Shipwrecked with the Billionaire Rock Star
by Victoria Wessex
© Copyright Victoria Wessex 2014
The right of Victoria Wessex to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, events, companies, organizations or products is purely coincidental.
Cover characters are models. Images licensed from (and copyright remains with) the photographers/owners as follows: Couple: Nelka7812 / Depositphotos, background – Iriana 88w / Depositphotos
This book contains explicit material and is for adults only. All characters portrayed are intended to be over 18 years of age, even where not explicitly stated.
This story exists in a world of fantasy. Always practice safer sex and keep your play safe, sane and consensual.
Chapter 1
“The crew cabins are quite small,” the woman told me. “Are you sure you’ll fit?”
I stood there slowly baking on the island’s wooden dock. My oversize suitcase was like a polished blue Sherman tank beside me, but I knew it wasn’t my luggage she was talking about. The sun was behind me, throwing out shadows: hers, as she stood with hands on hips on the yacht’s deck; mine, as I waited to come on board. Her shadow was all lines and angles. Mine was a solid dark patch, edged with curves. And where her dark hair formed a neat, perfect wedge at the top of her shadow, mine was a million dark strands, blowing in the wind.
“You’re also late, Hannah,” the woman told me. “We’ve been waiting to cast off. Now move your ass.”
The woman—she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself before she’d started snapping at me, but her little gold name badge said she was “Simone”—was the crew chief. My boss for the next two weeks. She was going to be responsible for me and the rest of the crew and I figured she was doing the exert dominance thing. Let the newbie know who’s in charge. Put her in her place by making fun of her body. I think I was supposed to blush and nod frantically and apologize and then scuttle off below decks and have a good cry.
She’d misjudged me very badly.
“My case,” I told her, “is full of kitchen equipment and spices. Most of it will be going in the galley so that I can turn it into something approaching usable. And I’m late because you only told me about the damn job two hours ago. You’re lucky I could fill in—you know it, I know it, so how about you drop the attitude and let me on board. All of me. Including my ass?” And I gave it a little waggle.
I wished she hadn’t been wearing sunglasses because I’d dearly loved to have known if she blinked. I saw her already thin lips press even tighter, though, and she folded her arms. I still had my sunglasses on, too, and I glared right back at her. I’m not sure how long it would have gone on if we hadn’t been interrupted.
A voice drifted up from below deck, British, deep and given a hint of a drawl by alcohol. “Simone? If that’s the chef, please just let her on board. I ain’t survivin’ on ship’s biscuits for two weeks.”
I half-expected Simone’s glare to melt through the lenses of her sunglasses and incinerate me, but with a last this isn’t over frown, she stepped aside and I wheeled my case up the gangplank and on board.
The first step is always weird. That rocking, sliding sensation that lets you know you’re no longer on dry land. The little rush of fear from the primitive part of our brain that says stay on land, where it’s safe. And the little rush of excitement you never lose, the thrill of going to sea. I looked out at the glittering, rolling waves of the pacific, open ocean all the way out to the horizon. I’d been working as a ship’s chef for two years, with maybe forty trips under my belt, and it hadn’t gotten old yet. I had a feeling it never would.
“Third door on the left,” Simone hissed at me, jerking her head towards the crew quarters. Her perfectly-coiffed dark bob cut barely moved. Man, that voice was going to get annoying over the next two weeks. I could already tell that she was the type who’d never shout. She’d hiss and grumble and mutter and whisper snide comments, but she’d consider shouting to be beneath her. Me? I love shouting. “I don’t have a name badge for you,” she said with a sniff. “But he doesn’t need to know your name anyway. You’ll be in the kitchen.”
That was fine by me. He was Adam Sykes, lead singer and songwriter of Iron Hammer, currently the biggest band in the world. Their infectious brand of rock music filled stadiums and—just as profitably—accompanied just about every sportswear and car commercial on TV. They were all billionaires, and even Adam—the oldest of the three-was barely thirty.
The stories—legends?—about Adam were endless. That he’d bedded 10,000 women. That he’d had a secret affair with a princess. That a police blood test for illegal substances had revealed so many that the machine broke, securing his freedom.
I vowed to stay far, far away.
***
Simone was irritating as hell, but I couldn’t fault her efficiency. She and the rest of the crew rushed around making ready and setting to and all those other weird nautical things and they had us ready to go less than ten minutes after I came aboard. She wasn’t kidding about those name badges: they all had them except me. I got the impression they’d worked together before.
About thirty seconds before we left, the groceries were delivered. A good thing they came when they did, because Simone seemed so eager to be off that I wasn’t sure she would have waited for them...and then she’d have blamed me when there was nothing to eat. As I helped to carry the boxes aboard, a huge black SUV pulled up and three guys got out.
I dropped the box.
It was Iron Hammer. Iron Hammer were on the dock, strolling towards me. It was such an unbelievable moment; my mind actually played it in slow motion.
The first guy was Magnus. I’d seen him on stage, wielding a guitar as if it was a battle axe, but I hadn’t figured on him being so…big in real life. He must have been nearly seven feet tall and, with his long blonde hair and grim expression, the Dane really did look like a Viking ready to pillage.
The second guy was much smaller and younger. Solidly built, but compact and lean, he looked as if he couldn’t be much over twenty. It was difficult to tell, though, because his face was completely covered in black and white make-up to make it into an unnerving, skull-like image. That would be the drummer, the one they just called Midnight.
The final guy was very different to the rest. He wore a suit, for one thing, and he was a good ten years older than Magnus. He ran over to the yacht as the other two shambled along behind him.
“Eddie,” he said in a Californian drawl. “Eddie Dax. Manager. Where’s Simone, baby?”
I bristled. But before I could get properly mad, Simone was there beside me. “Here, Mr. Dax,” she said, grinning.
“How’s Adam?” Eddie wanted to know.
“Holed up in his stateroom,” said Simone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” Then she turned to me. “You, get the groceries aboard. We need to get going.” And she scurried below deck, all knees and elbows. I realized what she reminded me of: a praying mantis.
Magnus reached the yacht and looked down at the boxes. “You get through all this food in two weeks?” His Danish accent was much thicker than I expected. Combined with his piercing blue eyes and the huge muscles under his t-shirt, it did wicked things to me. I kept expecting him to say something like, “Come! We go to my ship and I show you how Vikings take
their women.”
I gulped and nodded. “Crew of six, plus Adam. We’ll need to pick up fresh stuff, too, when we stop at islands.” I hesitated, looking at them. “Unless…you guys are coming, too?”
Eddie shook his head. “This trip’s all about Adam,” he said sadly. “We’re just here to see him off.” He leaned closer. “Look…take care of him, yeah? Lots of good food. That’s why I asked for a chef. Give him whatever he wants. Make him happy. Help him relax.”
“Help him write,” said Magnus, darkly.
I glanced up at him, but Eddie had already silenced him with a glare.
Simone came back on deck. “Adam’s coming,” she told us. Then she glared at me. “Hannah, stop bothering our guests and start getting this stuff on board! Put it in the storeroom—here’s the key. Don’t forget to lock it, afterwards.” And she handed me a labeled key.
I felt the anger rise in me, my skin starting to prickle. I was meeting the world’s biggest rock band—couldn’t I be allowed just a few seconds to talk? But no. I was just crew, just a skivvy to be ordered around to make Simone feel big. And why did we need to keep the storeroom locked, anyway? It was typical of her regime, rules for the sake of rules. But I knew we were going to have to work together for a fortnight and it made no sense to antagonize her. So I pushed down the anger, smiled sweetly and said, “I’ll make sure I give it back to you.”
“I have my own master key,” she sniffed. “That one goes in the key box on the bridge.”
What? I was going to have to go to the bridge to get a key every time I wanted to get a bag of onions? A fortnight with this woman was going to be unbearable.
I grabbed the boxes, nodded a goodbye to Eddie, Magnus and Midnight and went down the stairs to the storeroom, just in time to miss Adam coming the other way.
I left the storeroom door open and the marina was quiet enough that I could hear the band’s conversation. It started with a rising cheer from Magnus and Eddie as Adam walked up above deck. Not Midnight though. And then I remembered: Midnight had another eccentricity, aside from the make-up. He never, ever spoke.
“How you doing, buddy?” I heard Eddie ask.
I heard the creak of leather, as if someone wearing a jacket had shrugged. God, he was wearing leather out in the islands, in the middle of summer? “S’alright, innit?” said Adam. He sighed. “You sure I gotta go out there on my own, Eddie? It’s a bit borin’”
I heard a hand land on Adam’s shoulder. “I’m sure, buddy,” said Eddie. “You need to…rest. Clear your head, yeah?”
“Write,” rumbled Magnus.
“Maybe write,” said Eddie quickly. “Or maybe not. Whatever you feel like doing, buddy. Just relax. That’s the important part. You got full six star luxury, here. Gourmet chef. Sun deck. The works. All for you.” I heard him punch Adam in the shoulder. “It’s not like it was with Reg. With Eddie Dax, you get proper rock star treatment. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” said Adam, although he sounded sad. “Yeah. Thanks, Eddie. You lads will be back for my birthday, though, won’t you?”
“Of course! You think we’d miss that? We’ll get a boat and come meet you in a few days. We’ll bring booze and girls…it’ll be epic. And by then, you should be nicely chilled out.”
“Yeah,” said Adam, as if trying to get into the mood of it. “I’ll be, like, Zen master of calm. Cool like a snake.”
“Precisely,” said Eddie. “Okay. Band hug.” And there was the sound of hands slapping backs and mumbled goodbyes in that heartfelt but uncomfortable way only guys can do.
I heard two sets of footsteps walking away. Then Adam said, “Thanks, Eddie. For Mexico.”
“Pssh. What are managers for? Just chillax, okay? I’ll see you soon.”
I heard another man hug. A moment later, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and then the light changed as Adam moved past the open doorway—
And stopped. Only for a few seconds, but he stopped there in the corridor, as if he was looking through the open door. I was facing away from him, bending over to put some cans on a low shelf, which meant he was staring straight at my plus-sized ass.
I knew I should probably stand up and turn around and ask if there was anything he wanted. Or maybe blush and get all embarrassed because I’m big. But that’s not me. My body is my body and I’ll be damned if I’m going to change it for anyone, and if he thought my shape was amusing then I’d—
The light changed again. He was gone.
***
Dinner, I’d decided, would be paella made with the fresh seafood that had just come aboard. It was weird, cooking for just one person plus the crew. The whole thing was weird—who goes on vacation all on their own? But now that I’d heard the conversation with Eddie, it was starting to make a little more sense. Something had obviously happened in Mexico, and he wanted Adam away from the press. Maybe more than that. The rest of the band had sounded worried.
The galley was small as they always are, but I’d adjusted to working in a small space. With the stuff from my suitcase, I set it up exactly the way I liked it, with my favorite knives hanging on the wall, utensils where I could grab them and pans lined up and ready. I smiled. I didn’t get to control a whole hell of a lot in my life, but a galley was my own little kingdom.
I was chopping peppers when I heard footsteps in the corridor. The clump of boots and the jangle of zippers.
There was meant to be a thing. Female interviewers had talked about it in magazines. Women he’d bedded had told the newspapers. A sort of energy, when you met him, a moment when you fall under his spell. It was all completely ridiculous, of course.
I looked up.
He was bending slightly to get through the door, a glimpse of bronzed chest visible for a second when his t-shirt fell away from his body before stretching tightly across his pecs again. And then, as he straightened up, I was looking into the clearest, brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They almost glittered, like when the sun hits the water in the morning.
I stopped breathing.
Gorgeous, sculpted cheekbones, his cheeks themselves dusted with a hint of stubble. Glossy, dark brown hair cut short and feathery, and when he ran his hand through it I immediately wanted to do the same.
He was in his trademark black leather jacket, despite the heat, and a black t-shirt that showed off the broad curves of his chest, the tightness of his waist. Even his jeans were black, and sat low on his hips, lazily clinging on by a worn button, as if they might drop at any time.
He was taller than me—not a giant, like Magnus, but bigger than Midnight. Solid and strong and…perfect. And that thing the women had raved about in the press, the immediate, animal attraction? Oh yes, that was real. As he started to come through the door I felt something inside me lurch and plunge down deep, as if I’d just crested the top of a roller coaster.
There was something I had to remember to do. Oh yes: breathe. I sucked in a trembling lungful of air.
“Well,” said Adam. “What do we ‘ave ‘ere?” His accent wasn’t just British, it was pure old-school cockney, and it made everything sound absolutely filthy, the syllables sparking in my brain and slithering down in hot rushes to my sex. And there was a dangerous edge to it, a tiny, sing song slur that spoke of booze. I wondered if he was already drunk, or on drugs, or if this was just from the night before. It should have put me off, but there was a traitorous part of me that was thrilled at it.
I blinked and cleared my throat, but that didn’t break the spell. I had to look away, at the sink, and then look back at him. “Hello, Mr. Sykes.” I managed at last. “Hannah. The chef.” And that helped. It reminded me our places. He’s a guest, stupid. A billionaire. He’s not interested in you.
He cocked his head to one side. “Well, I’m very interested to meet you.”
Oh. Now I was all flustered again. He was definitely flirting with me. I was in my chef’s whites, which are just about the least sexy things imaginable. The only skin I had on show was my face and my for
earms. And I had my long, black hair gathered up under my low chef’s hat (there isn’t room to wear a full-on chef’s hat on board a yacht, so we have what I call the low-rise version. It looks kind of like a failed soufflé). And yet despite all this, he was flirting with me. I felt a heady, giddy sense of delight.
And then I remembered the 10,000 women he’d allegedly bedded. Of course. He was flirting with me because I was female.
I felt the familiar anger bubble and rise inside me. Now that the spell was broken, his whole manner seemed cocky. Yes, he was hot, but he was also arrogant as hell. He’d wandered down here, seen a woman through the door and decided to turn on the charm in the hope that…what? I’d pull off my chef’s whites and let him hump me over the counter?
He’d made the same mistake as Simone. He’d misjudged me…badly. What, I was going to fall at his feet, just because he was a rock star and I was…me? Were bigger girls, in his mind, easier? Was I meant to be grateful for the attention?
I could feel the anger rushing up inside me. The memories of two years ago were like red-hot lava with only a gossamer-thin crust over the top, needing only tiniest tap to release them. Now, the anger formed a nice, convenient shield, just like it always did, deflecting any man who tried to get close to me. And I welcomed it like an old friend.
His “magic” might work on most women he met, but not me.
“You okay?” he asked. “You look sort of…displeased. And you’re holding a knife.”
I looked at my hand. I was indeed holding my favorite chopping knife, a particularly nice ceramic-bladed one. I wasn’t pointing it at him, though. Well, not right at him.
I set my jaw. “Was there something you wanted, Mr. Sykes?” I asked sweetly. “Dinner will be in an hour. Would you like something while you wait? Bread? An olive?”
He studied me for a moment, frowning. He looked genuinely confused at my tone. “No, I’m good, thanks, luv.” Then he yawned and leaned against the counter, giving the impression of having all the time in the world. Which I guess is the case, for the super-rich. “So what’s for dinner?”
Shipwrecked with the Billionaire Rock Star Page 1