by Dani Collins
As she eyed the almost empty wardrobe, she thought of her travel bag sitting in her hotel room in São Paulo, now all but lost. There was no way she could have sneaked it past security onto the yacht last night. For a few seconds, she indulged in the idea of wearing last night’s skirt and blouse again. But then she remembered that before she’d got into that lovely warm bath, she’d dropped them into the conveniently placed laundry basket, which was now, of course, empty.
Apparently, the man’s yacht ran as efficiently as his sportswear empire.
In the end, Clare ripped the packaging off one of Dev’s dress shirts. Apparently, the man had designer dress shirts lying around in all the cabins. Savile Row deserved better, but she didn’t care right then. Thinking for too long on why she was here on a stranger’s yacht, sailing away to some idyllic island with her company’s fate and her own hanging in the balance might lead to falling into the pit of despair and fury she was somehow keeping at bay.
With the shirt hanging almost to her knees, Clare used a belt and turned it into a dress. Back on went her leather stilettos, and she looked halfway decent. Or at least that’s what she told herself.
After getting lost in a service elevator and ending up in a theater room, and discovering a neatly stowed away seaplane on the top deck, it began to dawn on Clare that the yacht was also the man’s home. And that while he had invited her to explore, it had been mostly a polite response to a distressed and wild-tale-weaving woman he’d found in his closet. Not the welcome mat precisely.
With each space she invaded, it became clearer that he was a man who absolutely protected his privacy at all costs. Because for all the features in the media detailing his jet-setting life and fast girlfriends, no journalist had ever been allowed access to this yacht.
This was where Dev Kohli, former gold-medal-winning swimmer and billionaire playboy, retreated to when the alternately adoring and punishing world’s media became all too much.
Like the man himself, while the exterior was all gleaming confidence, the interior had depths she couldn’t plumb in a year, much less a day. There was none of the gold accents and veneer, or the traditional nautical motifs she’d imagined from peeking at antiquated travel magazines her dentist had lying around the office.
Up and down, Clare went, fascinated by it all. After getting lost again, she armed herself with a schematic map and a picnic basket from the galley—apparently, they had been given express instructions to look after Mr. Kohli’s guest properly—and shamelessly explored the yacht.
Admiring this example of twenty-first-century engineering was definitely better than pondering one’s fate as an owned woman. Or even worse, daydreaming about a man’s happy trail. In the end, Clare settled into a lounger on the main deck, her picnic basket by her side, her laptop on her knee. The noonday sun glinted off the water in brilliant golden sparkles, while colorful coastal towns were visible in the distance.
If a man was disposed to moving from place to place, disinclined to put roots down...then clearly, Dev Kohli did it in style.
But, she mused, if all this wealth was at her disposal, the last place she’d want to be was on the sea. There was a temporariness to moving from place to place that didn’t appeal to Clare. Even having been disillusioned again and again by her dad’s unending lies over the years, that he would come for her and that they would be a family again, and by her aunt’s indifference toward her, Clare had always wanted a permanent home.
A grand home and an even grander family of noisy sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews, celebrating birthdays and festivals together, prying into each other’s business and making up after silly fights and all that sort of thing.
But with each year rolling around and her dad not showing up, it had become increasingly distant. Then he’d given her the money she’d used to start up her business, just before he died. She’d thought he would have been proud to know she’d used the money so well, but even that daydream had turned sour. Because the man her father had borrowed that money from had finally discovered her father was dead and couldn’t pay it back, and so he’d come after Clare.
She was truly alone in the world and couldn’t escape the knowledge that to put her in such danger, her father had never really cared for her at all.
She still couldn’t wrap her head around that bit of news. Couldn’t get her jumbled feelings to make any kind of sense. They just sat in the pit of her stomach like a knotted lump. For years, a foolish part of her had believed that he’d somehow turn into an ideal father one day. When he’d sent her the money, she’d thought her faith in him had finally been validated. That he had loved her in his own way.
But once again, she’d lied to herself.
Her laptop screen blurred in front of her eyes and Clare blinked hard.
No, she couldn’t let the past muddle her future. Her vision cleared when she saw a social media photo turn up in her search results. She stared at the tall, gorgeous brunette—a model, of course, who had just revealed her...association with Dev. Clare’s mind instantly did a quick calculation of whether she herself had come before or after this model, in his life.
The very idea of being just another night of transient pleasure to him grated on her nerves. But that was who he was. Dev Kohli was clearly allergic to relationships that lasted longer than a couple of weeks—if that.
She’d do well to remember that simple fact.
Pursing her lips, Clare added a bullet point to the list of things she needed to discuss with him.
It was going to take all the finesse she possessed to make sure Dev understood what he needed to do. So Clare once again pushed away the sorrow and grief that was crouching inside her chest and instead poured her energy into outlining the proposal for saving Athleta.
Focusing on her business, on tangible targets and not naive dreams, had always been her lifeline.
* * *
Clare blinked and opened her eyes as a short man in a pristine black-and-white uniform informed her that Mr. Kohli was waiting to see her now in his study. She sat up and straightened her shirt, aghast at the fact that she’d fallen asleep again after only a few hours’ work. God, what sort of strange inertia and exhaustion had her in its grip?
Before the uniformed man disappeared to wherever it was that people seemed to hide on the monstrous yacht, she begged him to point her in the direction of the study.
Even with his instructions, it took her ages to find her way to there. It seemed the very universe was constantly conspiring to make her look unprofessional in front of the one man she wanted to impress with her smarts and sophistication and efficiency.
Laptop and a folder in hand, Clare walked into an expansive circular room with a dizzyingly high ceiling. Light filtered through the skylight in the center of it, casting a golden glow over the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Rows and rows of books were filed with almost military precision. Clare let out a soft sigh, the idea of spending hours and hours lost in the library in this study would be pure heaven to her.
The sound of a throat clearing jerked her attention away from the world of rare first editions.
In a sunken seating area, in the midst of the airy space, was Dev. Looking for all intents and purposes like a king sitting amid his priceless treasures. Except his treasures, it seemed, were books. Clare instantly knew that this space was different from everywhere else on the yacht. That this room somehow reflected his true nature. That if she wanted to know more about Dev Kohli—the real man beneath the billionaire playboy persona—this was where she would find him.
Not that it was something she did want, she told herself.
Still, she felt a totally unnecessary and unbidden spark of excitement at being given a view of his inner sanctum that he hadn’t allowed anyone else.
Dressed in black trousers and a white dress shirt that was unbuttoned at his throat, he looked elegant and masculine and somehow
edgy at the same time. His carefully cut hair was rumpled and not quite perfect today. He reminded Clare of a restless predator she’d once seen on a documentary. As if there was a constant hum of energy beneath that sleek brown skin and taut muscles. As if at any moment, he might leap up from the beige leather sofa and launch himself into...
“Ms. Roberts?”
The deep timbre of his voice made Clare start. “Yes, Mr. Kohli?” she replied tartly, irritated with her own woolgathering. Neither did she miss the affected formality in the way he said her name.
“I asked if you were unwell.” His gaze swept over her face and body. Had been doing so for a while, she realized. From her hair to the shirt—his shirt that she’d styled into a dress—to the belt and stilettos, he took in every little detail about her. She felt the quick scrutiny like a warm caress, pooling in places she didn’t want to think about right now. “We can do this another time if you’re still feeling the effects of—”
“Of course not. I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.” Her response sounded chillingly polite to her own ears. A bit too chilly, in contrast to the laid-back humor she saw in his eyes.
Suddenly, she had a feeling that he’d caught her napping on the main deck. Her chin lolling against her chest, with drool pooling at the side of her mouth, most probably.
“I’ve been ready for this meeting for a while.” She sighed. “Only I had no idea how to reach you or any other human on this boat. “Did you get a chance to look at the initial contracts I emailed you?”
“No, it will take me to time to get to them. And it’s a yacht, not a boat.”
“On this oversized yacht,” she parroted obediently, something under her skin humming awake at the twitch of that gorgeous mouth. The man often seemed to be on the verge of laughing. At the world, instead of with it, she suspected. And then of course, that thought led her to unwisely mutter, “Are you laughing at me, Mr. Kohli?”
He shook his head, but the mirth in his eyes remained. “Should I find something funny about this?”
“No. That’s what I meant to point out. Nothing about this predicament is funny and yet—”
“Of course it’s not. But you have to afford me some allowances when you turn up here, your nose high in the air, determined to find something or other about me to disapprove of.”
“That’s not at all what I was thinking,” she hotly denied.
“Then tell me what is it that you don’t like about my yacht,” he asked, surprising her yet again.
“What’s there to not like?” she retorted, trying to keep her tone steady. Dev was so dangerous in how easily he could read her thoughts. “Like I said, it’s big and beautiful.”
“And yet, you just called it oversized, implying it’s ostentatious.”
“That was uncalled for,” she said, forcing regret into her voice. Why did the man care so much what she thought of his damned yacht?
“I sense that you don’t usually make uncalled-for statements, Ms. Roberts. Or that you say anything at all unless you mean it.”
Their gazes held, his probing and lazily amused and hers...resisting the pull of his. It seems she was always resisting something or other about this man. Except the one time she’d stopped resisting and given in to desire, it had been glorious. She desperately hoped she wasn’t wearing the jumble of her thoughts openly on her face.
“You’re right, of course,” she said, acquiescing. Pick your battles, Clare, came something that sounded very much like Bea’s voice in her head. “It just seems like a lot of room for only one man.”
“Ahh...you’re going to lecture me about the environment and such? In my meager defense, I do travel with two personal assistants, three lawyers, a personal trainer and stylist, two chefs and a variety of other personnel—”
“Who I’m sure all contribute toward the larger-than-life image of you that mere mortal men can only aspire to.”
“There it is again, Ms. Roberts.” He raised an eyebrow. “That faint whiff of disapproval.”
“Even though I’ve had a glimpse into the jet-setting lifestyles of certain celebrities while I’ve been working, I still find myself in awe of how much social media conceals from our eyes. How one-dimensional we want our celebrities to be. Nothing personal, Mr. Kohli.”
His brows drew close as he regarded her thoughtfully, no quick response forming on that gorgeous mouth. That she had surprised him was clear by the sudden silence. But the buzz under her skin that was still there regardless of what he said or did...she so badly wished she could completely smother that involuntary reaction to him.
“You sound disappointed in me.” He sounded comically confused. As if it was impossible for any woman to not delight in him!
“Something like that,” she said, thankful that he was so far off the mark. It wouldn’t do to cater to his giant ego. She had to keep this attraction purely inside her own head. “So you have a veritable army of servants,” she said, refusing to let him unsettle her with that silent scrutiny, “who are of course paid to be neither seen nor heard. I can be forgiven, I think, for imagining us to be practically alone on board.”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly uncomfortable.
She scrunched her nose. “I wasn’t actually intending to lecture you, you know.”
“No?”
“I read the interview you did a while ago for that lifestyle magazine. You run a billion-dollar empire that has offices in five different countries. You have eleven thousand three hundred and seventy-six employees around the world. Not counting the personnel you employ here on the yacht and across the two flats, three estates and one palace you have dotted around. What was it that you said...you’ve created ‘an economy all on its own’? So all of this luxury is simply a place to rest for a man who gives livelihoods to so many. You called it your kingdom. And you said your mother taught you that a king has both duties and privileges. That was a nice personal touch,” she added dryly.
“What, that I have duties and privileges?”
“No, mentioning your mother.”
A hardness entered his eyes that transformed his face from having an easy charm to a powerful remoteness. “It wasn’t scripted to manipulate my audience, Ms. Roberts.” His voice could cut through ice.
Clare nodded pacifyingly. Clearly, his family was a sore topic of conversation. She braced herself for the battle ahead. He wasn’t going to like her plan one bit if he was ruffled at the mention of an old interview in which he’d referenced his mother.
“I never said there wasn’t any truth to your interview.” She eyed him as he sprawled on the circular leather sofa, surveying her with those long-lashed eyes. “You certainly do live like a king, Mr. Kohli.”
One arm stretched along the sofa. The folded cuffs of his white shirt displayed a smattering of faint hair over strong forearms. Everything about the man was clean lines and masculine elegance. “You remember a lot about that interview.”
Clare tried to not bristle at the inherent teasing in his tone. “I’ve always had a good memory for details. And it was clear that journalist came to you with an agenda.”
“What do you think that might have been?”
“To lump you in with the current crop of spoiled, rich billionaires who don’t give a damn about the state of the world. And you disarmed her very easily.”
Far too easily, if you asked her. There was a unique quality about Dev—and she didn’t just mean his astonishingly good looks—that put women at ease with him. But an inherently welcoming sense of safety and fairness he extended, probably without knowing it himself.
Of course, he wasn’t a saint by any means. He rarely dated anyone more than a few times, but Clare didn’t blame any woman for succumbing to the fantasy of being this man’s lover. Of hoping that she might be the only woman he wanted in his bed, the only woman he allowed into his life. And heart.
Which was definitely a fantasy, all right. But she...she was made of sterner stuff. More importantly, she’d already had her one fantasy night with him, which was apparently all he was going to deign to allow her.
“So what is it in particular that you don’t like about the yacht? Or was it just me who riled you up when you walked in just now?”
“I just...fine, yes, it’s a lovely yacht. Airy and light—and don’t think I haven’t noticed in the information brochures about how it’s built with recycled wood and other environmentally friendly materials. But it seems so empty.”
“Empty?” he said, his gaze shifting to encompass the furniture around them.
“It’s just a personal thing.”
His elbows dropping to his thighs, he leaned forward invitingly. “Tell me.”
“All this wealth on open display...it seems counterintuitive to what we’re all supposed to be pursuing, isn’t it?”
He frowned. “And what is that?”
“Happiness. Peace. A place to belong.”
“And you think that’s what we’re all looking for?” He didn’t sound quite put off by her opinion, but it was clear that he didn’t like it much either.
“You did insist on hearing my explanation, Mr. Kohli,” she said pointedly. “I just meant that it feels somewhat isolated. Designed to be cut off from the world. The home of a man who doesn’t want to put down any roots.”
A bleakness entered his eyes then, and Clare was sure she’d crossed some imaginary boundary she shouldn’t have. Trespassed where she wasn’t invited, much less wanted.
“Ahh...then it’s a good thing that you don’t know me quite as well as you think you do,” he said, that momentary vulnerability disappearing with a slow, lazy blink.
“I quite disagree,” she added, something inside her pushing her on. “The thing is, I’ve spent quite a few hours recently deep diving into your life, and what’s in the media does paint quite a cold, clinical picture of you. Flashy affairs that end faster than people change their car tires and business deal upon business deal where you always emerge the winner. In fact, you appear to lead what looks to the outsider like a very...solitary, selfish kind of life.”
