narrow hallways and up spiral stairs barefoot, it’s easy to put my new colleagues’ catty comments to the back of my mind, because there’s a much more pressing issue at hand, and it’s waiting for me in the room behind the Captain’s bridge.
My office, ten minutes before the start of service. He didn’t say please, which would suggest I was in trouble, but, then again, in the handful of times I’ve had the misfortune to encounter Raphael Visconti, he’s never used pleasantries, anyway.
My nerves vibrate against the walls of my stomach as I tap out a timid knock on the mahogany door. Almost immediately, his deep, velvet-clad voice floats from underneath it. “Come in.”
I ball my clammy fists, remind myself to keep my smart-ass mouth shut, and step inside.
Raphael is sitting on the edge of his desk, forearms on his thighs and a poker chip spinning between his thick fingers. His gaze comes up from the floor, carves a laser-like path up my legs and over my chest, then narrows on my face.
The poker chip stops spinning.
“Is that the uniform Laurie issued you?”
Heart lurching, I only manage a nod.
His eyes fall down my body again, darkening with every square inch they cover. Why does it feel like he’s silently rating each of my features out of ten? And why do I feel like I’ve scored pretty low?
And why am I disappointed about it?
Eyes coming to a stop on my thighs, he gives a tight smile, then he pushes himself off the desk and mutters something I don’t catch. I can’t be certain, but it sounded like Christ.
A prickle crawls up the nape of my neck as he walks to the far side of the room and stands with his back to me, facing the large French doors that frame the moody sea. He slides his hands into his pockets, the broad planes of his shoulders tense.
I can feel a cocktail of embarrassment and annoyance staining my cheeks, because with every heavy second that passes, it becomes more and more apparent what he’s thinking.
He hires a type, and I don’t fit that. Now he’s wondering what the fuck to do about it without catching a discrimination case.
Just before the urge to tell him to go fuck himself overpowers my desire to hold down this job, he turns around and takes me off-guard with a much softer expression and a two-word command.
“Come here.”
My natural instinct is to scowl and shake my head, because I’m still embarrassed about succumbing to the curl of his finger at the wedding. But at the same time, there’s something so easy and charming about his tone that it makes my heart forget its next beat.
Ridiculous. I wonder if this is his real appeal. Not his looks or his easy wit, but the fact he has a talent for delivering crude commands in such a way that makes you want to follow them, instead of slapping him across the face.
Come here. Sit on my face. Moan my name louder, Penelope.
My feet move before my brain agrees to it. I come to a stop in front of him, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body.
I didn’t know warmth could radiate off an ice cube.
I freeze when he reaches out and gently cups my jaw. My head moves at his will, up and to the left, so I’m staring directly at the moon shining bright against the starless sky. His hand is large and hot, save for the ice-cold ring resting against my cheekbone. Christ. A warmth spreads to my lower stomach, and despite my attempt at keeping my expression neutral, I know he can feel my pulse beat a little faster in my throat; feel my breath grow denser as it skitters over the back of his hand.
“How’s the head?”
“Fine,” I bite back, before tugging myself out of his grasp. He lets me go easily, with little more than an amused smirk. I was definitely out of my mind when I thought I wanted him to treat me like he treats other women. I don’t like this side of him. Hell, I don’t like him. He makes me feel confused and out-of-sorts, like I’ve stepped outside on a February morning only to discover there’s a blistering heatwave.
“Take a seat.”
“I’d rather stand.”
Acting like he hasn’t heard me, he reaches for a piece of paper on his desk. He studies it.
“Penelope Price.”
With a heavy heart, I realize he’s holding my dog-eared resume. The one I knocked out in the early hours under the white lights of Devil’s Dip’s diner. It’s a web of lies printed on one side of A4, and my fingers twitch to snatch it from his hands.
He takes a few leisurely steps across the room and tilts my resume toward the sliver of moonlight spilling through the glass.
Those green eyes glitter as they scan from left to right. “You spent six months as a cocktail waitress at the Hurricane casino in Atlantic City?”
Chest tightening, I nod. Fuck. Putting the casino I burned down in Atlantic City on my resume seemed like a genius idea at three a.m., when I was buzzing off coffee and chocolate cake. It no longer exists, so there’s nobody there to fact check it. I mean; it’s not the biggest lie on my resume, but it is the boldest. Technically, I did spend six months there, however it was on the other side of the bar, drinking tropical cocktails from coconut shells and swindling businessmen out of their company’s travel allowance with stupid bar tricks.
“Interesting,” Raphael muses, stroking his jaw. “The owner’s brother is a good friend. Tell me, what was it like working under Thomas? I hear he’s quite the tyrant.”
He looks up at me, eyes shaded with a challenge. Despite my unease, prickly irritation nips at my edges, because I know he’s trying to catch me out.
“Can’t be that good of a friend, because his name is Martin.”
The cool silver pendant around my neck sizzles against my clammy skin. Why do I know that? Because he growled it against my nose in the side alley of the casino, before slamming my head against the brick wall.
Raphael stares at me in dark amusement, before turning his attention back to my lies in his hand. “And so it is.”
He paces the floor, continuing to read. I hate how hyper-aware I am of every slow, heavy footstep. How I feel every thud like a heartbeat under my rib cage. Seconds feel like minutes, and when the tension gets unbearable, my desperate voice slices the silence.
“What is this about?” I blurt out. “Am I in trouble already?”
He gives a tight smile, and, taking all the time in the fucking world, he sinks into his leather chair and spins it around to face me. Thanks to the sliver of moonlight cutting across his face, I have the displeasure of seeing him glance down at the hemline of my dress and run his tongue over his teeth.
A displeasure for sure. But still, being the subject of his attention makes me a little breathless.
“Penelope, I think we got off on the wrong foot.” He leans forward, rests his forearms on his thighs and looks up at me with a half-lidded gaze. “If you’re to work for me, then our relationship needs to be more…” He bites on his bottom lip and sweeps an eye over my thighs again. “Professional.”
I feel myself blushing at the way he wraps those plump lips around the word professional. It drips with insinuation, like we’ve been secretly fucking for three months. Which of course, would never happen in a million years. Partly because I’d rather stick a knitting needle in my eye, and partly because I’m sure Raphael would happily source the sharpest one possible for me.
Plus, if that rumor is true, and he only fucks girls once…
I sweep the thought away with a breathless shudder. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, I fear I’ve given you the wrong impression of me.”
“And what would that be?”
“That I’m not a gentleman.”
My snort is ugly, loud and loaded with disbelief. It bounces across the dark office and lands on Raphael’s perfect poker face. It’s all sharp lines and thick lashes and if I saw it across a velvet table, I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t fold, even if I had a Royal Flush.
“You’re not a gentleman.”
His eyes flicker with the tiniest flame of amusement. “No?”
“You own two yachts.”
“The Queen of England has eighty-three.”
I blink. “You’re a Visconti.”
“So is Nico, and you seem to like him just fine.”
“You carry a gun!”
He runs two fingers over his bottom lip, trying, and failing, to hide a smirk. “The gun is fake, Penelope.”
“My ass.”
“What about it?”
Our gazes clash. Mine burns with annoyance, his simmers with satisfaction. I tear myself out of its magnetic trap. It might make my blood a few degrees hotter, but I’ll be damned if I’ll be as easily fooled by it as the girls in the locker room below. Instead, I glare at the gold doorknob, wishing I could open it with the power of my mind.
“Penelope.”
I grit my teeth at the way he delivers my name on a silk fucking cushion. I hate how it feels like cashmere against my ears, yet crackles and sparks like an electric current between my thighs.
I’d rather claw my eyes out than bring them back to him, but I do it anyway. Studying my face, he slides his hands out into the space in front of him. First, palm down, then with a slow, sensual roll of his wrists, his palms turn up toward the ceiling.
Smooth, tanned. Thick, long fingers, and a ring worth more than my fucking soul. Sure, I hate how he says my name, but I hate the sight of his hands more. Christ. My breathing shallows, and despite knowing better, my head swims with the thought of Raphael’s fingers tugging at my strands. It’s sordid, but I’m curious to know if the rumors are true about him pulling hair when he fucks. I can imagine the wining and dining part no problem—I’m sure he can turn on the charm like a tap, but he looks too polished to fuck so rough.
“Do you see blood on these hands, Penelope?” I scowl in response. When he cocks a brow expectantly, I force a small head shake. “You’ll never see blood on these hands. You know why? Because I’m a gentleman.
Seemingly satisfied, he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Clean slate?”
His smugness cloaks my skin like a fever, and I want to douse myself in ice-cold water to rid myself of him. At this point, I’ll say anything, do anything, to leave.
“Fine, clean slate. Brushed under the carpet. Line in the sand, whatever,” I snap.
I move to side-step the desk, but as I pass Raphael, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
Jesus. Feeling all the blood drain out of my head, I look down at where he holds me. His grip isn’t hard like it was at the wedding, but it has the same effect of gluing me to the spot. It’s firm. Secure. Sure, I could wriggle out of it with a shake of my hand, but when his thumb skims lightly over the pulse on the inside of my wrist and makes my vision jolt, I somehow know I won’t.
Now, his voice has a rough edge when it touches my clammy skin. “If I’m a gentleman, I’m going to need you to be a lady.”
I blink. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, no more stolen dresses and no more stupid quizzes.”
His gaze bores a hole in my cheek and the lump in my throat thickens.
“Better pay me more, then.”
Welp—vow broken. At least I bit my tongue for longer than usual, I suppose. My insolence reminds me that I don’t even know what the salary is: I could be getting paid in Reese’s Pieces and way-to-go!’s for all I know.
His grip tightens, confirming what I already knew. For the last five minutes, he’s been in character, playing the Raphael he wants people to see. This cool, calm demeanor is a facade, and he’s about as good at upholding it around me as I am keeping my mouth shut around him.
“Not every man that passes through this yacht will be as nice as me, Penelope.”
“As nice as you? Are you forgetting you came at me with a hammer?”
“Could have been worse.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he drawls, gaze flashing black. “I could have whacked it on your fucking head.”
Breathless from the unexpected venom in his tone, it takes me half a second longer than usual to regain my composure. When I do, I rip my wrist from his grip and clutch my chest, pouting like I’m super offended by his sudden assholery. “Ouch. You’re so big and scary that I think I just pissed my panties a little bit.”
“Did you steal those, too?”
“It’s probably best we don’t talk about my panties—wouldn’t want to give you a hard-on in the middle of your work day.”
His glare narrows, but amusement now softens its edges. “You talk a lot of smack for a girl that needs a job.”
I falter. Despite the seeds of fury spouting in my stomach, my better judgment tells me I should shut the fuck up. He’s still my boss, after all, and although I’m not happy with that, I really need the money.
Fine.
I straighten my spine. Pin him with a docile smile and pretend like the triumph humming behind his expression doesn’t piss me off.
“You’re right,” I say as sweetly as I can muster. “Forgive my insolence, gentleman. I’ll take you up on that clean slate, starting from right now.”
I catch a glimpse of the small smirk tilting his lips before I turn toward the door. I’m twisting the doorknob when his low, syrupy words trickle along my nerve endings. He mutters them from the shadows, but I hear them like he yelled them into a megaphone.
“Bet you don’t last the night.”
My shoulders hitch, and a familiar thrill coasts down my spine. “Bet you twenty bucks I do.”
“Bet you fifty.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, hot, bitter annoyance swelling inside of me. “Yes, sir.”
The lure of freedom and an orange glow wash over me as I open the door to the bridge.
“Penelope.”
My lids flutter shut. So close.
“It’s yes, boss.”
