Page 24 of Bastard
I hurry in the other direction with plans of finding another way to access the port side.
The yacht’s enormous, and a far cry from the rust bucket I’d been on previously. This vessel’s a blatant display of wealth. The Indian Ocean is notorious for piracy, mostly north along the Somali coastline, though from time to time Kenyan ships are hijacked too. Only a powerful man would chance mooring here for any length of time.
The thought has me quickening my step.
It’s a mistake. A door I’ve just passed opens and a man steps into the corridor a few feet behind me.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” he bellows.
I’m already in a full sprint and halfway down the hall.
“Get her!”
The corridor ends, and I pivot left, throwing my body against the first of two doors, hoping it’ll open.
It does. It’s a small room with computers, camera monitors, GPS, and a satellite feed. And no second exit.
Reversing direction, I explode into the corridor and head for door number two. A thrust of my hip, and I’m inside, entering a large, luxurious living room—one filled with men. I arc around them, passing a kitchen, a sitting area, and about ten surprised faces, before darting into a small hallway on the other side of the room, one with a door at the end of it.
“Don’t stand there, gawking. Stop her!” I recognize the man pursuing me. He’s the same pendejo who hit me in the head. If he catches me, I owe him a lump in return.
I burst through the door and race straight for the nearest window. “Mierda,” I curse beneath my breath, trying to open it. “¿Por qué no se abre esta ventana?” I try with more force, but the window doesn’t budge.
I inhale sharply then freeze, the faint scent of wood mixed with a clean freshness.
Dios mío, no.
The bedroom door behind me slams shut.
I turn around and back up against the window.
Unsteady.
Unsettled.
Disbelieving.
He stands there, arms folded, his expensive suit pulled tightly over bulging biceps. His crisp, white shirt is unbuttoned, exposing tan skin, a muscled chest, and the taut planes of his abdomen. His body is more American footballer than European now. A linebacker dressed for a boardroom.
Bigger, more threatening than ever.
I raise my chin defiantly, and our eyes lock. His narrowed eyes, like I’m some unnecessary kink in his evening. Impenetrable,fakemud brown eyes ... always a liar.
And a bastard, in every way that counts.
He doesn’t say a word.Nada. Nothing. He simply watches me the way one studies a leaky faucet before the pipe bursts.
I hate myself in this moment, for the urge to cower before him, for the rush of emotion wreaking havoc on my mind.
I was moving on with my life. I was finally living for me, instead of for what I imagined might beus. After all this time, he has his men bring me here?
Think about Madelyn.
Think about Rome.
His men marked you with knives.
Pure white rage rises up inside me until it overshadows everything else. It has me charging forward and raising a shaking hand. He has it coming. Heseesit coming yet oddly enough, doesn’t stop me.
