by I. T. Lucas
Damn, once again she was torn between two options—neither of them good.
Not that telling or not telling on Alex was in the same category as her other dilemma—it was like comparing shoplifting to armed robbery. Because craving the man who had ordered her nephew’s murder was worse than any alleged smuggling. It was disgraceful, even revolting, but on the other hand, keeping away from him was hell.
CHAPTER 4: SYSSI
Damn, the man is fine, Syssi thought for the umpteenth time as she watched Kian walk into the bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. From the harsh lines of his gorgeous face to the ripple of his muscles, as he moved with that unnatural fluidity of his, he was so sexy that he took her breath away.
With all this glorious, male perfection scrambling her brain into a horny mush, her plan to ask about his meeting with Dalhu was shoved aside.
After all, a girl had to have her priorities straight, and as a blast of desire hit her breasts and landed between her thighs, guess what made it to the top of the list?
“Come here,” she breathed, beckoning him to her with a crooked finger.
Kian dropped the towel. “Like what you see, sweet girl?”
Oh, yes, she liked.
Fully erect and ready for action, her man was magnificent. “You know I do. You are such a show-off…” she teased.
“And you’re not naked.” Kian stalked closer.
“That could be easily remedied.” She pulled her nightshirt over her head and tossed it to the floor, then shimmied out of her panties. “Catch.” She aimed at his smirking face.
He caught them, shaking his head at the simple undergarment dangling from his fingers. “Cotton?”
What’s wrong with that? Did he expect her to sleep in a lacy thong?
Not this girl.
“Cotton is breathable and comfortable.”
With a wicked smile, he mounted her, his hands pinning her wrists over her head. “But not as breathable as having nothing on at all. If I can’t have you naked all of the time, I want you to at least sleep in the nude.”
She parted her legs to cradle him between her thighs. “If I wear nothing to bed, you wouldn’t let me sleep at all.”
“True, that…” He pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, then licked the same spot.
As his hot shaft rubbed against her mound, his hips surging and retreating, Syssi closed her eyes and let herself slide into submission—her body liquefying under his. She no longer had to struggle to find that special place inside her head that allowed her to let go. Like a meditative state, once attained, she could now ease into it effortlessly.
The effect was almost euphoric.
“My sweet Syssi,” Kian breathed, his tender, loving voice prompting her to lift her lids and look at him.
His beautiful eyes were glowing, but even their otherworldly luminescence wasn’t as breathtaking as the love shining through.
“I love you,” she whispered, wishing there was a word not as overused to express the magnitude of what was in her heart. Like an all-consuming fire, it was more than the physical attraction, more than appreciation for this amazing man, more than her need to be with him—begrudging every moment of his time away from her—and even more than his feelings for her that ran just as deep.
It was like the sum was greater than the parts. And what’s more, the maelstrom of emotion no longer terrified her.
Maybe it was the upcoming wedding that had finally put her fears and insecurities to rest—their bond solidifying once the decision to have their commitment to each other witnessed and confirmed had been made.
But why?
What power did a piece of paper have? One that she was pretty sure wouldn’t even be deemed legal in any mortal court?
Shouldn’t their pledge to each other be enough? What additional validation did a marriage ceremony provide?
She used to believe that marriage was about a legal contract spelling out the obligations and responsibilities of two people engaged in the business of raising a family and sharing a household. But apparently, there was some metaphysical aspect to this age-old tradition as well.
And yet, observing the many corrosive relationships and failed marriages, she had to wonder if this elusive aspect had been either absent from them to begin with or just too easily broken.
She and Kian must be among the uniquely blessed—those who God or fate or dumb luck joined in a true love match.
Yeah, she was one, lucky girl.
“What is this secretive smile all about, my love?”
“I’m happy that we are getting married.”
“Yeah? What brought that about? Seeing my sexy body? My impressive size?” he teased, giving his hips a wicked twist that had the aforementioned sizable part rub her just the right way.
She arched into him. “All of the above and more. I’m just glad you are mine to keep.”
“And you are mine.” He nuzzled her neck. “To keep…” His mouth trailed south. “To love…” He licked at her nipple. “And to hold…” He licked the other one. “And to make love to, again, and again…”
“O bo´ze moy, o bo´ze moy, o bo´ze moy, ya ydu hority v pekli…”—Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, I’m going to burn in hell—Marta was chanting over and over in Ukrainian, clutching her knees and rocking back and forth on the floor. Early into her third bottle, the woman had broken down, scooting into a corner to sob her heart out.
Renata had gone to sit with her, whispering calming words into her ear until the tears had dried out, but the chanting hadn’t ceased.
Was Marta lamenting her whoring days? Or fearing her God’s punishment for participating in drug trafficking?
Geneva ignored her fallen comrade. “You are going to lose, American,” she said and pounded back another shot.
“Not a chance, Ruska.” Amanda followed with her own.
She had been pretending to be wasted for the past hour or so, as she and Geneva—the last two standing, or rather sprawling as it was—had gone one to one on their third bottle of vodka.
Not that she had remained unaffected, but with her higher tolerance for alcohol and lesser need for sleep, there had been no doubt in her mind that the mortal would succumb first to the powerful combination of alcohol and exhaustion.
Mercifully, the chanting stopped, and Marta’s head fell on Renata’s shoulder.
Only two more shots to go. Amanda eyed her nearly empty bottle.
She had been sure Geneva would pass out by now, but the woman was proving to be stubbornly resilient.
“I finish first.” Geneva’s mumble was barely audible as her last empty glass clunked against the table.
Amanda emptied hers as well. “It’s a draw,” she slurred.
Closing her eyes and pretending to sleep, she waited until the captain slumped against Lana, joining her friend in a snoring duet.
With the crew finally asleep, passed out over sofas and chairs and the floor of the grand salon, Amanda was presented with a perfect opportunity to search for proof of Alex’s illicit endeavors.
Trouble was, by now she was way beyond tipsy and into really drunk territory, not to mention exhausted. It was nearly morning, and outside the main deck’s windows the sky was already pinking with the rising sun.
Okay, Mata Hari, time to investigate.
Amanda pushed to her feet and stood on legs that felt like two rubber noodles. Carefully, she took the stairs down, holding on to the banister as she placed one bare foot in front of the other. Her head was spinning, and the sway of the boat was not helping with her rising nausea. Still, she somehow made it to the lower deck without puking all over the pretty glass staircase.
Since Amanda had appropriated Alex’s cabin—the large and luxurious master suite on the main deck—she’d been down to the lower deck only once to check out the fitness room that was right by the staircase. But she remembered Geneva telling her that the four guest cabins were in the front and the three crew cabins were in the back, o
r bow—if she remembered her boating terminology.
She decided to investigate the guest cabins first. Two were outfitted with a queen bed and the other two with two twins, but from the looks of things no one had slept in either of them since the yacht had been bought and redecorated. There were no towels or even toilet paper in the bathrooms, and although the beds were made with clean bedding and elegant duvets, it was obvious that the things were brand new and had never been washed. The sheets and pillowcases still had creases from the original packaging and stank of the formaldehyde the fabrics had been treated with.
After checking the closets and banging on the walls, the floors, and the ceilings, she had to accept that there was nothing hidden in the guest portion of the lower deck and moved on to the crew cabins. Naturally, those looked lived in, and though a far cry from the fancy guest rooms, they were nonetheless comfortable. Each cabin had an adjacent bathroom. Those were small, with just a shower stall, a sink and a toilet.
Two of the rooms were shared and one was a single. Recognizing the particular scent of each woman, Amanda had no trouble figuring out who slept where. Renata and Marta shared one, Sonia and Kristina the second, and surly Lana had a cabin of her own—probably because no one wanted to room with her and her attitude.
Unfortunately, Amanda’s snoop of the crew cabins didn’t produce any hidden compartments either.
Going for another round, she checked that the dividing walls corresponded to the cabin sizes with no significant gaps in between them.
But everything seemed kosher.
There was no space that could accommodate a hiding place big enough for one person, let alone several.
Geneva’s captain cabin was on the upper deck next to the wheelhouse, but there was little chance Amanda would find what she was looking for up there—too public.
It didn’t make sense.
Not unless she was wrong and Alex didn’t smuggle people. Because even if there were a small secret compartment she hadn’t discovered yet, it would have been used only in the rare occurrence of the yacht being boarded for inspection. At all other times, the guest or guests would have been staying in the cabins, which they obviously hadn’t.
Unless, they were staying with Alex at his master cabin. Which was ludicrous. Wealthy master criminals were almost exclusively male, and Alex didn’t swing that way.
That left only the under deck.
Taking the narrow stairs down to the service area, Amanda ducked into the engine room, then continued to survey everything from the stabilizer fins, bow-thrusters, and other machinery, to the washers, dryers, refrigerators, and she even poked her head into the large double door freezer.
Nothing.
Shit.
She climbed the stairs back to the main deck, bypassing the salon where her drinking buddies were still sprawled out, and heading straight for her cabin. Maybe a shower would clear her head and lift the drunken fog because there was no doubt in her mind that she was missing something.
Shimmying out of her jeans and thong, she dropped them in the pullout laundry bin. Her T-shirt was next.
Cold water would have been best, but Amanda was in no shape for self-inflicted torture. A warm shower would have to do. The hot spray was divine, and she braced her arms against the marble wall, dipping her head and letting the water pound her spine.
If Alex had been smuggling people, they must’ve stayed in the master cabin…
Of course, she slapped her hand on her forehead. It was so simple she must have been really drunk not to figure it out right away.
While a guest stayed in Alex’s cabin, Alex stayed with Geneva at hers. It probably wasn’t as luxurious as this one, but it was most likely just as spacious and elegant as the guest cabin—captain’s quarters on a boat this size usually were. Or, he might have even taken over her cabin and sent her down to room with Lana—there was a spare bed in her cabin.
That way, if the yacht were boarded for inspection, it would look as if no one aside from the owner and his crew were aboard. The guest would be rushed into some hiding nook—without the need for a mad shuffle to clean up his cabin and eliminate all evidence of him ever being there.
Simple and smart.
Except, she still had no evidence one way or another, and this whole mental exercise could be nothing more than an interesting hypothesis.
If she wanted proof, she needed to find that hidden compartment.
Amanda was pretty certain it wasn’t on the lower deck or the under deck, she had been quite thorough searching those. Which left the main and upper decks.
The main deck housed the master cabin she was occupying and the grand salon. The salon wasn’t accessible at the moment and the master cabin she could search later at her leisure.
Shit, she should hurry and check out the upper deck before the crew woke up.
Problem was, she was operating on fumes. Between the alcohol, the lack of sleep, and the effect of the hot shower, she was barely able to keep her eyes open.
With a hard resolve and a wince, Amanda turned the temperature dial all the way down, cringing as she waited for the cold water to hit her.
But the water wasn’t just cold, it was freezing.
Damn, this is awful!
Unable to tolerate more than a few seconds, she jumped out and grabbed a towel, wrapped it tightly around herself first, and only then reached to turn the water off.
She was miserably cold and shivering, her teeth rattling like a pair of castanets, but hey, she was fully awake.
Eyeing the thick terry bathrobe hanging from a hook behind the bathroom’s door, she hesitated for about a second. The thing must’ve belonged to Alex. It was an ugly mushroom color, and the idea of putting on something that had touched Alex’s naked body was gross. But style and even personal hygiene be damned—she needed to get warm.
Wrapped in the double layer of bathrobe and towel, her teeth no longer banging against each other, she plodded back to the cabin and glanced at the bed with longing.
Hell, do I really need to be doing this? I’m no Mata Hari… More than anything, she wanted to crawl under the warm duvet and let sleep claim her.
Come on, Amanda, don’t be a wuss.
With a sigh, she said goodbye to the lovely bed and stepped inside the large walk-in closet. After pulling on a pair of yoga pants, both towel and bathrobe still on, she grabbed the only long-sleeve warm top she had with her—a black, lightweight cashmere turtleneck. It required some acrobatic-level twisting to manage to get it over her head, while holding onto the towel until it was fully on.
A pair of red Uggs warming her feet, she left the cabin and tiptoed past the salon, counting the heads to make sure that they were all still there, before climbing the stairs to the upper deck.
Emerging up in the top grand salon, she passed the sitting area and the bar, disregarding them as potential hiding places, and headed straight for Geneva’s cabin.
It was unlocked.
Size wise, it was similar to the smaller guest cabins, but the furnishings and their placing had been chosen for utility, not style. The queen-sized bed was covered with a generic, purple comforter and pushed against the side wall to make room for an oak desk and a small bookcase. Both pieces looked like something one would find discarded on a street of a shitty neighborhood or pay a buck and a half for at a goodwill store.
Next to the bed, instead of a nightstand, a tall cherry wood dresser provided extra storage space. Inside, there were the standard panties and a couple of bras, socks, a few T-shirts, a beanie and some scarves, but not a shred of the personal memorabilia Amanda had hoped would shed light on the kind of person Geneva was.
Over at the bookcase, she flipped through a few of Geneva’s books and shuffled through the disk cases that were stacked one on top of the other. Most were related either to boating or the mastering of American English—which explained her fluency and good accent compared to the rest of the crew. A few disks even tackled basic, spoken Spanish. Other than that,
there were several Russian titles that seemed to be novels, but lacking the ability to read Cyrillic script, Amanda couldn’t tell for sure. She flipped through them nonetheless, searching for photos or other documents that might have been hiding between the pages.
Nada, zilch.
The utilitarian theme continued inside the small clothes closet: A few pairs of jeans and khakis, some long, some short; four polo shirts; three button downs; two jackets—one light and one warm; Two pairs of shoes, one pair of boots, and no heel in sight.
How boring.
In the bathroom, Amanda finally found some small concessions to femininity; a lavender scented soap, shampoo and conditioner, and lo and behold—a brown pencil eyeliner and black mascara.
There was only one toothbrush, and no razor, which meant first and foremost that Geneva’s bare legs and armpits were laser-treated or waxed—shocking for a Russian—though it might have been a requirement of her mud-wrestling job. And secondly, no male had shared her bathroom recently.
Not that there was even a sliver of a chance that Alex would have deigned to grace Geneva’s spartan cabin, but neither had any other male.
Just to make sure, Amanda gave the bedding a thorough sniffing.
There was nothing besides the lavender soap scent, Geneva, and a laundry detergent. So unless the bedding was brand new, the woman had been sleeping alone.
Bummer. Yet another dead end.
Oh, well, she must’ve been wrong, inventing a whole bogus scenario built on nothing more than suspicions and conjunctures.
Trouble was, she knew she wasn’t. For Alex to make the kind of money needed to buy and run this yacht, he must’ve been doing a lot more than running a club and selling some drugs.
But if indeed that was all, then he must have been a major distributor.
Whatever.
She was too tired to think straight. Her investigation would have to wait for another day, or better yet, the proper authorities.
CHAPTER 6: SYSSI