“And a cover-up,” Nicole said, swinging her legs out of bed. “As a sop to my mom’s sense of decorum.”
“None of which rubbed off on you. You’re lucky your uncle always bails you out of trouble without telling your mom or dad.”
“Dominic understands craziness. What can I say?” Nicole smiled as she came to her feet. “And you should talk. You were with me most of those times.” She sniffed the air. “God, I love roses. I must have told him that last night.”
Chapter 2
Nicole was lost.
Even after two crew members had pointed her in this direction, every corridor looked the same on the huge yacht. She was facing miles of burled tulipwood and polished brass with every cabin door identical—none with identifying signs, which meant she was probably in the private quarters of her host.
Damn. She’d probably had one drink too many. But the well-trained waitstaff was always passing around another tray of yummy summer drinks, the Mediterranean sun was hotter than hell, and Fiona kept saying, “It’s a party. What are you waiting for?”
So here she was in another posh corridor, looking for a bathroom and facing nothing but closed doors.
What now? Just start opening doors until she got lucky?
Oops.
She skidded to a stop on the threshold of a large stateroom, the couple on the sofa went still, and she met the hooded, amber-eyed gaze of her host.
“Oh—God, sorry… wrong room,” she stammered, feeling like a deer in the headlights under that hard, assessing stare, as well as seriously underdressed, although every other woman at the party was in a bikini too. “I was… just… looking for the loo.” She started backing up.
“Wait.” Tossing a feathered sex toy behind the sofa, the gorgeous man on the couch quickly rolled off the woman beneath him and, coming to his feet, zipped up his khaki shorts. “Use this one.” He motioned to a frosted glass door across the large stateroom.
Having come to a stop, Nicole recognized Rafe Contini and tried not to stare at his broad shoulders and ripped torso, not to mention the semi-nude blonde casually lounging on the sofa, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world for people to watch her. “Really, I couldn’t,” Nicole murmured, focusing instead on a striking Picasso painting over the sofa. “I’m intruding.”
“Not at all.” Responding to her unease, Rafe grabbed his polo shirt from the carpet. “Silvie has to leave soon anyway.”
“I do not!” The tawny-haired blonde punched Rafe’s leg.
His head and arms slid out of his white polo shirt and the fabric dropped over his hard abs. “I just meant Emilio will be looking for you. Aren’t you dining with Shokov?” Rafe said smoothly, ignoring Silvie’s pouty scowl. “But stay as long as you wish. I’ll open a bottle of that wine from Georgia you like.” Bending down, he pulled a black lace top over her large breasts, slid the straps over her shoulders, and stood upright. “Please”—he glanced at Nicole—“go on in.” He jabbed a finger toward the door, then raked his fingers through his long hair and flipped it behind his ears with a pivot of his wrists. “I’ll get us drinks. Any preferences?”
A flicker of a smile drifted over her mouth. “I’ve probably had enough if I want to find my way back up to the main deck.”
“Don’t worry about it.” His voice dropped slightly, his golden gaze turned warm. “I know the way.”
His low, husky voice vibrated softly through her senses. Gently, without urgency, almost weightless—and she found herself saying, “Okay. Any drink is fine. Surprise me.” Stepping into the room, she shut the door and moved toward the bathroom. Surprise me. Now there’s a plan. And he watched her walk across the broad expanse of pale carpet with a breath-held wonder even he recognized as bizarre.
He didn’t remember her, Nicole thought. Two years ago, Rafail Contini, head of R&D for his father’s Swiss firm, Contini Pharmaceuticals, had been presenting a paper on the future of targeted chemotherapy at a conference in San Francisco. She, along with a group of chemistry undergrads, had been introduced to him by their professor. He was as gorgeous then as now: tall, superbuff, and starkly handsome, with long, dark hair and intense amber eyes. Magnetic, jungle-cat eyes.
The kind of man who brought a hush to a room when he walked in.
Serious centerfold eye candy.
Jesus, enough! Get a grip. He was probably just being gracious by offering her a drink.
And it was clear that Silvia Fermetti—trophy wife of the Italian ambassador to France, darling of all the gossip rags for her wild ways—had no intention of leaving.