And he'd let that drive him for nearly two decades. If something was out of his reach, he simply extended his reach and then took it anyway. If it was not for sale, he applied pressure until it turned out it was after all-and often at a lesser price thanks to his machinations. If a woman did not want him, he simply took pains to shower her with her heart's desire, whatever that might be, until she decided that perhaps she'd been too hasty in her initial rejection. If a bloody assistant wanted to leave his employ, he simply replaced her, and if he felt she should stay, he gave her whatever she wanted so that she did. He bought whatever he desired, because he could. Because he would never again be that little boy, marked with his mother's shame, expected to amount to little more than the sin that had made him. Because he did not, could not, and would not care.
Not that he did now, he assured himself. Not really. But whatever this was inside him-with its deep claws and driving lust, with its mad obsession over a woman who had tried to leave him twice today already-it was too close. Much closer than it should have been. It pumped in his blood. It made him hard. It made him want.
It was outrageous. He refused to allow it any more traction. He refused.
"Ready one of the motorboats," he said in a low voice, and heard a burst of action behind him, as if the yacht's entire staff had been poised on a knife's edge, waiting to hear the order. "I will fetch her myself."
He detected a note of surprise in the immediate affirmative answer he received, because, of course, he was Cayo Vila. Something he had clearly lost sight of today. He did not collect women or employees, they were delivered to him, like any other package. And yet here he was, chasing after this woman. Again. It was impossible, inconceivable-and even so, he was doing it.
So there was really only one question. Was he going out to drag her back onto the yacht and continue to tolerate this ridiculous little bit of theater until he got what he wanted? Or was he going out there to drown her with his bare hands, thereby solving the problem once and for all?
At the moment, he thought, his narrowed gaze on her determined figure as it made its stubborn way through the sea, away from him, he had no idea.
* * *
"Are you going to get in the boat? Or are you so enjoying your swim that you plan to make a night of it?" Cayo snapped from the comfortable bench seat in the chic little motorboat where he lounged, all dark and dangerous above her.
Dru ignored him. Or tried, anyway.
"It is further to the shore than it looks," he continued in that same clipped tone. That mouth of his crooked in one corner, though there was nothing at all like a smile about it. "Not to mention the current. If you are not careful, you might very well find yourself swept all the way to Egypt."
Dru kept swimming, feeling entirely too close to grim. Or was that defeated? Had she truly kissed him like that? Again? Cadiz had been one thing. He had been so different that night, and it had seemed so organic, so excusable, given the circumstances. But there was no excuse for what had happened today. She knew how little he thought of her. She knew. And still, she'd kissed him like that. Wanton and wild. Aching and demanding and hot-
She would never forgive herself.
"Egypt would be far preferable to another moment spent in your company-" she threw at him, but he cut her off simply by clicking his fingers at the steward who operated the sleek little vessel for him. The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever she might have said next.
Dru stopped swimming then and trod water, watching in consternation and no little annoyance as the small craft looped around her, leaving her to bob helplessly in a converging circle of its wake. She got a slap of seawater in the face, and had to scrub at her eyes to clear them. When she opened them again, the engine had gone quiet once more and the boat was much too close. Again. Which in turn meant that he was much too close. How could she be in the middle of the sea and still feel so trapped? So hemmed in?
"You look like a raccoon," he said in his blunt, rude way. As if he was personally offended by it.
"Oh," she replied, her voice brittle. "Did you expect that I would maintain a perfectly made-up face while swimming for my life? Of course you did. I doubt you even know what mascara is. That it requires application and does not, in fact, magically appear to adorn the eyelashes of whatever woman happens to gaze upon you."
It took far more strength than it should have to keep from rubbing at her eyes again, at the mascara that had no doubt slid off her own lashes to coat her cheeks. It doesn't matter, she snapped at herself, and found she was surprised and faintly appalled at the force of her own vanity.
"I don't want to think about your mascara or your made-up face," he replied in that deceptively smooth voice of his, the one that made her bones seem to go soft inside her skin. "I want to pretend this day never happened and that I never had to see beyond the perfectly serene mask you normally wear."
"Whilst I, Mr. Vila, could not possibly care less about what you want."
That amused him. She could see his version of laughter move across that fierce, fascinating face, a kind of light over darkness. She had to swallow against her own reaction, and told herself it was the sea. The salt. The exertion. Not him. Not the aftereffects of a kiss that the water should have long since washed away.
God, she was such a terrible liar.
"What you do and do not care about," he replied in a voice gone smooth and sharp, like finely honed steel, "are among the great many things I do not want to know about you." His hard mouth crooked into a cold, predatory version of a smile. Dru would have preferred to come face-to-face with a shark, frankly. She reckoned she would have had far more of a chance. "I know you are perfectly capable of discerning my meaning, Miss Bennett. I'll wait."
Dru was treading water again, and while the words she wanted to hurl at him crowded on her tongue, she gulped them back down, a bit painfully, and reviewed her situation. The truth was, she was tired. Exhausted. She had used up all her energy surviving these last years; she had precious little of it left, and what she did have she'd wasted on this contest of wills with Cayo today.
As if to underscore that thought, another wave crashed into her face, making her choke slightly and then duck down beneath the water. Where, for just a second, she could float beneath the surface and let herself feel how broken she was. How battered. Torn apart by this confusing day. By the long years that had preceded it. By kisses that never should have happened and the brother who never should have left her like this. She felt her body convulse as if she was sobbing there, underwater. As if she was finally giving in to it all.
It had been too much. Five long years of worrying and working and imagining bright futures that she'd never quite believed in. Not fully. But she'd tried. When Dominic was free of his addictions, she'd told herself. When she worked so hard because she wanted to, not because she had to. She'd dreamed hard, and convinced herself it could happen if she only worked hard enough. She'd dreamed her way out of her rotten childhood into something brighter, hadn't she? Why not this, too?
And then had come that terrible day when she'd received the news that Dominic was dead. She'd had to trail Cayo through a manufacturing plant in Belgium, acting as if her heart hadn't been ripped from her body and stamped into oblivion half the world away, not that Cayo had noticed any difference. Not that she'd let him see it. She'd made certain that all of Dominic's bills and debts were paid, while a squat and encompassing grief hunkered down on her, waiting. Just waiting. She'd ignored that, too. She'd reasoned it was her job to ignore it, to pretend she was perfectly fine. She'd taken pride in her ability to be perfect for Cayo. To fulfill his needs no matter what was happening to her.