Page 55 of Pucking Billionaire

He winces. “Never mind. That’s not what I meant to say. Look, the truth is, the owner’s job is challenging even for people in the hockey industry. Since you?—”

Keeping him under an unblinking glare, I tune out the rest of his words as a few little things that had bothered me through the night click into place. That “track record” bit is a dig at my abysmal credit score, which he isn’t supposed to know about. He also knew which suite door was mine, then pretended not to, and before that, he knew my major—even though I don’t think I ever told him about that.

“—not to mention experience managing large budgets, understanding regulations, and?—”

“You had me investigated, didn’t you?” I poke him in the chest with an accusatory finger. His muscles feel like steel, but for a change, this doesn’t make me want to drop my panties right here in the hallway.

Mason sighs. “You wouldn’t even talk to me. I was desperate.”

He admits it! I thought maybe I was just being paranoid. My whole body flushes with heat—and not the way it did just a few moments ago. This time, it’s not the idiotically misguided arousal but an anger so righteous it could quote biblical verses… in tongues.

“You’re a stalker,” I hiss at him. “And I want you off this cruise.”

He curls his hand inward, like he’s on the verge of making a damned fist again. “Sell the team, and I’ll get off at the next port.”

“No.” I’m so pissed I feel like a vein may pop in my brain.

Mason grimaces. “In that case, my answer is also no.”

“Fine,” I grit out. “Then I’ll get off.”

He shrugs, which probably means that he’ll end up on the same plane as me, likely as my seatmate.

“As soon as I’m back on land, I’m going to get a restraining order,” I warn.

“The first stop on this cruise is a Royal Ruskovian private island,” he says. “I doubt they have a police department.”

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m a pacifist, and more importantly, that hitting is morally wrong, no matter how tempting. Instead, I turn on my heel and angrily wave the card to my suite over the lock, then rip at the door handle.

Nothing happens.

Seething, I slam the card against the reader, again to no avail.

“You have to tap it,” Mason says.

I tap the damned thing, but still no luck.

“Tap gentler and wait until you see the light flash green,” Mason says with the most irritating calmness. “Then turn the handle.”

I do as he says, and my anger doubles when it works.

Once in the suite, I bang the door shut so hard it’s a marvel it doesn’t go flying off the hinges. I take a few deep breaths and step out onto my balcony, but unlike the door, I feel unhinged, so not even the gorgeous view is relaxing me. Fuming, I grab my phone to call Abigail and vent, but then I recall my stupid decision to have a digital detox—and I don’t feel like dealing with buying onboard Wi-Fi right now.

Grr.

The nerve of that guy.

It’s bad enough he’s stalked me and followed me onto a cruise, but to have me investigated?

I pace the room back and forth in an effort to calm down, but it’s futile. The fact that he learned about my shitty credit—and then made those assumptions—is what really pisses me off. Mom really did a number on my score, and Rupert finished it off.

I groan. The idea that Mason knows about what happened with Rupert—even indirectly—makes me want to jump into the ocean and swim to the nearest shore.

No.

Screw that.

I’d sooner toss Mason overboard than let him ruin this vacation for me.

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