Page 39 of Dark & Deceitful

In the small bathroom connected to the stateroom, I undress from my standard work outfit into something more flattering—a burnt-orange, long-sleeved, body-con dress that fits like a glove. It hugs my curves in all the right places, and the neckline is just low enough my cleavage will make a man or two drool.Provocative yet classy is the style, and I think I pull it off when I gather my clothes and reenter the bedroom to have both of my much younger companions gape at me as if they haven’t seen a woman in a dress before.

“Hannah.” Clutching a shirt to her chest, the blonde’s big blue eyes nearly pop out of her skull.

I twirl around barefoot. “Does it work?”

“I don’t think Mr. Cassiano will be pleased,” the bustier, darker-haired blonde sneers.

Not caring what they think, I shrug and set my dirty clothes on the end of my bunk to be dealt with later. From inside my bag, I extract my matching lace-up gladiator sandals. A pair of pumps would pair best with a dress this sexy, but doting on men on a moving vessel could be a disaster in heels. These are the next best thing. Sitting on the small couch beside a built-in vanity, I slide them up, tighten the straps, and flex my black polished toes as the other two ladies finish dressing in their far more modest attire—a white blouse with black flowy slacks and the other a blue pants suit.

A hefty knock vibrates the door. “It’s show time, ladies,” a goon announces. “Dining room in twenty.”

The two women smile at each other, eagerness lighting their faces. “This is so exciting,” one says as her friend nods enthusiastically.

Exciting, my ass.

These poor women are about to be traumatized. If I had the luxury of befriending actual people on assignments, I would feel bad about what’s coming. But the only thing I care about is keeping them alive. Their mental state will come afterward when we get off this ship, still breathing. The goal is not to become fish food.

As they chatter incessantly about whoever rich and famous might be aboard, I carry my toiletry bag to the bathroom to fixmy chignon and apply makeup—real makeup this time. Much to Mr. Cassiano’s preferred au natural look, I flip him the middle finger when I rock a sultry, smokey eye and a glossy, nude lip. He will either be pissed I didn’t fall in line or be pleased I took the initiative to be an atlas moth in a group of dagger moths. Standing out is the objective. The less attention paid to these two, the better the outcome for them. Not that the blonde, I believe her name’s Jasmin, cares much. She’s been sucking Mr. Cassiano’s cock for weeks. If she doesn’t blow him in front of all the men present tonight, I’ll be surprised.

Once I’m ready, I lead the charge out of our shared room, through the halls I’ve yet to familiarize myself with, and up a flight of stairs to the main level, where Romeo and his sous chefs are mingling with the group of sharply dressed businessmen as they drink at the bar in the main dining room.

Wearing the biggest, kindest smile, Romeo waves us over, and I fall in line, ready to serve however needed.

“Jasmin.” He hands the blonde a tray of tapas to serve, and she blends into the crowd like a pro.

“Dee.” He hands the less-than-friendly blonde a tray of champagne, and she joins her friend in the throng.

Once they’re gone, Romeo ushers me behind the bar and grips my elbow. “What on earth are you wearing?” Brow furrowed in the center, his gaze rakes up and down my form.

Suddenly self-conscious, I run a hand down my side. “A dress,” I whisper, harsher than I intend.

“You should go change.”

“I’m fine.” I shrug off his grip and turn to find a familiar face leaning both elbows on the bar, staring daggers at Romeo, his lips pressed together, forming a fine line.

Busying myself with work, I set a white napkin with a foiled C stamped in the center in front of none other than Maxim Drake.“What can I get you, sir?” I bat my pretty eyelashes and smile like a bubbly server.

Romeo curses behind me but doesn’t cause a scene.

Dark’s penetrating eyes rove over my body like he wants to eat me for dessert, and I shiver at the attention. He licks his lips as he leans in to order his drink. “Mojito,” he purrs.

Inwardly, I groan, knowing damn well Dark doesn’t want a mojito. Outwardly, I smile even wider until my cheeks hurt and get to work without questioning why he always has to be a pain in my ass. In a cocktail shaker, I muddle leaves of mint to extract their oils, and because I hate making this drink and he knows I hate it, I put extra strength into pulverizing the mint, which I wouldn’t do for anyone besides him.

As I make his cocktail, my ex turns, leans an elbow on the bar, and converses with another millionaire I don’t recognize. They seem to know each other well when they break into a fit of deep, masculine laughter, and the older man with salt-and-pepper hair clasps Dark on the shoulder.

I dump rum, lime juice, and simple syrup into the cocktail shaker with a scoop of ice, and then I shake the hell out of it. When I’m through, I pour the chilled concoction into a pretty glass and set it on Maxim’s napkin. Still engrossed in his conversation, he lifts his drink in appreciation, then lifts it to his lips to sip. I incline my head in acknowledgment and fall into a peaceful rhythm of bartending.

Romeo returns sometime later and sets a small dish on the bar back with a slice of cake on top, and my mouth waters, looking at its infinite layers. “For you.” He juts his chin at the treat.

“Thanks.” I wink over my shoulder, then crack the top off a bottle of foreign beer and pour it into a glass for a handsome man with full lips and the kindest honey-colored eyes. Too bad he’s a piece of trash like the rest of these men.

I set his glass on another white C-stamped napkin, and he catches my wrist to keep me from leaving. “What’s your name?”

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I do my best to muster shyness at being noticed and giggle awkwardly when I reply, “Hannah.”

He strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “I hope this isn’t too forward, Hannah, but you look stunning in that dress.”

Shielding my eyes, I press my lips together to stave off a smile. Again, it’s for show. My dress is doing what I intended it to do. If my options are to be sold or killed—I’d much prefer sold, and the more eyes I have on me, the more vying for my attention, the better. I’m willing to bet Dark wouldn’t agree. But if I’ve learned anything in my forty years on this earth, when men have their shields lowered because they feel safe, they are the first to lead every decision with their dick. This yacht and the false sense of security it offers is the perfect place for men to let their proverbial hair down—if you catch my drift.

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