to have a swim while no one was around. Changing into my bathing suit, I grabbed a towel and padded barefoot up to the deck. Triple-checking that we were in fact at anchor and that the steps were in place so I could climb back up, I jumped off the side.
Instantly, I was awake. There’s nothing in the world like the shock of cool water in the morning and, even though it made me want to curse, it felt fantastic.
Swimming, to me, has always been a sort of moving meditation. Everything slows down—time becomes gloopy and thick, like the water, instead of rushing past you like the air. It’s where I work out my problems.
Unfortunately, there was one that kept oozing back into my head, no matter how much I tried to push it out. A problem I couldn’t work out, because it was already finished with and done. The only thing I had left was the pain, and that wasn’t going away. Nathan….
Nathan, the guy in the snazzy suit, sweeping into the tiny restaurant where I’d worked. Declaring how much he loved the food and demanding—demanding!—to meet the chef. And then asking me out, right on the spot, a date that had turned into a non-stop adventure that had taken in the theater, his apartment, my apartment and eventually a weekend in Las Vegas just on a whim. I was starry-eyed and dreamy throughout the whole thing.
After six months, he’d proposed. Three months after that, I was in a wedding dress, sitting in a limo. We�
��d pulled up outside the church, my chest tight with anticipation—
And then an usher had run over, his face sickly, and spoken with the driver.
Nathan had apparently been standing at the entrance to the church when he’d taken a deep breath, shaken his head and announced that he loved Karen. And then he’d climbed into his getaway car—the best man’s BMW—and fled the scene. Karen, it turned out, was an aerobics instructor three years younger than me. He’d been fucking her since just after we met.
I cried until my head swam and my chest ached, then cried some more. And then, because I couldn’t face the sympathetic faces of my friends and family, I got a cab to the airport and went on the honeymoon, alone. Confirming to the hotel that yes, I was checking into the honeymoon suite and yes, it would just be me staying, was almost unbearable, but for two weeks I was away from San Francisco and away from anyone I knew. I never wanted to go home again.
So I didn’t. The islands were popular with the rich and, even though I never wanted to see another rich guy again, cooking on a yacht wasn’t much different to cooking anywhere else. I liked the ocean and spending most of my time at sea meant I didn’t need to splash out on anywhere expensive to live. I wound up sharing an apartment with five other people who crewed on boats, “hot rooming” three bedrooms between us. Sometimes someone had to sleep on the couch if our shore time overlapped, but it was cheap and it was better than going home. Going home would have meant admitting failure. Going home would have meant that it all happened, that I really was the woman who was left at the altar, and I couldn’t face that.
The aborted wedding had been two years ago. Two years of living in limbo. I was twenty-six, now, my last birthday celebrated with tequila and a giant cupcake with a sparkler in it in our shared apartment. It was fun, and I appreciated the effort my housemates made, but it wasn’t how I’d imagined celebrating.
Shipwrecked with the Billionaire Rock Star Page 2
