Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5)

by Zara Cox

Chapter 6

  Keely

  Two weeks later

  I step from the private jet in Nice, France, and immediately smile at the warmer climate, glad to have left the sub-zero temperatures of New York far behind me. I love my birth city, but even I have gotten tired of the wet snow and constant freezing temperatures. A little warm sunshine would be very welcome.

  “I hope you have a pleasant stay, Miss Benson.”

  I smile at the sharply dressed pilot. “Thanks, Grant.” Breathing in deep, I send a silent thanks to Bethany for securing the ride on the Indigo Lounge plane. Thanks to her, I’ve been able to finish my last assignment for Rubio Events, the PR company, which I worked for right up until an hour ago. I grin from the sheer high of quitting my job while cruising in a private jet at thirty-thousand feet.

  There is an unfettered thrill in the knowledge that I no longer have to account to anyone for my time, that I can come and go as I please. Zachary Savage had tried to hire me full time, but I’d preferred to come on board his latest Indigo Lounge project as a freelancer. Until I weigh all my options and decide what I want to do with my life, I don’t intend to tie myself down to another company, no matter how huge or reputable.

  Nevertheless, whatever I decide to do next, having a successful Indigo Lounge event on my resumé will be a huge feather in my cap. Especially an IL event which is the first of its kind. I was more than excited to discover that the latest Savages Inc. launch was to be on a super yacht and not another jumbo jet.

  I don’t have anything against planes, but I find yachts much sexier, and I can’t wait to get started on planning the events for the maiden voyage of the IL Indulgence.

  The ten-day trip will start in Monte Carlo and stop in Majorca, Sicily and then Valetta in Malta, before terminating at a private island in Greece.

  “This way, Mademoiselle Benson.” I smile as another uniformed crew member, this time a helicopter pilot, points me toward a six seater Mercedes chopper sitting about a hundred feet away. “The flight to Monaco shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” he imparts with a sexy French accent. “Your luggage will be delivered by car to your hotel within the hour.”

  “Merci,” I say in my best high school French and watch his appreciative smile as his gaze drifts over me.

  I pin my smile in place, but feel a touch disconcerted. His tall leanness and intelligent eyes are just my type, but the normal twinge of attraction I experience when a hot guy shows interest in me is absurdly missing.

  That perfectly healthy twinge has been AWOL since that chilly night in Montauk two weeks ago, specifically after my toe-curling orgasms on top of a certain hot sports car. In contrast, the face of the man who gave me those orgasms has plagued my every unguarded moment, starting from the instant I’d opened my door that next morning to find my Blahnik heeled pumps placed neatly outside my door with a note that read—feet as sexy as yours should only go bare for someone special.

  Mason Sinclair has occupied an irritatingly large portion of my thoughts. Once I returned to New York, I’d even gone as far as to google him and had every single suspicion confirmed.

  Hailing from seriously old New York money, he’d attended all the nauseatingly good schools, had held all the right roles during his college years and graduated with reams of accolades. Benedict Mason Sinclair III, great-grandson of an Irish immigrant who’d arrived penniless on Ellis Island, but had owned half of New York City by the time he’d died, was every bit the entitled, unapologetic alpha male I’d met. The evident was clear to see in each photo I came across, especially in the way he eyed the women on his arm with a heavy dose of distaste. To him they were pieces of meat he meant to devour at the earliest opportunity, but much to my annoyance, I hadn’t been able to stop the slice of electricity that sizzled through me each time I’d found myself staring into his long-lashed hazel eyes.

  Regardless of the social setting, Mason’s eyes held a deep allure, a bottomless intensity that seemed to see right into my soul. After the bewildering realization that I couldn’t stare into his eyes without feeling the need to lower my gaze, I’d slammed down my laptop lid and attempted to do something useful.

  But those eyes had stayed with me. Followed me into my dreams and haunted me.

  Dammit.

  My smile falters as the chopper lifts off and I force myself to activate my phone. My heart twists and drops into my stomach as I see the app I’d acquired specially to hold my secret—one I don’t trust to remain floating in my inbox.

  Out of the corners of my eyes, the picturesque aqua-watered Cote d’Azur passes in a blur as we follow the craggy coastline and head into Monte Carlo.

  My hands shake as I stare down at the app. I want to delete the email, just as I’d deleted the first one. But each time my finger hovers over the bin icon, the rush of fear makes me hesitate. I’m intelligent enough to know that ignoring a problem won’t make it go away. And normally I thrive on problem-solving.

  But not this one. This one I want to seal in the vault, without knowing whether it’s a hoax or real. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist, that I’ve never seen it.

  Because if it is real...

  My heart hammers, climbs from my stomach into my throat, and stays there, clogging my breathing until my vision hazes.

  “Mademoiselle, are you all right?” A voice disturbs me.

  I turn my head and meet the young pilot’s concerned gaze. When his gaze drops to my hand, I realize I’m gripping the plush armrest with white-knuckled fingers.

  “I’m fine,” I reply and consciously relax my grip, but this time I can’t summon a smile.

  “We will be landing in less than sixty seconds.”

  I nod. Let him assume it’s a fear of flying that’s causing my distress and not an unknown ghost from the past come back to haunt me.

  I quickly press the home button, drop my phone into my handbag, and force air into my lungs as the aircraft hovers over the helipad at the Indigo Hermitage hotel.

  As the rotors wind down, my gaze drifts over the stunning views of the Prince’s Palace, the streets below that will be converted into a Formula 1 circuit in a little over six weeks and the dozens of multi-million dollar yachts slotted into the marina.

  The IL Indulgence is easy enough to pick out. Even it hadn’t been the largest vessel out there, the bold indigo and silver colors gracing its stunning lines would’ve made it easy to spot.

  With five stories, two helipads, ten master suites, two restaurants and six entertainment areas, this is easily the jewel in the Indigo Lounge crown. For the last month since the latest event was announced, I’ve fielded calls from A-Listers whose eagerness to get on the guest list for the inaugural launch has made me grin like an idiot. If I were the bribes-for-favors type, I’d be sitting pretty and laughing all the way to the bank.

  But I’m the sort of girl who respects her client’s wishes, and Zach has been specific with the type of guests he wants on his yacht.

  So far I’ve vetted and double-vetted nine of the ten guest groups who will be sailing on the maiden voyage. The tenth slot has been left open, a practice I’m familiar with since I know the mercurial temperaments of the rich and famous. The slot will be used for last-minute guests, or on an ad-hoc basis for guests who can’t take the full trip.

  The chopper door opens, and my pilot holds out his hand. I smile and let him help me out, not protesting when his hand lingers on mine for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  “I hope mademoiselle wasn’t too disturbed by the flight?” he asks.

  My gaze drops to the name stitched into his uniform before I look back up into his deep blue eyes. “No, Henri, it was great, thank you.”

  I indulge in his pleased smile and let my eyes linger on his until he drops his gaze. A pulse of satisfaction pounds through me and I feel my world right itself again.

  “Enjoy your stay, Mademoiselle,” he says, before he reaches into his pocket and extracts a car. “And if you need anything to make your stay more pleasan
t, please do not hesitate to call me.”

  I take the black card. There’s only a phone number printed in gold on the embossed surface. I hide a smile and thank him, not in the least bit insulted that my pilot also moonlights as a gigolo and is interested in me.

  Different strokes for different folks. Plus he’s cute enough, should I get desperate during my stay, or thoughts of Mason Sinclair’s mouth and fingers drive me to the edge of distraction.

  “Where’s a good place for cocktails around here in case a girl gets lonely?” I ask, even though I’ve done my homework thoroughly and know which places are up to Indigo Lounge standards and which aren’t.

  His smile widens. “Jimmy’z is a good place, but also La Rascasse?”

  “Which one do you prefer?”

  “Jimmy’z. I’m normally there most nights.”

  I nod. “Great, I might see you there, then.” It’s one of the places I’d planned to check out.

  His eager nod makes me feel a touch better.

  Whatever is headed my way, I’ll deal with it.

  Two weeks ago when I stood on the beach in Montauk, I had been a little shaky about my options, but then it was to be expected. This time of year always gets to me. The memories become too overpowering, and sometimes I buckle under.

  Did I want to die when I threw myself into the icy waves having drunk almost a full bottle of champagne? Possibly.

  If Bethany hadn’t called me when I was about to get in the bathtub, would I have gone through with taking the bottle of pills the day before? Probably.

  But I’m used to that. The push and pull of these suicidal thoughts, especially around my birthday. If I put a little more effort into it, I don’t doubt that one day I might succeed.

  The idea doesn’t fill me with dread. Or fear. Because the end result is I’ll either be alive. Or I’ll be dead.

  “You’re welcome, mademoiselle.”

  I jerk a little and realize I’ve spaced out again.

  Seriously. Time to get yourself under control, Benson. I look beyond Henri and see a member of the hotel staff heading my way.

  I send Henri another smile, making a mental note to look him up if I get bored while in Monaco, and head toward the concierge.

  I’m whisked to my penthouse suite in minutes and offered a welcoming glass of champagne, which I decline. Kicking off my shoes, I’m drawn to the sweeping floor to ceiling windows that overlook the marina. Once again a thrill ignites upon seeing the yacht.

  For the few days, I’ll be interviewing chefs, wait staff and personal valets, while working with the specially contracted designer to provide specific amenities for the guests.

  Since the sex lounge specifications are Zach Savage’s remit, I haven’t been made privy to who is responsible for that aspect of things or what will be required of me in that department. All I knew is that I had to report to the yacht at four this afternoon to meet the guy in charge.

  Which gives me about an hour and half to get ready.

  The moment my luggage arrives and is unpacked by the penthouse butler, I undress and take a shower. The concierge informed me that a car would be available to take me to the marina when I was ready, and as I dress for the high fifties sunshine in a cream fitted linen dress and dark brown heeled boots, I try to ground myself, but my mind slides to my phone and the contents of the email again.

  Why now after all this time? Why sit on the secret for six years before making threats? And was it even a threat?

  Dammit!

  I shut my off the endless loop of questions and finish dressing with a long, camel-colored cashmere sweater and a Hermes scarf. I leave my blonde hair loose, insert small gold loops into my ears, and finish applying a light make up before I grab my Gucci clutch and head out the door.

  The ride from the hotel down Rue Grimaldi to the marina is embarrassingly brief, and I decide to make the return journey on foot. Dismissing the driver, I turn to where the launch boat is moored.

  My phone rings as we approach the breathtaking super yacht aptly named IL Indulgence, and I can’t suppress my awe as I stare at the vessel. The indigo theme runs throughout everything owned by Zachary Savage and this yacht is no different. I reach for my phone, and smile when I see Bethany’s smiling face.

  “Tell your husband for me that I’m seriously tempted to accept his offer to work for him full-time. I haven’t been on the boat yet, but I love it already.”

  Bethany laughs, but I hear a note in her voice that makes a tiny prickle of apprehension wash across my senses. “I’d tell him. but that would make him even smugger than he already is at the moment. Despite it being my idea, he’s taking all the credit for snapping up the boat when it became available.”

  That surprises me. “I thought it was built from scratch just for the Indigo Lounge?”

  “He was thinking of building a boat, but this one came on the market through a private sale and he snapped it up.”

  “Wow, who would build a boat like this just for themselves?” I ask with an incredulous laugh.

  Bethany hesitates and I frown. “Hey, is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. That depends.”

  “On what?” I ask as the launch slows alongside the yacht. This close, the vessel looks huge, like a floating palace of pure decadence. Had my hands not been full, I’d have reached out and stroked the sleek indigo lines running alongside the silvery metallic paintwork—my lady wood for the stunning vessel is that hard.

  But Bethany hasn’t responded, and my frown deepens. “B, what’s going on?” I spot the driver’s waiting to help me out. “Hold on, let me get off this launch.”

  I tuck my clutch under my arm and step onto what I know from the vessel plans is the second floor. It’s where I’ll be welcoming the guests in a little over a week’s time, and I’m struck dumb as I walk into the silver and indigo trimmed reception room.

  Holding the phone to my ear, I start to turn in a wide circle. “Wow, Bethany, this boat is incredible.”

  “Keely there’s something you should know. It may not affect how you feel about the project, but—” I stop listening as I catch a shadow from the corner of my eye. And even before I turn fully, I know.

  My senses jump to alert as my eyes widen. The phone slips from my useless hand and clatters to the hardwood floor as I recognize the man entering the room.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Mason Sinclair?”

  Chapter 7

  Keely

  “Hello, Keely.”

  I thought I’d exaggerated the brooding growl of his voice. But as it washes over me, I realize I’d underestimated its feral power.

  A shiver ripples down my spine as he stalks slowly toward me, his eyes conducting a leisurely survey over me, which does nothing to reassure me that this man isn’t anything but a menace to my wellbeing. And he hasn’t answered my question.

  “I said what—”

  “I heard you,” he cuts across me without raising his voice. When he stops in front of me, I force myself not to take a step back from the raw energy vibrating from him. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing him here, or it’s the setting sun behind him, bathing him in a larger than life aura, but an inner voice mocks my attempts to put him in a safe, comfortable box.

  There’s nothing safe or comfortable about Mason Sinclair. Despite the stylish black roll-neck sweater and faded jeans he’s wearing, I’m not fooled into thinking there’s anything civilized about him. His full beard is gone, but it’s been replaced by a day-old stubble that somehow intensifies the dark, unrelenting allure I find myself getting dangerously drawn to again.

  I forcefully snap my gaze from his, bending to retrieve my phone. The blank screen announces my lost connection to Bethany, and the sensation of being even more untethered irritates me.

  “If you heard me, then perhaps you care to answer me?”

  “I will if you attempt to ask the question again without the foul language.”

  A smirk plays on my lips as I tilt my hea
d. “My dirty mouth really bothers you, doesn’t it?” I tease.

  “There’s a time and place for it.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re the I-like-a-lady-on-my-arm-and-a-whore-in-the-bedroom type?”

  Deep hazel eyes gleam at me and I get the feeling he’s secretly amused by my question. “Doesn’t every man?”

  Before I can answer, he looks past my shoulder and nods. I turn to see a waiter heading our way with a tray of drinks. Mason hands a champagne-filled one to me and takes the other—soda with a wedge of lime—before dismissing the waiter.

  “Shall we start this conversation again?” he asks with a sexily quirked eyebrow.

  “If it’ll get my question answered quickly, sure, why not? What on earth are you doing on this boat, Benedict Mason Sinclair III?” I ask in fake upper crust tones and wide-eyed pseudo innocence. Then I immediately cringe inside because I’ve let slip that I know more about him than he’s revealed so far.

  His smile tells me he’s noted the slip, and I take a hasty sip of champagne and wait for the inevitable smug comeback. “I’m setting up the entertainment lounges for Zach.”

  My champagne threatens to go down the wrong way. I hastily clear my throat. “You’re the designer I’m meeting?” Nothing in his online profile had said he was a designer. Then again, it hadn’t said anything specific about what Mason does for a living.

  “I am. And bravo,” he murmurs, watching my lips as I frown.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “You just expressed yourself succinctly without swearing.”

  Jesus effing Christ. “Okay, fine, cool your jets, mister. I can actually speak without swearing.”

  “Then why do you choose not to with me?”

  “Because...” I stop, then kick myself for floundering. No way am I going to tell him he brings out the flustered, awkward teenager I used to be. Or that I secretly hate that he’s seen me at my lowest. So I shrug. “I don’t know, you seem to bring out the worst in me.”

  That twitch at the corner of his mouth again, the one that makes me even more irritated, and even more attracted to him. We watch the sun heading for the blue horizon for a few minutes until the silence becomes too uncomfortable for me.