Chapter 11

Across from a pastel blue granite counter sparkling in the early dawn’s glow, Irene leaned against its twin. In the massive yacht’s well-appointed galley, she sipped a delicious espresso from a small porcelain cup, but her ears were aflame.

Out in the main salon, Conor was still engaged in an ever-angrier conversation with someone named Guillaume. A shipment had gone awry? No, had landed but trouble had arrived.

Although not really given to eavesdropping, she refused to move except to lean for a refill of the delightful elixir. Besides, she knew so little about the youthful, powerful tiger, the one that had implanted the tingles refusing to die so deep within her. Thus, if he was going to talk in such a loud voice, she couldn’t help but listen, correct?

As the distant argument continued, the young man’s curt tone ignited memories. The gruffness, the way he’d spoken to Oscar, watching from her phone. At length her feet did move, easing wider, permitting cooler air access to a bare underside.

A sharp breath left her when recognition arrived. Down in the stateroom, the tiger had been displaying her. The one leg against his massive chest, twisting her body? That position guaranteed her husband’s wide-eyed visage could witness all that had happened.

Louder words from the salon cut through the haze, and she refocused on the conversation. Much better than her English, the French, though quick, was far easier to follow. Her chest became steel as she reviewed what Conor had just said.

He was leaving.

“Well, of course, Ire,” she mumbled. “Estupida. ‘Le Aurielle’ is a boat; it moves.”

The engine repairs he’d mentioned over dinner wouldn’t take long. The crew was returning. They’d be sailing for Pantelleria.

“But so far away?” she added in a tiny whisper.

In truth, the destination wasn’t that distant, but a feral clinginess tugged at her core. A sudden thud and heavy sigh brought her attention to the open doorway. No, he’d called it a “hatch.”

Before her mind had a chance to argue, both feet padded across the chilly tile. She had to go to him.

With the sun behind him, bathing that tall, powerful physique in a soft, golden glow, her heartbeat sped quicker. Yet, the same brilliance threw his face into shadow, and the glint of his eyes caused her footfalls to stumble. That horrid scowl came into view, and she halted in the doorframe. The cup shook in her fist. A quick peek showed his phone, the source of the thud, lay halfway across a solid wooden tabletop.

“Umm, is everything alright, Conor?”

“Yes.” His lie was made more obvious by another deep sigh.

“They sounded angry.”

“They are.”

“Are you in trouble?”

Rather than reply, his gaze softened and head tilted. A slower exhale left those full lips. “Didn’t expect to see you,” he said. “Thought you’d be dressed and ... gone.”

“Gone? Por que ... why would I ... Why would you think that?”

He gave her a shrug, but its curtness made it different from previous ones. Though still shadowed by the growing golden haze behind him, his eyes seemed softer, vulnerable.

“Conor. Speak to me.”

“Your husband. He got what he wanted. We provided him a show, a bloody good one. You’ve been telling Oscar about us. So, I just figured...”

As each word left him, the thumping of her heart quickened. Her brows became so tight they met, and after a swift gulp to empty the cup, she placed it on a table.