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There’s a small living room at the back of the yacht. It sits three floors above the swim platform, and its large bay window frames the storm rolling over the Pacific.
I snatch up a cushion from the sofa, crawl onto the window seat and press my burning face against the cold glass.
It took ten minutes to find a suitable room to hide in. My only requirement was a door that locked from the inside. Now, Raphael’s men can’t glare at me, and the yacht cleaners can’t side-eye me over their vacuums. I knew I’d found the perfect place when I found no cameras tacked to the ceiling, and a finger-sweep over the coffee table turned up a layer of dust.
The obnoxious tick of a grandfather clock tells me it’s been over an hour since I last moved. I fear if I do, I’ll start climbing the walls. My body buzzes with a million questions, none of which I have answers to.
Why didn’t Raphael shove me onto the first shuttle heading back to shore?
Why did he make me breakfast?
Between all the suits, when the fuck does the man wear his college hoodie?
I peel my face off the glass and nestle my nose in the collar. Christ, I should really stop doing that, because his scent soaks into my skin and heats it every time. He smells sogood.
In a sudden rush of female solidarity, I hope he doesn’t treat all his one-night-stands like this, not if he seriously doesn’t plan on seeing them again. Because being booted out while he’s in the shower would have been favorable to wearing his warm clothes and tasting his delicious eggs.
Sighing, I lift my head and glare out to the Coast. The sight of an incoming shuttle makes my throat tighten.
Is the staff heading here for work already? The thought of Laurie catching me strolling around the yacht on my day off wearing Raphael’s hoodie as a dress makes my blood itch. Sure, the look on Anna and Claudia’s faces would be priceless, but still, I know what I’d look like to them: just another girl who dropped her panties and let Raphael Visconti fuck her from behind.
Pathetic, really. At least the other two guys I succumbed to wooed me with sweet words, even if they turned out to be fake as fuck. Raphael hadn’t even unleashed his signature charm on me; he just killed a man and carried me to his bedroom.
Squinting under the sun, I press my face to the glass and realize I recognize the lone figure in the Carhartt beanie seated at the back of the boat.
Matt. What the hell is he doing here?
Heart racing, I fly out the room and take the back stairs two at a time, until I’m shivering on the swim platform to greet him.
As the boat bumps against the fender, he cups a hand to his brow and looks up at me.
“What the fuck, Pen?” is all he says.
He stares at the Stanford logo on my chest as Griffin strolls out of the lounge behind me, kicks his legs apart, and roughly pats him down. He gives a nod of approval to the suit driving the boat, then pins me with a blistering glare.
“You’re trouble kid,” he grunts, before slamming the lounge door so hard the glass rattles.
Yeah, whatever.I’m too taken aback by Matt’s sudden arrival to care about my reputation among Raphael’s men.
Icy wind whipping around us, we stare at each other for a few beats. I open my mouth to cut through the silence, but Matt glances at the camera masquerading as a heat lamp above our heads, and pulls me toward him by the hips.
“Blink twice if you’ve been kidnapped.”
I pause, then blink twice.
His eyes grow wide, then he shoves me away and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Fuck. Seriously?”
“Nah. Just wanted to see what you’d do if I’d said yes.”
He considers this. “Jack shit,” he admits. “I’m not exactly going to beat up Raphael Visconti, am I?” He nods out to the raging Pacific. “I’d be sleeping with the fishes by lunch.”
My laugh softens the tight line of his shoulders. He runs a look of disbelief down my body and shakes his head. “Tell me—why did I wake up to a man with biceps the width of my head hammering down my front door?”
“What?”
He gives the suitcase at his feet a little kick.Mysuitcase. I hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. “Yeah, he kicked down the door to your apartment and told me to collect all your stuff.” He rolls his eyes. “If he’d asked, I’d have told him I had your spare key.”
My heart sinks a few inches in my chest. Why would I need my stuff? And although I was joking, maybe Ihavebeen kidnapped. Otherwise, why the fuck couldn’t I go and get it myself?
