1
Karina
"Gah, you're a frustrating man, Wolfgang." The radio announcer groans. "You know that?"
"Exactly why you like me." Wolfgang chuckles. "And Ivy?" There’s a pause when, I swear, I can imagine him leaning in closer to her. "The name’s Wolfe."
"Errm," Ivy clears her throat over the airwaves, "so that’s our favorite TV trope, brought to life by Wolfe and me…which sounds like something out of Red Riding Wood."
"Hood." Wolfe chuckles.
"That’s what I said." Ivy huffs. "Red Riding Hood. So, as I was saying, that’s our favorite TV trope. Can you guess what it is? This is Ivy—"
"—And Wolfe," the male announcer interjects.
"And we are so very pleased to be guest hosting the Evening Show on your fave, Smile London FM. Email us, call us…and let us know—"
I lean forward and shut off the car radio. What a couple of twerps those two are. Firstly, the attraction between them is off the charts. Secondly, they have no idea about it and are clearly dancing around it, all but punching each other in the face with the force of the tension building between them. Thirdly…well…if they don’t sort it out, they are going to blow up on the show in front of everyone. No doubt, smack each other in the face before smacking each other on the lips. Ha! I snort aloud. Good to know my sense of humor is somewhat alive… Especially considering I have to spend the evening evaluating and repairing security on the boat of Mr. Full-of-Himself-Douchecanoe, aka Arpad f’ing Beauchamp.
A man whose demeanor is every bit as pompous as his name. Yeah, he comes from old money, la-dee-dah. Like I care. But to see him stomp around with that giant stick up his ass, you’d think he’s conscious of his status every single second of his life. Which, he probably is. Which is why he’d ordered me to get to his boat and fix the security camera on it that he claims has stopped working before he sets off to whichever island it is he is sailing off to next.
A camera, which had been set up by someone else before I came on board as his security consultant.
Some of us have to spend the evening working; others party till dawn, then sail off into the sunrise. Of course. Admittedly, he and the rest of the Seven pay me a lot… Like a l-o-t; enough for me to leave my life in LA and move to London to ensure that their security detail is top notch.
The Seven had been kidnapped as pre-teens by the Mafia. They had been rescued, but not before it had left them with a burning need to get even with the perpetrators of the incident. It also means that the men are ever vigilant about the Mafia attacking them or their loved ones. That's why they had asked me to increase the security on them and their families. Add to that, the fact that most of the Seven had recently met and married the women of their dreams... And it means I have a shitload of people to protect, from a security standpoint.
Which means… Yeah, I have never been busier. From finding the right talent to add to my team, to constantly upgrading the security details for the ceremonies when any of them decide to get married—the latest being Damian, the rock star who married his almost-nanny and produced a single that knocked the socks off of every single critic and countdown chart.
So, I can’t complain. My bank account is happy…which means I should be happy. Only I am not.
I am not one to rest on my laurels, not one to bask in my success… I know what I want next—a family of my own. Good news is, I am already working on it.
In fact, I have a date tomorrow night to fire the first salvo in that direction. No pun intended. I snort aloud. I just have to get through this last chore on my list and then I can get some rest—and god knows, I need it—and be ready to get started on this latest project.
I ease the car into the parking lot of St. Katherine Docks, then grab my bag—which, while being stylish enough to take to a party, is also spacious enough to hold my emergency tools—and head down the line of gleaming vessels. Trust London’s wealthiest to bag a spot in the center of London to park their toys. I search for one yacht in particular… What had he called it?
Heartbeat.A weirdly sentimental name for someone who is known as Killer… Not because he kills in real life, but for the killing he makes as an Angel Investor in Silicon Valley. Yep, that’s how Arpad f’ing Beauchamp makes his money.
Investing in those who have the ideas but not the financial wherewithal to bring them to fruition. He has a knack for spotting talent, I’ll give him that…. And that’s all I’ll ever concede, and definitely not to his face.
The man has a mean streak a mile wide, if any of our brief interactions are any indication. Rumor has it, he doesn’t even spare the women he dates… But then, the kind of women he prefers are known for their taste in men who take charge in the bedroom… And push things beyond the point of comfort. Good thing I am not one of them.
I prefer my men amenable and my food spicy. See, the thing with food? It never lets you down. Finding the best restaurants in town and eating out is a particular fancy of mine. Table for one, please. Oh yeah, nothing like the silence of my own company to unwind in the evenings. I am not lonely, just alone. And there is a difference between those two words, right?
I reachHeartbeatand clamber overboard, then walk over to the cabin and key in the password. Letting myself in, I glance around and press what I think is the light switch. Bingo. The door clicks shut behind me as I glance around the space. Whoa, this is a yacht? More like a floating mansion. It had seemed reasonably sized from the outside, but in here… Wow! I walk down the steps to the sunken living room. Plush leather seats span one entire side, with a coffee table in the center, and a flat screen on the opposite wall. I walk through to a galley that has an island table, but only one chair. Huh? That's weird. Doesn't he entertain on the boat? Bet he does, so what's with the lone chair?
On the other hand, the gleaming kitchen equipment is more what I expected. It's top-of-the-line and would rival any five-star hotel, I am sure. Not that Mr. Alphahole, here, would ever deign to step into a kitchen. He probably travels with an entire crew to fetch and carry for him. Bet he spends his time jerking off to porno that he watches on that screen as he shoves his hand down his pants and… Please… Argh! Don’t go there.
I walk past the kitchen and push the sliding doors apart to find—OMG! A complete, fully-furnished, massive bedroom. Complete with a super king-size bed that takes up almost all of the center of the room. On the far end is a door that, I assume, leads to the bathroom. There's a set of mirrored doors beside it that must lead to a walk-in closet? Clearly, he's spared no expense in doing up this space. Everything is gorgeously designed, if space efficient.
On the other side of the cabin is a narrow freestanding table, and on it, a neat coil of what looks like... A rope? How weird. I move closer, then reach out and brush my fingers across the cord. It's soft to the touch, almost sensual, the material reddish in color, with sparks of gold flecked through it. I bring it to my nose and sniff. An edgy, almost nutty scent tugs at my nostrils. My core clenches. Wow, what the hell does he use this for anyway?
I step back, glance around the room, take in the massive, sliding glass doors. Beyond them is the view of the now-darkening water, rays of sunlight from the setting sun painting the sky a smoldering red and orange.
I stare at the bed again…Leave, turn and leave, right now.Come on, surely, a sniff won’t hurt? Besides, there are no cameras in the bedroom. At least, there were none indicated on the security detail for this boat I'd inherited from the previous agency... So he’ll never find out, right?
I cross the floor, walk around the bed and run my hands across the pillow. Soft… Egyptian cotton, thread count innumerable, no doubt. Only the best for the asshole, after all. I lean over, bury my nose in the pillow... Don't judge.
