Page 8 of Lair

I see the other things that I do not want to see.

When I wake, chest heaving and eyes flying to make sure he’s not here, he’s not on the plane, the mom next to me says, “You okay, hon?”

Something hot and nasty surges up the back of my throat. I grope past her and into the lavatory, suck in a huge lungful of air and put my hands to my mouth, holding in a wracking sob.

Even here, even thirty-six thousand feet in the air and halfway across the world, I can’t escape him.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ll always be his.

Because, in the end, that was the heart of it: He was afraid of love because he did not believe he was deserving of it. So he had to destroy you, too, so you felt you didn’t deserve more than the twisted illusion he had to offer you.

In the aisle outside, I hear a chime go off. Flight attendants bustle by. There’s an announcement over the speakers. We’re landing in France.

By the time I leave the hotel the next morning, I’m myself again. I’ve done my daily yoga session, which always clears my head, and the wonder is starting to set in. I’ve never been outside of the US before—hell, before Florida I’d never been outside of Oregon—and I’m fluttery with nerves as the train snakes along the coast of France. I’m trying to calm my breathing by the time it glides into the twinkly, cavernous station at Monte Carlo and I disembark with my roller bag behind me, eyes wide. I’m inside a hollowed-out mountain, and commuters stream toward a huge jagged cleft in it—the exit. My heart clenches in my chest. I follow and emerge blinking onto a cobbled street lined with brightly colored stucco houses—pink, yellow, cream—with the salty clean smell of the sea in my nostrils. Ahead, tourists crowd a rail, pointing and gawking. I shoulder my way through and understand why.

The world falls away. Against the face of the mountain, cobbled streets switchback down, and down, and down for miles in a dizzying, dynamic landscape to the Monaco Grand Prix racetrack. And beyond, a fleet of gleaming white yachts—the jewels of the French Riviera—nestled in rows in Port Hercule, helicopters hovering about them like dragonflies. And beyond that, the sea.

It’s the most breathtakingly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

It seems to take forever for me to descend via elevator down through the mountain and emerge at sea level, my roller bag bumping and bouncing behind me down the cobbled streets. Men whistle and catcall in French and English as I pass in my yachtie skirt and polo, and I ignore them, double-checking the rendezvous point.

The yachts stretch on and on, endless. One gleaming monstrosity after another. Their crews nod to me as I go.

Then I stop at an empty spot, frowning. Why here?

A low drone, and I see a gleaming limousine tender gliding toward me across the light blue waves. It slows and a man in a white polo and khaki shorts calls out from the foredeck. “Miss Strand?”

“Uh, yeah?” God, why can’t I be smooth?

“I’m Jason. First mate of the Lair.” He holds out a hand, a coiling red dragon flexing across the bulky curve of his bicep. “I’ll take that for you.”

So. The first mate’s a tatted hunk.

I pass him my bag, and then—white teeth showing in a perfect smile—he offers his hand again. I take it, blushing, and step lightly down onto the boat. The young deckhand behind the wheel waits until we’re seated in the stern before speeding the tender away in a long, smooth arc back out to sea.

The tumbling in my gut and light spray on my face is both terrifying and exhilarating.

Jason watches me knowingly. “First time for everything, right?”

“You could say that,” I laugh, and glance back at the receding armada of yachts. “Sooo, where’s the Lair?”

Jason’s mouth tugs in a rakish grin. “At the moment, Port Hercule doesn’t have a berth big enough for her.” He turns and points. “So, we made do.”

I follow his gaze, and gape.

The Lair is not merely big—it’s enormous. All on its lonesome at the far right of the bay, it’s easily the biggest yacht in the harbor by a third—at least a hundred and thirty meters from stem to stern. As we near, skimming the waves in its shadow, my eyes can barely comprehend its immensity: a floating paradise of Jacuzzis and pools and sweeping staircases. As sharp and dazzling as a kitchen knife, with an extended bow and curving floor-to-ceiling walls of glass, it looks like some glowering submarine straight out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Banter floats through the air, and I realize deckhands are hanging off its sides in harnesses to hose it down to an immaculate sheen.

Is this even real?

We round the stern, and now I can see the gleaming transom emblazoned with LAIR in huge stainless-steel letters. As the tender’s engine is killed and we coast lazily toward the swim deck, I spot a woman standing on the aft main deck waiting for us. She’s in an elegant black skirt and blindingly white button-down, hands clasped before her as she watches us arrive. Her blonde hair is pinned severely back in an updo that reminds me of the tragic blondes in those old Hitchcock movies, though this blonde looks Asian—Chinese, perhaps—and I realize she’s the first person of color I’ve seen in the yachting industry. The distinction appears to have been hard-won—she has the pinched look of someone who never smiles.

Her low voice floats toward us. “You must be Miss Strand.”

A noticeable but polished accent there. What lingers though is the cool reserve in that voice—the control.

It’s chilling.

Jason is already escorting me onto the foredeck of the tender. He hops onto the Lair’s swim deck and I follow, his arms waiting for me. I look up as my bag is placed at my feet. “Hello. I hope I’m not late.”

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