The second his lips pull back to form a snarl, I swish my hair again and motion my fingers in a semi-wave. “Don’t sweat it, Pup. I’ll make sure you have something to sink your nicotine-stained teeth into.”
His grumble carries along the narrow corridor, and thankfully he doesn’t come with it. I quickly cover the short distance of thick pearly carpet that smells as if it was freshly laid and reach a pencil-thin staircase with shiny handrails.
Barefooted steps carry me from the belly of the ship and into the airy saloon. Polished surfaces gleam in the radiance of recessed ceiling lights. A duo of creamy striped couches line the interior walls, mirroring each other in position. Between them, a royal-blue rug leads the eye to the starboard outdoor deck with its massive jacuzzi and wraparound seating. Next to it, a semicircular bar area is paired with deep seats for lazy midday naps in the sun.
Behind me, the chef and crew are hard at work in the open kitchen adjacent to a grand dining table. Security lingers on the periphery, keeping their intrusion to a minimum.
The only crew member who wears a fitted black shirt tucked into matching slacks spots me immediately. Floppy brown hair is swept back, and a friendly grin shows off his bright-white teeth. “Are you hungry, Miss? Or would you like a shot of limoncello?” he calls over.
I stroll toward them and pause at the Italian marble countertop. Gold-embellished china plates are lined up in a row, neatly presented with elegant portions of blood-red spaghetti and topped with miniature basil leaves. My stomach gurgles, my hunger being the one thing I’m able to control. Not even Frankie can tell me when to eat.
“I’ll grab something from the fridge if you guys are busy,” I suggest, my shoulders bouncing lightly.
The chef stills, his eyes cutting from the meal preparation to mine. “I’ll plate up an extra dish for you, Miss Sapori. Please take a seat at the dining table, unless you’d like to eat with Mr. Sapori on the top deck?”
There’s a raucous cheer from the heavens where Frankie’s game of cards is in full swing above us. “No, thanks,” I say like a strike of lightning. “I’ll sit out there.” I point to the bar area where nightfall and twinkly bulbs allude to a harmonious setting in the bowels of Hell.
“I’ll bring it right out.” The deckhand air salutes to me as I turn away.
“Okay. Thanks.” The right side of my mouth lifts to a halfhearted smile.
I ignore the suited guy on my way outside, noting his earpiece with a connecting wire. He doesn’t move when I flop onto a padded daybed and kick my feet up with little respect for the white custom furniture.
A welcoming sea breeze agitates the surface water in the jacuzzi, catching my attention as ripples glitter under eerie silvery moonlight. The hairs on my arms lift, my skin crawling when a hideous thought of Frankie wearing a skimpy swim brief haunts me.
A round of clapping and rowdy masculine voices makes my blood boil. Bastards—every single one of them. I let my head tip back and I stare up at the night sky, praying my future with Acer wouldn’t be filled with cruelty and torture, that he’d be an honorable man to have as a husband.
Except my gut instinct tells me he didn't get his billions from being nice. If he had to stand on a few guys to earn his wealth, undoubtedly, he would have crushed their skulls to dust on the way up. After all, what kind of man orders a mafia bride for a connection to the Cosa Nostra?
“Jesus fuck.” A gravelly baritone with a smoky foreign accent snares my attention. I lift my head and squint, adjusting my gaze to the bright indoors.
Next to the lead deckhand, a well-built man has his back to me as he speaks to the crew. I hadn’t noticed him before—and I sure as hell wouldn’t have missed his presence. The stranger wears leg-hugging slate-gray jeans and a fitted white t-shirt stretched around thick tattooed arms. It’s clear he works out, not to gain the planes of flexing muscles on his wide shoulders, but simply to enhance his already broad back and mountainous height. Those carved biceps aren’t too bulky; they’re hardened for the purpose of exuding power and strength. Sheer masculinity.
“This shit is good, my friend.” As his left shoulder turns to acknowledge the chef, his too-familiar side profile becomes visible. “Letterman,” he calls, projecting his voice up the golden staircase winding to the heavens. “You have to try this food.”
I suck in a gulp of salty sea air and almost choke on my saliva. A gnarly knot hijacks my stomach and tightens until I’m light-headed from shock. The brutal squeeze of recognition forces me to tuck my thighs against my chest, as if shrinking in size could make me disappear.
The crazy off-beat rhythm of my pulse gallops, and I almost throw up. I’m adrift in ghostly shadows, helplessly watching artificial light dance over pitch-black tousled strands and coarsely grown facial hair. Its warmth shines on every single breathtaking part of his swarthy features.
I should hurry back to my cabin or dive into the moonlit ocean and swim to the shore, except that would draw attention to the fact I’mhere—on this yacht—and so is André Souza.
I’m spellbound, trapping a breath as he shakes hands with the chef, his authority capturing the crew's full attention. When a pretty brunette in a white shirt giggles at something he just said in that deep, husky voice of his, a rush of unwarranted bitterness zaps through me like volts from the electric fence I’ve mentally secured around myself.
My dented pride takes another beating and reinforces the distaste I have for the man. André’s criminality represents the very thing I detest the most—men of power. More accurately, every underhanded, dishonorable man I’ve had to face since childhood.
Anyway, I’m the polar opposite of his typical type, which is why he lives in Miami, and I had stayed undiscovered in Donegal.
Despite my bruised ego, this senseless fascination I’m battling with is deadlier than delicate moth wings beating next to infernal flames. I’m aware of the change to my otherwise numb emotions, how I’m on high alert and feeding off the potency of his proximity. It fills the breadth of the ocean, so even Frankie pales in significance.
In a twist of fate, I’ve crashed into a hell where fireballs are coming at me in all directions. First, Frankie and his daddy revelation, and then his fist-happy goons. Next up, a marriage to a stranger. Now, André Hotshot Souza.
It's doubtful he would remember me anyway, and I won’t step in his path to jog the memories.
The second he rakes those sturdy tattooed fingers through his hair, teasing lazy strands away from his forehead, my insides liquify. It’s a shameful reaction. A ridiculous rush of lust.
And the way he laughs, that wicked sonorous rumble of fire and smoke, it provokes my shivery skin and steals the oxygen I’m trying to inhale.
But the second he swivels on his biker boots and advances, his swagger every bit a hunter’s prowl, my roots lift, attuned to his presence and terrified he won’t remember me, but secretly hoping he does.
