Page 24 of The Rebel

‘Your grandfather?’

She homes in on the one subject I don’t want to discuss but I can’t cut her off without sounding rude. Besides, she’s opened up about her ex and family; I’m only responding in kind.

‘Yeah. I tried to be the grandson he wanted but I wasn’t cut out to run an empire.’ I grimace, the familiar feeling of unworthiness making me want to thump something. ‘Ironic, considering that’s exactly what I have to do now that he’s gone.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ she says softly, reaching out to lay a hand on my forearm. ‘You’re exactly the kind of grandson he would’ve wanted. You’re dedicated and loyal and hard-working, as evidenced by you being here when it’s obvious your passion lies elsewhere.’

How the hell does she do that, read me so easily?

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You travel the world when you could’ve been behind a desk all these years, so yeah.’ She hesitates. ‘I researched you. I know you were working for your grandfather, but I came upon an article that mentioned you do charity work for kids?’

Fuck, this is why I don’t do conversation. Or dates. Discussing what I do in my own time isn’t for public consumption and I don’t need her treating me like some damn knight.

I shift my arm so her hand dislodges. Irrationally, I miss her touch. ‘Any dickhead can don a suit, crunch numbers, and issue orders.’

‘You’re underestimating yourself.’ She folds her hands in her lap, the prim posture not detracting from her subtle sexiness one iota. ‘You’re a brilliant CEO.’

Thankfully, she hasn’t pushed for answers about my behind-the-scenes work with foster kids.

‘Yeah, so brilliant I need to perform miracles to reverse the hotel chain’s downward spiral.’ I eyeball her. ‘And why you’re here, remember?’

I snort, showing exactly what I think of anyone having the tough job of using me to make the Rochester brand more appealing. ‘You’re a miracle worker if you can instil consumer confidence in me.’

I’m used to people not liking me; to making people not like me. It’s what I’ve always done. But my bitterness is audible and the corners of her mouth droop. I’ve soured the mood. Typical.

‘Want a tour of the yacht?’ I hold out my hand to her, willing her to take it and forget our conversation. This is why I don’t do deep and meaningful. It brings nothing but regret.

‘Sure.’

I exhale in relief when she places her hand in mine and I tug her to her feet. I should release her hand. It’s too romantic, standing close on the bridge of the yacht, holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

But I don’t. Instead, I duck my head to brush a kiss across her lips, a promise of what’s to come.

Chapter Twelve

Daisy

The master stateroom is bigger than I expect. Pale wood cupboards and bedside tables, a cushioned curved love seat under the porthole window, and a king-size bed covered in a lemon and blue bedspread with matching scatter pillows. I stare at the bed, imagining Hart doing all sorts of wicked things to me in the middle of it.

He’s gripping my hand tightly, like he’s expecting me to make a run for it. I figure I don’t have to tell him there won’t be a ‘woman overboard’ situation today, not when I’m so hot for him I can barely see straight.

It’s not good, the way we bonded up on deck, sharing snippets of our past, chatting, joking around. He’s way too charming when he lowers his barriers and I’m considering ways to make him do it more.

I can’t get close to this man. It can only end badly for me. Aloof, reserved, hands-off, he’s the kind of guy who would screw with my mind if I get too close, making me want to solve all his problems and make all the hurt go away. I’ve already lost too much of myself in the past getting caught up in a guy’s life and trying to change the unchangeable: never again.

Hart is nothing more than my sexual sorbet. I must keep telling myself that and stay clear of personal topics, because that underlying vulnerability I glimpse every time he mentions his grandfather slays me.

I know why I’m indulging in this fling. Hart is the complete opposite of every guy I’ve ever been with. I like that he’s dark and brooding and mostly silent. Words are frivolous and wasted on him. Which explains why I practically hang on his every one whenever he speaks.

With what he revealed up on deck, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here, taking his grandfather’s place as head of the hotel conglomerate. He’ll leave once the business is stabilised, and head back to his altruistic work with kids. It’s a noble cause, which makes it harder to understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s like he hates the world and doesn’t give a crap, when he obviously does.

I can’t fathom how tough it must’ve been growing up in the foster system, but that was a long time ago. He speaks highly of his grandfather so I assume they had a good relationship. He wouldn’t be back here assuming control of their business if they hadn’t.

So why is he so grim all the time?

I don’t have time to ponder when I hear the door close and he comes to stand behind me. His body doesn’t touch mine but I can feel the heat radiating off him. I’m burning up from head to toe, knowing I’m in way over my head but powerless to stop.

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