Find Chantal now! Otherwise she might be the next one on stage, shaking her tassels.
Two girls who sat at the bar looked as though they might be dancers. Their sparkly make-up, elaborate outfits and styled hair certainly seemed to suggest it.
‘Excuse me ladies,’ he said, approaching them. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine who dances here.’
‘I can be your friend who dances here.’ The blonde batted her false lashes at him, silver glitter sparkling with each blink.
‘We come as a pair.’ The redhead chuckled, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
‘That’s tempting,’ he said, turning on a charming smile. ‘And I’m sure you’re both a lot of fun. But I need to find a girl called Chantal.’
‘You can call me whatever you like, sugar.’ Red winked, blowing him a kiss from her highly glossed crimson lips.
‘Are you her boyfriend?’ asked Blonde, tracing a lacquered finger up the length of his shirt. ‘Most of the girls here don’t stick to one guy. They get too jealous.’
‘The guys?’
Blonde nodded. ‘They start fights. You’re not going to start a fight, are you?’
‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’
He watched the bartender eyeing him. The guy was old, but his arms were covered in faded prison tattoos. Brodie directed his eyes back to the girls.
‘You sure look like a lover.’ Red licked her lips. ‘A good one, too. But all guys go crazy for the right girl.’
‘Chantal is a friend. So, have you seen her?’
‘A friend? Right.’ Blonde laughed. ‘If she was just a friend you wouldn’t be here with that puppy love face, looking for her.’
He opened his mouth to argue but snapped it shut. Trying to reason with these two would be a waste of time—time that could be better spent looking for Chantal and getting her the hell out of this hole.
‘Thanks for your time, ladies.’
‘Good luck, lover boy.’ Red chortled as he walked away.
He stood by the bar and scanned the room. Mostly men, a few women who might or might not be dancers, muscle stationed by the stairwell and by an exit on the other side of the stage. That must be where the dancers went backstage.
He was about to attempt to get past the muscle when he spotted Chantal. In denim shorts and a white tank top, she looked dressed for the beach rather than a bar. But her face and hair were made up for the stage. She had a bag over one shoulder. Perhaps she’d already danced?
As she attempted to weave through the crowd someone stopped her. A guy much bigger than her put his hands on her arms and she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. The bouncer looked on with mild amusement, but made no attempt to step in and protect Chantal.
Brodie rushed forward, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her back against him. She yelped in surprise, but relief flooded her face when she realised it was him. She stepped back, standing partially behind him.
‘Is there a problem, mate?’ The guy towered over Brodie, and he saw a snake tattoo peeking out of the edge of his dark T-shirt.
‘Yeah, you had your hands on my girl.’ He looked the guy dead in the eye, ready to fight if it came to that.
A wave of guilt washed over him. Was this how Scott had felt that night at Weeping Reef?
He shoved the thought aside and pushed Chantal farther behind him. Nothing mattered now but getting her out safely.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be letting her parade around in next to nothing, then.’ He leered, exposing an aggressive gap-toothed smile. ‘Some of the guys here aren’t as easygoing as me.’
Brodie turned, wrapped his arm around Chantal’s shoulders and steered her towards the stairs. They moved through the throng of people and he didn’t let go of her. Not once.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked as they exited the bar. Her brows were narrowed, and her face was streaked with conflicting emotions.
It wasn’t dark yet. An orb of gold sat low on the horizon while the inky shades of night bled into the sky. Chantal hovered at the entrance of the bar, her eyes darting from the driveway to the accommodation and back to him. The red neon sign from the bar flickered at odd intervals.
‘I’m saving your butt—that’s what I’m doing.’ He raked a hand through his hair, tremors of adrenaline still running through him. ‘I’m giving you a place to stay.’
‘I have a place to stay.’ The defiance in her voice rang out in the night air, and her fists were balled by her sides.
‘And how is it? I’m assuming you came back here after you hauled arse this morning?’
The breeze ruffled her dark hair, sending a few strands into her eyes. She blew them away. ‘I did.’
‘And?’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘It’s serviceable.’
‘And you’d take “serviceable” over a luxury yacht? Or would that just be to spite me?’
Why was he even worried? She either wanted to stay or she didn’t. They weren’t in a relationship. So why was the thought of her staying here alone like a stake through his gut?
Too many years playing big brother—that’s all it is.
‘I’m not trying to spite you, Brodie.’ She sighed. ‘But I don’t need you following me around playing macho protector.’
‘What would have happened if I hadn’t been here?’ He threw his hands up in the air, the mere thought of anyone harming her sending his instincts into overdrive.
‘I would have handled it.’
‘Oh, yeah? How?’
She waved a hand at him. ‘I can look after myself, Brodie. I’ve done it without your help for the last eight years.’
‘I would have been here the second you asked.’
Her face softened, but she didn’t uncross her arms. ‘But I didn’t ask, did I? That’s because I’m fine on my own.’
‘It didn’t look like you were going to be fine tonight.’
‘That’s your perception.’
How could she not see the danger? Was she actually that blind or was it all a ruse so he’d believe her strong and capable? He did think she was strong and capable, but the facts still stood. A huge guy would easily overpower her petite frame, no matter what skills she had. Her refusal to accept his help made him worry more.
‘Only an idiot couldn’t see the path that you almost went down.’
‘Only this idiot?’ She rolled her eyes, flattening her palm to her chest. ‘I’m not a damsel in distress—no matter how much you fantasise about it.’
‘You think I fantasise about you being in trouble?’ Rage tore through him. If only she knew the fear that had coursed through him when he’d realised where she was today.
She opened her mouth to retort, but changed her mind. ‘I don’t think that, Brodie. But I want you to understand that this thing between us is just sex. You’re not obligated to be my bodyguard.’
The words hit him like a sledge-hammer to his solar plexus. Just sex. Of course that was all it was. That was what they’d agreed last night… So why did he feel as if she was tearing something away from him?
‘Come back to the boat.’ He set a hard stare on her, challenging her. ‘For just sex.’
‘I don’t want you coming back into the bar.’ She loosened her arms, pursing her lips. Her eyes were blackened and heavy, her lips full. ‘You don’t need to rescue me.’
‘Fine.’
It went against every fibre of his being, but he would have agreed to anything to get her away from the bar at that point. He would deal with the consequences next time he turned up to rescue her—because hell would freeze over before he let her put herself in danger. She could get as mad as she liked.
She eyed him warily. ‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY WALKED AROUND the side of the bar to the staff accommodation so she could retrieve her bag. Going back to his boat felt like giving in, which seemed spineless after her great escape that morning. But the guy from the bar had shaken her. His disgusting
words whispered into her ear along with the sickly scent of cheap whisky and Coke had made her stomach churn. Brodie had showed up at the right time and, though she would never admit it, she wasn’t quite sure how she would have got herself out of that situation.
But it was a slippery slope from accepting help to being controlled, and she would never go there again.
A pale yellow beam from an outside security light spilled into the tiny motel-like room, causing shadows to stretch and claw at the walls. She wanted to be here about as much as she wanted to stab herself in the eye with a stiletto. But the alternative wasn’t exactly peachy. Another night on Brodie’s boat… another night of searing temptation and slowly losing her mind.
True to his word, he hadn’t mentioned them sleeping together, but the evening was young. Something about the way he watched her pack told her he wasn’t here out of friendly concern alone.
‘How many more shifts do you have?’ he asked, hovering by the door.
He stayed close but didn’t touch her. Still, she was fully aware of the heat and intensity radiating off him. He wore a shirt tonight, soft white cotton with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A thin strip of leather hung around his neck, weighted with a small silver anchor. A silver watch sat on one wrist, contrasting against his deep tan.
‘I’ve got a month in total,’ she replied. ‘They’re pushing for more, though.’
‘You’re not going to stay, are you?’
‘If I don’t find something else I might not have a choice.’ She faced away from him, stuffing the few items she’d unpacked back into her overnight bag. ‘A girl’s gotta eat.’
He frowned. ‘There must be something else you could do.’
‘Yeah, I could wait tables or work as a checkout chick at a supermarket. No matter how bad this is, it’s still dancing. It means I haven’t given up.’
Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she walked out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
Silence. She sensed a begrudging acceptance from him.
‘No word on the audition?’
‘Not yet.’
Once on the yacht, Chantal stashed her things in the guest room, hoping it signalled to Brodie that she had no intention of sleeping with him again. Incredible as they were together, it was clear she needed to focus on her current situation. She was already taking way too much from Brodie. She couldn’t rely on him, his yacht or his money. She’d made this mess—she needed to get herself out of it.
‘Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll get dinner on the go?’ he said, already pulling a frying pan from the kitchenette cupboard.
‘Are you trying to tell me I smell?’ She smirked, leaning against the breakfast bar.
Soft denim stretched over the most magnificent butt she’d ever laid eyes on as he bent down. He was the perfect shape. Muscular, but not OTT bulky. Broad, masculine, powerful. She swallowed, her mouth dry and scratchy.
‘If I thought you smelled I would come right out and say it.’ He looked over his shoulder, blond hair falling into his eyes.
He mustn’t have shaved this morning. Blond stubble peppered his strong jaw, making the lines look even sharper and more devastating. Golden hair dusted his forearms, and she knew that his chest was mostly bare except for a light smattering around his nipples and the trail from his belly button down. She couldn’t get that image out of her head.
‘Hurry up—before I drag you there myself.’
He said the words without turning around, and Chantal thanked her lucky stars that he didn’t. The words alone were potent enough, without the cheeky smile or glint she knew would be in his eyes.
‘Then you’ll be in trouble.’
The steam and hot water did nothing to wash away the tension in her limbs, nor the aching between her thighs. Wasn’t a shower supposed to be cleansing? The quiet sound of rushing water only gave her time to replay the most delicious parts of last night, and she stepped out onto the tiles feeling more wound up than before.
A mouth-watering scent wafted in the air as she slipped into a loose black dress, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The table was set for two. Intimate… personal.
Two glasses held white wine the colour of pale gold. White china rimmed in silver sported a faint criss-cross pattern—simple, but undeniably luxurious. A bowl of salad sat in the middle of the table.
‘Pan-fried salmon with roasted potatoes and baby carrots.’ He brought two plates to the table. ‘Not fancy, but it is healthy—and pretty darn tasty, if I do say so myself.’
‘I didn’t know you could cook.’
‘I’m a man of many talents, Chantal.’ He set the plates down and dropped into the seat across from her. ‘I thought you would have figured that out by now.’
She rolled her eyes, cutting into the salmon steak and sighing at the sight of the perfectly cooked fish. ‘Does it get annoying, being good at everything?’
‘No.’ He grinned and speared a potato.
They picked up their glasses and clinked them together. The bell-like sound rang softly in the air. Crystal glasses. Of course they’re crystal—this is a boat for rich people… not people like you.
Chantal shoved the thought aside and sipped her wine. ‘Did you do a lot of cooking at home?’
‘I did, actually. I was probably the only fifteen-year-old kid who cooked dinner for the family most nights of the week.’
‘Really?’
She couldn’t hide her surprise. He hardly seemed like the kind of guy who would be in charge of a household. But the salmon melted on her tongue, and the tangy aromatics of a lemon and ginger marinade danced in sensational delight. He didn’t cook in the way most people did, where the food was functional first and foremost. He had talent—a knack for flavour and texture.
‘Yep. Mum was a nurse and she often worked afternoons and nights. The cooking was left up to me.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘He wasn’t around.’ Brodie frowned. ‘Dad was an artist, and he had a lot more passion for painting than he did for his family.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘Yeah… I was fine, but the girls really needed him—especially Lydia. She remembered him more than the twins and Ellen.’ He reached for his wine, looking as though he were about to continue the thread of conversation but changing his mind at the last minute. ‘What about you? Were you the house chef?’
‘I can do the basics. My mum worked long hours too, so I had to fend for myself a fair bit.’ She swallowed down the guilt that curled in her stomach whenever she thought about her mother. ‘I can do a basic pasta… salads. That kind of thing.’
‘What does your mother do?’
‘She’s a cleaner.’ Chantal bit down on her lip, wishing the memories weren’t still so vivid. ‘I don’t think she’s ever worked less than two jobs her whole life.’
His eyes softened. Damn him. She didn’t want his sympathy.
‘What about your dad?’
‘He left when I was ten.’ She shrugged, stabbing her fork at a lettuce leaf more forcefully than she needed to.
‘Siblings?’
‘None. Probably sounds strange to someone with such a big family.’ Good—turn the conversation back to him.
‘Yep—four sisters and never a moment of peace.’
She envied the contented smile on his lips. It was obvious his family was important to him. She’d bet they would be close, despite his father’s absence. The kind of family who had big, raucous Christmas gatherings and loads of funny traditions. So different from her. They’d been so poor at one point that her mother had wrapped her Christmas present—a Barbie doll from the local second-hand shop—in week-old newspaper. The memory stabbed at her heart, scything through the softest part of her. The part she kept under lock and key.
‘It drove me nuts, growing up,’ he continued. ‘But I became amazingly proficient at hair braids and reading bedtime stories.’
Her stomach churned. ‘You’ll make a great dad one
day.’
A dark shadow passed over his face. The wall dropped down in front of him so fast and so resolutely that Chantal wondered what she’d said. A sardonic smile twitched the corner of his lips. Okay, so there were some things that put Brodie in a bad mood.
‘I don’t want the white-picket-fence deal.’ He drained the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle to empty the remaining contents into his glass. ‘Marriage, kids, pets… not for me. I’ve got enough responsibility now.’
‘Cheers to that.’ They clinked glasses again.
He quirked a brow. ‘But you got married.’
‘Just because I did it once it doesn’t mean I’ll do it again.’ Her cheeks burned. ‘That debacle is over for good.’
The wine had loosened her limbs a little, and it seemed her tongue as well. She probably shouldn’t have accepted the shot of whisky one of the other dancers had offered her before she went onstage. But she’d so desperately needed Dutch courage to force her back onstage.
‘Sounds like there’s a story there.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged.
Could she claw back her words? Brodie didn’t need to see the ugly bits of her life… especially not after she’d gone to such efforts to hide them. Then again, did it really matter?
‘I’ve seen you naked, remember.’ He grinned.
How could she possibly forget?
‘No point keeping secrets from me now.’
She took a deep breath and decided to throw caution to the wind. After all, he knew her most devastating secret: that her career had turned to crap. What harm could another failure do if it was out in the open?
‘The short version is that I was young, naive and I married the wrong guy.’
‘And the full version?’
‘I married my agent,’ she said, rolling her eyes and taking another sip of her wine. ‘What a bloody cliché. He seemed so worldly, and I was a wide-eyed baby. We met a month after I left Weeping Reef, and he promised he’d make me a star. He did—for a while—but then he started treating me like his student rather than his wife. He wanted everything his way, all the time.’
The Tycoon's Stowaway Page 9
