by Shel Stone
Marbella Nights
Book 1 Marbella Series
By Shel Stone
Copyright ©2018 Shel Stone
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Shel Stone - Author
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Chapter 1
Porto Banus Marina, Marbella
ADELAIDE SIMON STOOD on the deck of the Sylphina along with the other crew members, squinting against the bright sun that sparkled off every surface, particularly off the azure sea. They all watched as the dark-grey Bentley pulled up at the end of the marina and Alexi Sumneroff stepped out before the driver had a chance to open the door. The suit-clad driver rushed to the other door, indicating that Mr. Sumneroff was bringing a guest directly with him. Three guests in addition to their employer would be sailing with them, they had been told.
A sporty black Audi pulled up behind, roaring with speed and hard breaking. This must be one of the guests, Adelaide thought as she watched with the rest of the crew, lined up in a procession to greet the people joining their sail. Alexi only insisted on the greeting line when he had guests to impress.
A woman stepped out of the Bentley with long tanned legs and lush dark-blond curls cut short, framing a gorgeous face. The most beautiful woman Adelaide had ever seen walked towards Alexi and put her arm around his waist, but Alexi’s attention was on the guy getting out of the Audi. A valet came over, taking the keys off the guy Adelaide had never seen before—young, mid-twenties maybe, smart dresser. A woman joined him, a Birkin bag at the crook of her elbow. Adelaide had never seen one of those in real life, either. Sleek blond hair hung down, covering her face.
The smiling party walked down the jetty towards the yacht and high heels trod carefully over the gangway the crew had extended. These were the rich and beautiful in Marbella—a breed apart from normal people. None of them paid the crew the slightest bit of attention and walked past into the aft lounge.
Being the main steward, Adelaide followed the guests into the lounge while the rest of the crew took the stairs down below, ready to serve refreshments as the guests required.
She’d worked as a steward on the Sylphina for over a year. Alexi Sumneroff had hired her because she had experience and Adelaide suspected he liked the look of her, too—she wouldn’t scare his guests, in other words. But it wasn’t often he used his seventy-foot yacht and most of the time, they were berthed in the marina, at the far edge where the really large yachts were.
Alexi Sumneroff was rich, seriously rich, and he’d bought this yacht a few years ago, spending some of the ludicrous amount of wealth he’d made in Russian forestry when the Communist regime had collapsed and served up an asset grab for anyone smart and connected enough.
Stepping into the lounge, Adelaide waited in the corner until she was needed, while Alexi sat down in one of the white leather chairs, and the gorgeous woman joining him. “This is beautiful, Lexi,” she said in a lazy but soft middle European drawl. “Utterly stunning.” She crossed her long, lean legs the colour of honey.
“This really is something special,” the other woman agreed in a crisp British accent, the one with sleek, blond hair and pretty, almost girlish features. Adelaide had never achieved hair like that—she didn’t even know what it took to get hair like that.
The younger guy looked around and spotted her, raising his forefinger to indicate he wanted something. Adelaide moved silently to his side of the group and leaned down. “Some drinks, I think,” he said, also an English accent.
“Of course. What would you like?”
“Champagne,” Alexi’s girl cut in with the surety of someone who usually got what she wanted.
“The Krug,” Alexi confirmed and Adelaide nodded. She had always been comfortable around Alexi. He was demanding, but he was rarely unreasonable, provided the service he received was up to standard, and Adelaide knew her job. He also kept his hands to himself, which was a considerable bonus in this industry.
Retreating behind the bar, she pulled out one of the black bottles from the sliding door refrigerator, feeling the engines start and spotting Jens running along the side, casting off. It was always exciting to head out, even though it meant a great deal of work for the crew. The lazy down-time when they just maintained the ship made up for the insane hours, and sometimes requests, when they were out at sea. All in all, it was a good job.
Adelaide placed four crystal champagne flutes on a small tray, along with the bottle of Krug and carried it back to the seated group, kneeling down to carefully place each piece on the glass table.
“A beer for me,” the young guy with short brown hair and dark blue eyes said while taking the bottle and peeling off the tin cover. He was ridiculously attractive, and had the confidence and assurance of someone who’d grown up with money. Alexi hadn’t; he’d made his money, although Adelaide wasn’t sure if entirely honourably. From what she’d heard, most of the Russian oligarchs had a hard edge to them, and Alexi was no different.
The guy didn’t say what he wanted so Adelaide put a collection of beers on the tray as the cork popped and the girls squealed.
*
Making her way downstairs, she prepared to carry up the snacks, which was probably a waste of time. Alexi wasn’t a snacker and Adelaide would bet a week’s salary that neither of the women upstairs ate anything. That left the British looker.
“They behaving?” Jens asked in bored tones, leaning on the main kitchen counter.
“Nothing but inane conversation.”
Jens flipped his mop of blond hair and pouted, pulling off the perfect model look. “Am I gorgeous enough?” he said, putting on an accent like the creature Alexi had brought on board.
“If only you’d been a girl,” Adelaide said with a flutter of her eyelashes.
“They’re both models, those girls.”
“You think so?” It was likely. They were both pretty and skinny enough.
“Absolutely. But more importantly: who’s the guy?”
“British dude? I didn’t get a name, but he’s definitely here with one of those girls.”
“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Jens said with a challenging smile. “But then, someone that pretty must suck in bed.”
Adelaide couldn’t help laughing. “You’re so mean. I’m sure he’s a lovely boy—really down to earth.” Okay, not even she could pull that off. There was absolutely no way he wasn’t a complete arsehole—they all were. It was only a question of how big. “I better take this up,” she said, picking up the tray with caviar and blini canapés.
Maybe the models would eat. It was caviar after all and some couldn’t resist. It tasted like crap, Adelaide had learned, but people ate it because it was caviar. Russians were different. They actually loved the stuff, but she could tell that others ate it for the sole reason that it was ridiculously expensive.
Returning to the aft lounge, she quietly moved back to the table, sliding the tray of canapés onto the middle of the glass surface, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
“I simply adore the sun,” the woman with dark blond curls said. On closer sight, her hair was dark with golden highlights. That was an expensive colouring job if Adelaide had ever seen one. Likely this woman travelled to get her hair done. “I don’t buy this crap about how we can’t tolerate sun. Nothing does the body better than a bit of sun. Don’t you think, Alexi?”
Alexi smiled, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t the most enthusiastic conversationalist, but this woman
didn’t mind as she headed for a blini as soon as Adelaide put the tray down. “Ooh, caviar. I adore it almost as much as the sun.”
No one else touched the bite-sized morsels, the blonder girl eyeing the tray with distaste. Cracking open a Gucci case, she took out a pair of oversized sunglasses and put them on. “The breeze is lovely.” Her voice soft and cultured.
“It’s not really summer until you head out on the Med,” Brit guy said while stroking down the stubble along his cheek, no doubt cut to look perfect.
Adelaide retreated back to her corner, ready to serve when anyone required it of her. It was going to be a long weekend. Below deck, the others were running around, preparing for dinner, or unpacking their guests’ belongings.
Chapter 2
QUENTIN CARTRIGHT THREW himself down on the king-sized bed in the stateroom he was sharing with Megan. It was sumptuously decorated in the over-the-top fashion the Eastern Europeans preferred—gold, pale velvet brocade and marble on every surface.
“I’m going to have a shower,” Megan said with a smile. Quentin wondered if he was supposed to join her, but he wasn’t in the mood to pick up on the hint. Instead, he crossed his ankles and stared at the ceiling, folding his arms behind his head. He heard the water come on and sighed, considering if it had been a good idea to bring Megan. She was quite boring, but she had a nice body and he really didn’t want to go through this entire weekend without a body to mess with. These weren’t the kind of things you came alone to. And in terms of hassle, Megan was pretty low-key. She was pretty, too—not in the sharp way that Cheyenne was, but in a more wholesome way. Megan didn’t pester, didn’t whine and didn’t expect more than she should. He liked that about her.
She came out a short time later, a towel wrapped around her middle, her legs skinny and long. He wondered if she had an eating disorder. Most of the models did, didn’t they? Her hair was still dry and she quickly shimmied into a nice dress. Burberry probably. It looked like Burberry. Megan was one of those girls who liked to flaunt her Britishness.
“I might take a walk around the ship,” he said, suddenly feeling cramped in the room with her.
“Do you want me to come?”
“Why don’t you rest for a bit before dinner?”
“Okay,” she said with another cordial smile. Quentin suspected she liked being told what to do. She certainly never reacted when he did order her around. Again, it made her quite boring, but an easy date.
Opening the cabin door, he stepped out into the narrow hall, taking a look at himself in the mirror as he walked. He looked good. The stiff linen shorts sitting low on his hips, held up by a mismatched belt, were perfect for the setting and the navy jacket made him look elegantly casual, as if he’d thrown the outfit together. Actually, Liberty had thrown the outfit together. They called when they had something they thought he’d like and he just had to go try it on whenever he was back in London. Shopping made easy—easy with money to spend and little time to do it.
It wasn’t as though Quentin didn’t have time; he had plenty of time. He just didn’t like spending it shopping. Shopping was for cheap dates—girl’s whose ultimate date experience was being taken shopping on an unlimited credit card. Seriously, most girls creamed their pants if someone whipped out their credit card for them. They never consider themselves whores for it, just deserving. But not someone like Megan, who took their shopping seriously. Being in the latest style was Megan’s profession. Officially, it was being a model, but it was her family’s wealth and connections that people hired her for. She represented a set of people and any designer could link that group in by hiring her—the ultimate insider.
Quentin headed to the stairs, annoyed when someone was coming down, blocking his way. The stewardess that had served them, carrying a stack of fluffy white towels. As a well-trained stewardess, she stopped and let him pass, pressing herself against the wall. There still wasn’t a lot of room and Quentin had to squeeze by, feeling a rush of heat just because it was a new, unfamiliar female body.
A corner of his mouth lifted as he passed, acknowledging the flare of heat. It wasn’t just the random female body; it was the tight, athletic body—the curve of muscles, showing off tanned legs that did something more to look that way than be starved. He’d noticed her before when she’d served drinks, how she’d bent down to take their order, her brown hair in a high ponytail.
She—whatever her name was—was the kind of girl not worth messing with. Civilian girls, doing their nine to five, or whatever. The thing with money was that it wasn’t an issue when it came to hanging with people who had money, but it was when dealing with people who didn’t have any. It was an issue you could never get away from, a constant acknowledgement that there were haves and have-nots, and it got tedious real quick—a hurdle that could never be cleared.
Stepping up on aft deck, Quentin had a look around in the bright sunlight. The boat shone white, with teak decking. A large table occupied the space with see-through moulded chairs and huge glass doors behind, leading to the lounge where they’d had drinks on arrival. There was obviously another floor above—another deck, probably with a Jacuzzi. A boat like this always has a Jacuzzi—where rich men entertain their girlfriends.
Sitting down on one of the chairs, Quentin watched the powerful wake behind the boat. They were travelling at quite good speed, but the boat was still stable. Again he considered if he’d made the right decision in coming. Alexi Sumneroff was a good contact to have. Having finished university, plus a couple of years of partying, maybe it was now time to turn his attention to a profession. He just hadn’t decided what just yet. There was the option of going into the family business—property development— but he wanted to explore his options first.
He didn’t want to be the kind of guy who just lived on his family’s money. There were plenty of those around, living off their trust funds, or allowances, but there wasn’t much respect in it. That was fine as a kid, but when it was time to grow up, respect came from creating wealth—serious wealth. Quentin was done being a kid. He’d done the party thing—really well, too, but now it was time to learn how to do wealth. Unfortunately, there wasn’t really a class you could take that taught you what you needed to know. He’d done some entrepreneur papers at university, but it was all bullshit—small-fry stuff. Wealth, real wealth, was accumulated by people like Alexi Sumneroff and it was more than just luck and timing.
“There you are,” Megan said, coming out on deck wearing a yellow dress stopping a mid-thigh, different from the one he’d just seen her dressed in before. It was cinched around her thin waist, accented by a white belt. She came over to stand right next to him, running her hand along his shoulder. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” she said, looking around.
Actually, together they looked like a Gucci ad, standing there in their nice, designer threads, in an expensive setting. The sun was setting and the light was golden—perfect for photos. “Nice boat,” Quentin said.
“Where’s your brother?”
“I think he’s in Dubai with Dad at the moment. I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“I can’t understand how you two don’t know where the other one is. I know exactly where my family is all the time. I know my mum’s schedule and she knows mine.”
“We’re just not in each other’s pockets like that. He’ll be in touch when he’s coming this way.”
“How’s your mum?”
“Good.”
“She had that sprained ankle from tennis. I ran into her at the club.”
It couldn’t have been that bad a sprain because this was the first Quentin had heard of it. “She’s walking alright,” he said, not highlighting the fact that he hadn’t known about it. He certainly didn’t want to go into details about how he was such a prick and didn’t know when his mum was hurt. His family just weren’t like that. If she called, he would come, no matter what, but she didn’t bother him with stuff what wasn’t important. Mostly, she just called and ordered him and his brothe
r around for dinner when she wanted to catch up with them. Otherwise, she led her own life. “Where’s that girl? I could use another drink.”
Megan turned and looked back at the lounge. “Do you want me to see if she’s in there?”
“She should be seeing if we want something. I would have thought Alexi would have better-trained staff.”
Chapter 3
BITING HIS BOTTOM LIP, Cory Stevens looked down and admired the view. The Cavendish woman, with her mocha-glossed lips, was sucking him off beautifully, kneeling down before him and working him with gusto. Placing his hand on the wall of the pumphouse, he braced himself to the rioting sensations her wicked tongue stirred. He was close to coming and he bit down harder on his lip, ensuring he didn’t cry out.
It wouldn’t be the end of the world getting caught here behind the pool’s pumphouse like a couple of kids in school, but it would be awkward, and awkward was never good. You would think these kinds of things with club members would be forbidden, but they really weren’t. Although unspoken, they were encouraged to keep the members happy, and Cory did his bit, letting them paw over him, his abs and biceps. He felt their eyes admiring him as he walked around the pool in the tight, red life-guard shorts. This really was the best job in the world. Sit around the pool all day and get catered to by rich and beautiful—not to mention sexually frustrated—women. Rich men never seemed to satisfy their devastatingly beautiful wives. They were either working too much, or lusting after their girlfriends, or both in many cases—leaving their women in a desperate state, more often than not.
He didn’t feel as if he was taking advantage—technically they were taking advantage of him, and he was powerless to resist them. It was a mutually beneficial relationship—he appreciated them, and they appreciated him. It worked out well.