Page 54 of Lair

I’m down there in the space of a minute, stopping at the edge to glare at him with hands on hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

His lips curl up in a dreamy smile. “So protective, for a woman who’s with a man who has everything.”

That stings. What’s wrong with me? Why am I acting like Adrian right now? Jesus, is he rubbing off on me?

But I shake this off. Fuck that. I’m not the one acting like an overgrown child here.

“Is this a regular thing for you, then?”

Jason considers me behind the crack in his eyelids, seemingly enjoying this. He’s different today, full of an affected languor and detachment; it makes me want to scream. How is he not terrified of being caught? Doesn’t he know he’d be not only fired on the spot, but blackballed from the yachting industry forever? What has gotten into him?

“Well? Aren’t you on shift right now?” I snap.

He hauls himself dripping out of the water, sits on the edge and slicks his hair back. “Voper and Mrs. Colding are having a meeting.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “I have some time.” His arms, braced on either side of him, flare with idly flexing engines of muscle, and when he looks up into my eyes with a self-satisfied smirk, it hits me: He’s showing off. He’s doing exactly what I did to him.

But this is different. He’s showing me what I can’t have with Adrian: a man, golden and warm-blooded, glowing with life.

A petty, preening anger, intended to provoke.

The little shit.

But he’s not little. That is obvious—that is very obvious—when he lies back on his elbows so we both have a better view of each other. A view of the skin that’s revealed, and the skin that’s not. He lets me soak in his burly Adonis form, achingly chiseled and beaded with water droplets, for a long moment before he says it. “You’re looking a little peaky, Miss Strand.” The gloating triumph in his voice is so intense I want to smack the smirk off his face, smack myself for being stupid enough to be lured down here. “Is there anything Mr. Billionaire isn’t giving you?”

“Nothing at all,” I spit and storm away.

TWENTY-NINE

The next morning, I sit in a fog of sulky annoyance at breakfast. It all starts with me ordering a peach Bellini and smoked salmon and crème fraiche omelet and taking a walk about the boat, as Adrian doesn’t like to be disturbed during his morning reading of the news. When I return, my omelet is waiting for me in a sprinkling of cheese with hash browns and two charred vine tomatoes on the side, my Bellini a champagne glass of fizzing sunshine. I rub my hands together and press them to my lips, giggling in anticipation.

But Adrian is all frowns as I sit. “You’re late.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re late. For the meal.”

I stare. “It’s breakfast.”

But as I reach for my silverware roll, he continues. “It’s rude to not be present when a meal is served.”

I drop my hands into my lap and turn to him, brow raised.

He shrugs, cutting into his morning steak. “Chefs take it as an insult. My chef used to work for Arab royalty, and you’re eating his offering while it’s cold.”

I bite back a retort, feeling the steam gather in my ears. “I’ll remember that next time,” I simper through a frozen smile, but leave the omelet untouched, thinking of what Captain Redfearn had said. Jason had said.

Mrs. Colding comes by, offering to take it from me, but Adrian holds out a hand. “She’s not done.”

Mrs. Colding darts a look at me. Retreats. “Of course.”

Time crawls by. I’m mesmerized by the blood and juices eddying in Adrian’s plate when he lifts his head, scenting the air. “What is that?”

I look up. Mrs. Colding, on her way back to the galley, slows and turns, a remote guardedness entering her eyes. “Pardon?”

Adrian scans the roses festooning the bridge deck, the bouquet on the table. He cups a bud. “They’re turning.”

Mrs. Colding lifts her brows, darts a look at me. “They were delivered just three days ago—”

“Then why do they look like this?” Adrian sweeps the bouquet out of its vase and brandishes it under her nose. “Hmm?”

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