Pinching the bridge of my nose, I said slowly, “The owner’s name is blank. I don’t know who it is. But whoever he is, I can handle him.”
“As long as you don’t let him handle you,” Jeff said pointedly. I frowned at him and he shrugged. “You know how some of these guys can be. They’re used to getting whatever they want, including whoever they want.”
“I’ll be just fine, thanks,” I said, a little snippy. He gave me an apologetic smile.
“Just looking out for my little sis,” he explained.
“Uh huh. Well, do me a favor and look out for me a little less. Jeff, I really need to go.”
“Aw, don’t be mad, Jilly,” he said plaintively.
“I need to hang up. I’m in a cafe and I’m sure the other customers don’t want to listen to our sibling conversation, all right? I’ll see you when you get into town later. Don’t miss your flight,” I reminded him. He nodded and gave me a thumbs up.
“Good luck, sis. Call me right after you’re done. I might be on the plane, but just leave a message if I don’t answer.”
“Will do. Now, stop calling,” I said firmly, even as a smile crept over my lips.
I hung up on him and sat back in my chair, rolling my eyes. Don’t let him ‘handle’ me. Who the hell did my brother think he was, insinuating something like that? I glanced down at the digital time on my phone screen and nearly jumped out of my seat. Too late to study my notes now. It was time to rush off to the meeting. I gathered up my things and, carrying my gigantic coffee, headed back out into the bright Florida sunshine.
Three
Bruin
I wasn’t sure where I slipped from a comfortable dream into the waking world. For a while, I just let myself wallow in that space between sleeping and waking, only vaguely aware of where I was and with no idea of what time it was. All I knew was that I was comfortable, and my body felt relaxed.
I wondered which bed I was in. Maybe the penthouse suite at the resort? Was I even still in Miami? No, that wasn’t right. I was in... Ft. Lauderdale. That was it.
My hand slid over to my left while I tried to prop myself up on my right elbow, and I became aware of two things.
The first was the warm skin of a woman in my bed. She squirmed in her sleep at my touch, breathing lightly. The second was the throbbing headache I felt that made me sink back down into the sheets. Memories of last night came flooding back to me. Well, most of them did. I remembered taking the girl home, and my body remembered the sex, vaguely.
I looked over at the sleeping form beside me. My drunk self hadn’t done too bad, I figured, but I wouldn’t be holding her around for breakfast. The crying of seagulls outside was like an itch in my head thanks to the hangover, and I grumbled.
Now I knew where I was—the master bedroom of the ship. I was on the Mirabella, one of my yachts.
All my yachts had custom master state rooms that I personally managed the designs. The Mirabella’s was a gunmetal gray color scheme, with tile floors and a massive rug under the California king-size bed. Fine brown silk sheets covered the mattress, and the soft glow of an aquarium that took up the entire wall opposite the foot of the bed illuminated the room with blue.
I was grateful for the blackout curtains I had drawn.
The aquarium’s light illuminated shadows of my private gym just through a doorway on the right, and the bathroom was on the left. I saw a few towels strewn about, which made me suspect whatever fun I had with this chick last night involved either the shower or the bathtub.
My survey was interrupted by the buzzing of my phone on the bedside table, and the rattling made me wince. I reached over and checked the screen.
Fuck.
It was my yacht broker, and if he was calling me this early in the morning, it must have meant there was some business to deal with. I was in no condition for business right now. I noticed a missed call icon on the screen and wondered how many times he’d tried me before now.
I swung my legs over the bed and sat up slowly before answering the call.
“Talk to me,” I groaned.
“I was wondering what kind of night you’d had,” said Rob, my yacht broker. Years ago, he might have been testy, but he’d grown to work with my lifestyle. “Six missed calls, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”
“That a record?” I said with a smile.
“Not even close,” he said. “You still haven’t beaten the twelve after that bender in Tokyo.”
“Oh God, Tokyo,” I moaned with a reminiscent sigh and a smile. “I still can’t touch sake anymore.”
“Probably for the best,” Rob muttered before taking a breath. “Anyway, I’m guessing you had a fun night, but I wanted to call to make sure you’re not on the Mirabella,” he said pointedly. “Because like I told you four or five times yesterday, you’ve got a broker coming onboard a few minutes from now to tour the place, and she’s expecting it to be empty.”
“Uh-huh, I remember,” I lied, jumping up and moving to the other side of the bed.
“You’re not on the yacht, right?” he asked. He probably knew the answer.
“Of course not,” I lied, and I ripped the sheets off the sleeping girl on the bed, who stirred and grunted in protest.
I gave her bare ass a slap that made her wake up with a yelp. Covering the speaker of the phone, I said in a loud whisper, “Need you gone soon, hun. You can get some breakfast at Jerry’s on the dock and put it on the Kincaid tab. He knows me.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Rob asked, and as the girl rolled her eyes and slipped out of bed to get dressed, I made my way into the bathroom.
“A little company,” I said shortly. “Look, I’ve got to go, Rob. I’ll talk to you later, all right?”
“The broker will be there any minute, Mr. Kincaid,” Rob said wearily.
“I heard you the first time, Rob,” I said, and I ended the call. I could deal with an upset broker later. The headache was a much more present threat.
I shut the bathroom door behind me just in time to hear the girl from last night starting to stir, and I hoped she didn’t expect me to show her the way out. I threw the shower on before getting out a few aspirin and popping them, looking at myself in the mirror.
It was the same me as always, my dark hair mussed by the long night in bed and my blue eyes glaring back at me in the mirror, a little bloodshot. That would pass with the shower, though.
I climbed into the shower and felt the hot water washing away the night’s sweat, sex, and booze, rippling down my tight abs and the V that pointed to my manhood, still at half-mast from waking up next to a woman.
My body always wanted to go for another round first thing in the morning, but I almost never let myself do that. Too many strings attached where they didn’t need to be. I hoped that the Greek chick didn’t need to be told twice, though. Wouldn’t do to make it awkward. It wouldn’t have been the first time a one-night stand had awakened in one of my yacht suites and suddenly decided we were in love and going to get married.
Turning my face, I let the hot water run through my hair as I ran a hand through it, breathing in the steaming, hot air. In the shower, the urgency of needing to get off the ship seemed to melt away. It did wonders for a hangover.
I’d come to Ft. Lauderdale to sell this yacht. And I expected that deal to happen one way or another. I’d heard Rob mention that this broker was a she, though. I smiled up at the showerhead.
Sure, the broker was expecting an empty yacht to do her work in peace. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t meet her when she got off the boat to sweeten the deal a little.
I lathered my rock-hard body in soap and let the scent fill the bathroom. Maybe a personal touch was just what a deal for a ship like the Mirabella needed. While I was rinsing off, I heard the door handle click, and I turned to see the girl’s dark eyes and plaintive face peering in at me, then look me up and down.
I smiled. Okay, maybe just one string attached for the morning wouldn’t be the end of the
world.
Four
Jillian
An email dinged on my phone and I quickly whipped it out of my skirt pocket to check as I walked briskly along the flat wooden boards of the docks. I squinted at the screen through my sunglasses, my heart already starting to pound. It was an email from the broker I was working with on this deal. He was letting me know it was time for me to check out the yacht, and complete my professional inspection. It was safe to go onboard. The coast was clear and the ship was ready for my tour.
I stopped for a moment to hammer out a quick, courteous reply. I clicked send and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I took a deep breath and straightened my navy-blue skirt, smoothed down my starched white shirt that was tucked in and form-fitting. I knew I looked good, even if I felt like I was about to melt into a puddle and spill into the harbor.
Keep your cool, Jillian, I thought to myself. Nobody can tell how stressed out you are, how fast your heart is racing. If you just smile and act like you’re totally at home, everyone will think you really are. Fake it ‘til you make it had always been my secret motto.
In my line of business, it was of the utmost importance that my clients believed one-hundred-percent that they could trust me. Rely on me. I helped them make huge decisions, financially and in regards to the lifestyles they wanted to lead. And even though this time I was just buying a yacht for my brother, someone who would love me no matter what, failure or success, I still felt that drive to do the best I could. I had to write down everything, record every tiny detail, no matter how trivial it might seem to a third party.
I kept moving down the docks until I reached the yacht with a name emblazoned in flashy gold lettering on the side: Mirabella. It was a gorgeous ship, even larger than most of the yachts I had bought and sold in the past. In fact, this one was of the category unceremoniously named “super yachts.” It had to have at least eight to ten rooms on it. A yacht like this was more like a house, a mansion on the waves, than just a boat. It was its own little world, complete with a full crew to staff it.
I had spent a good chunk of my adult life cavorting around on big boats, touring them, measuring them, judging them by size, price, and opulence. But nothing had ever come close to how magnificent Mirabella was. I actually gasped a little when I first stepped in front of her. The hull was a gleaming white, nearly glittering in the hot sun, and the ship loomed so tall and majestic that it nearly blocked out the sun from my view, casting me in its hulking shadow.
I was already impressed.
But I needed to keep my wits about me and not rush to such a quick positive judgment. In the past, I had occasionally come across ships that looked amazing. Fantastic. Miracles of modern engineering, marvels of high-class luxury. But when I would step inside and start really, truly sizing them up, I would usually find flaws. Just tiny details that could have been done differently or better, the kinds of interior design choices or structural integrity issues that would dock thousands, even millions off the price point. When you were dealing in such a lucrative—or potentially financially devastating—market, those little things that might seem unimportant to the average layperson really did add up fast. And today, it was my job to stay critical and objective. I couldn’t let myself be swayed by the jaw-dropping first impression Mirabella gave me. I was here to criticize her, pick her apart, determine whether or not she was truly a good fit for my brother, who was arguably the most important person in my life.
Sometimes, it almost kind of felt like I was walking into an interview room to appraise some beautiful stranger’s audition. Only instead of a young, idealistic actress, it was a boat. A really big, really expensive boat.
I walked up the gangway plank, careful not to get the stiletto heels caught in the gaps between the wood boards. As I reached the top, a young man in an immaculate white uniform rushed over to offer me his hand and a brilliant smile. I could tell he was a little nervous, but I wanted to put him at ease. I wasn’t here to judge him, by any means, but I figured he probably worried that with the sale of the yacht, he might either be out of a job or forced to relocate. I knew how scary it was, not knowing where your vocation was going to take you. And this guy was young, probably hardly older than nineteen. I gave him a big smile.
“Thank you,” I said graciously as he helped me onto the main deck.
“Of course, ma’am.” He bowed slightly.
Everything was spotlessly clean and meticulously decorated, from the brand-new wood flooring of the deck to the elegantly-designed deck chairs congregated around an industrial-metal table. Very chic. There was a pool, of course, with enticing turquoise waters and a jacuzzi bubbling.
I walked along the length of the pool, looking for architectural mistakes. A wobbly line or bulge in the poured concrete somewhere. But there was nothing troublesome to note. Everything looked perfect. Almost obnoxiously so. I had a hawk’s eye for detail, and it sometimes worried me at first when I couldn’t spot a problem. It didn’t make any sense to think that way; of course it was preferable for me to not find something wrong. But it was just the way my personality worked. In high school and college, I often took work as an editor, proofreading other students’ papers and even finding my way into the offices of lawyers, doctors, accountants, and businessmen to edit their copy and make sure it all sounded smooth. It was almost like a puzzle for me, trying to spot the issue, whether it was a missing comma or water damage to a stateroom on a yacht. It all went back to the same drive to fix things, to sniff out the bad and turn it into good.
By now, the young man in uniform had hurried back to my side and was anxiously trying to figure out how to address me. “M-ma’am?” he stammered, his tanned face blushing. “I could take you on a tour of the staterooms, if you’d like?”
I nodded. “Oh, that would be very helpful, thank you. I would appreciate that. And you can call me Ms. Hargrove. What’s your name?”
He looked relieved. “I’m Miguel Castaneda. Nice to meet you. Uh, Ms. Hargrove, would you like to follow me to the upper decks first?”
“Sure. That would be fine.”
He led me up the steps to the next deck, taking me through the hallway and showing me room by room. There was a grand recreational room with two billiards tables, a darts board, several vintage arcade games, and no less than three massive flat-screen televisions mounted on the walls, complete with attached, surprisingly elegant video gaming systems. The style of the design was sleek, almost minimalistic in its clean lines and sharp furnishings. The fixtures were all either silver or chrome, lending a sort of futuristic tone to the room.
Next up was a private movie theater room with fifteen ritzy leather seats and a wide, impressive screen. The theater was decorated with vintage movie posters of a shocking variety. Film noir, slasher films, action movies, and even some more obscure arthouse film posters flanked the walls. The ambiance of the room was cozy and cavernous, exactly the way one would hope a home theater to feel. It was the kind of place I would have loved to snuggle into with a bucket of buttered popcorn and watch a movie with some friends.
Next was a room that made my heart go all a-flutter. It was a private library, the walls lined with lovely built-in shelving, slam-packed with books. I was not supposed to be judging the content of the library, only the style, but I couldn’t help but notice that there were all kinds of antique books, old classics rubbing elbows with newer books. There was a huge, glossy window at the front of the room that overlooked the decks and the blue waters beyond. Two elaborately carved and upholstered armchairs sat by the window with a modern, sleek floor lamp between them. I was just itching to curl up in one of those chairs with a romance novel.
That was one of my biggest secrets, a guilty pleasure only my best friend knew about. And even she teased me for it on occasion. I loved romance books. The steamier, the cheesier, the better. I just wanted to read one of my favorites in peace, closed up in this beautiful library.
But then, it was time to move on to the next—the lower deck.
Miguel led me back down and into another grand hallway. We passed through a marvelous dining room adjoining the huge, perfectly-outfitted chef’s kitchen. There was a chandelier of crystal and a huge blue and silver rug that had to cost more than my entire apartment in Atlanta, and that was saying something. My apartment was not cheap.
“Could I see one of the bedrooms, please?” I asked Miguel.
He winced, which gave me pause. What could possibly be wrong with a bedroom? That was easily the most important room onboard. It was where the client, in this case Jeff, would be spending a lot of time.
“Uh, yes. Of course,” Miguel said quickly. “There’s a smaller bedroom just to the left—”
“Actually,” I interrupted with a smile, “I was hoping to see the master suite.”
Miguel’s face went a little ashen, but he couldn’t tell me no. Ah, so this was where the problem was. Surely there was some terrible design flaw, some mismatched carpeting or godawful wallpaper to contend with. Why else would he be so concerned?
He led me to the master suite. We stopped outside. “Go ahead inside, Ms. Hargrove. I-I think I might be needed on deck.”
“Oh,” I said, frowning as I put my hand on the doorknob. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll come back in a bit,” he added quickly, and nearly darted away down the hall. I turned back to the door, confused, and pushed it open.
At first, I was even more confused. The room was not a disaster. In fact, it was beautifully designed and well-maintained. The furnishings were lovely. The bed was—
Not made.
The sheets were piled and spilling off the bed as though it had just been slept in. That was odd. But I figured maybe they hadn’t gotten around to fully tidying up in here. No big deal. But then I saw a trail of clothing on the floor leading from the bed to the adjoining en suite bathroom.
Double Mountain Trouble: A MFM Menage Romance Page 19