Chapter 7

SEVEN

Setting the stack of empty plates on the galley counter, I prop my hip against it, cross my arms, and wait for Romeo to slide them into the dishwasher.

“Gracias, Hannah.” He winks, wearing the kindest eye-crinkling smile, before he jerks his chin over his shoulder toward the gorgeous plate of freshly prepared food—roasted lamb with herb crust on a bed of creamy risotto, a small cotton lined breadbasket with a mini jar of whipped honey-butter, and a slice of decadent triple chocolate cake on the cutest scalloped edged plate. My mouth waters just basking in all its fragrant glory.

“Eat,” he orders, sporting a proud grin.

My eyes bulge out of my head. “You want me to eat that masterpiece?” I gush, partly because that’s how this scenario always plays out, but also because this man is a culinary genius.

For two weeks and a few days, we’ve been pals on the yacht, where I wait on Mr. Cassiano hand and foot—doing his laundry, serving his meals at the outdoor dining table, picking up used condoms off his bedroom floor, ya know, the fun stuff.

I’m one of the three new hires. Romeo’s employer goes through the help regularly. In other words, he either kills the women, or he sells us. I’m not sure which is more common. I’ve deduced that the men I deal with daily are his well-paid lackeys, and they’re everywhere. Men in suits have him sign paperwork. I’ve never met a man who signs more paperwork. Then there’s the muscle. Your standard buffed-up men wearing shirts three sizes too small, with a permanent scowl etched across their clean-shaven faces. Romeo has been working as a personal chef for Mr. Cassiano for half a decade. They even travel together when Mr. Cassiano has business to attend to elsewhere. I assume this is because he doesn’t trust anyone apart from those in his inner circle to handle his food—wise man, given his line of… villainy.

Never one to turn down a Romeo meal, I sit on the stool at the kitchen counter and dive in without shame. Once he’s finished loading and running the dishwasher, Romeo leans his lower back against the kitchen cupboards to watch me savor. He even pours me a glass of red, something expensive, far out of the price range we stock at my bar. I’m pretty sure watching me indulge gives Romeo the world’s biggest hard-on. That’s ego-stroking for you. I’m nothing if not good at my job.

Moaning around a delicious bite, I close my eyes and fake a mini orgasm. Sure, it’s good, but this is an act.

Romeo makes a noise, and when I reopen my eyes to make sure he’s okay, his tan cheeks are tinged pink.

“This is incredible,” I praise, making brief eye contact, the shy, flirty kind, complete with a grin. It never pays to be too forward with men like this, but a well-placed compliment goes miles.

He clears his throat.

I continue to eat and pretend he’s not watching.

When I finish my plate, Romeo whisks it away and rinses it in the sink as I start on the cake. Chocolate is my weakness. The longer I’ve worked here, the more I’ve consumed world- class chocolate desserts, some of which I can’t wait to share with Sugar when I get home. Romeo’s an observant man. The first few days I was here, I packed a chocolate croissant for lunch and, the next day, chocolate-covered pretzels as a mid-morning snack. By the third, we had an unforgettable chocolate torte for dinner, and there’s been some variation of chocolate every night since.

My assignment wasn’t to befriend the chef, but he’s been the easiest target, being the friendliest regular on board and closest in age. My employer, Mr. Cassiano, has a type—blondes with big boobs, all barely above legal. I’m a brunette, and according to my paperwork, I’m just over thirty, which is pushing it because, at forty, a decade is a long stretch of convincing. Dark assured me it would work. So far, it has.

So far, this job has been easy… too easy. Too normal. If you consider working for a douchebag millionaire, normal.

I live in a fully furnished single-bedroom apartment, three blocks from the marina, and walk to work most days. Each morning, I don my pressed uniform—a crisp white polo with a blue embroidered logo on the left breast, navy blue trousers, and blue-and-white boat shoes. I haven’t worn my hair down in weeks. A slicked-back chignon is required. My makeup is natural, so I look how the media expects us to look when we wake in the morning, but it takes a handful of products and a dewy facial spray to appear that fresh-faced and presentable. Though I do tuck a boob rock or two into my bra before I head out—one can never be too careful. It’s no small feat being in the presence of pure evil all day, having to wear a smile, and not take last night’s steak knife to stab him in the face—hence the need for crystals. Amethyst and black tourmaline to be exact.

See. Now I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. Well, not nothing. But there is nothing I can do about it right now.

As Gandhi once said, “To lose patience is to lose the battle.”

Cutting a too-big bite of cake, I shovel the piece into my mouth and breathe. I focus on the sweetness, the richness of the ganache, and the texture. Re-centering myself, I focus on the good things—like food and new experiences.

There’s a charming coffee shop on the boardwalk, a two-minute stroll from the yacht, where I get the best teas and pastries for breakfast, and I’m fed dinner here by Romeo before I head home for the night. Life is simple. Relaxing, even. It's too relaxing given the circumstances.

“How are you going to spend your weekend off?” Romeo asks as he refills my nearly empty glass and pours himself one to finish the bottle.

“I don’t know yet. Driving down the coast?” I lie and shove a slice of yummy bread smeared in the world’s best butter into my mouth to keep from having to explain.

Romeo hums as if he’s mulling over my plans. It's more like he’s gauging what I’m doing to report back to his boss. I’m under no illusion where his allegiances lie. Or that he’s spying on me just as I’m spying on him. The difference is I know the score. He doesn’t. To him, I’m Hannah, a thirty-year-old woman who just left her long-term, cheating boyfriend in Indiana and moved to the coast to start a new life. Dark even registered me for community college in the spring to sell the rouse. Like they care. To them, I’ll be dead or sold next week, so the easier they can clean up my disappearance, the better. With no living parents and no siblings, I was a shoo-in for the job.

For the past two weekends, I’ve played glorified babysitter to naked, barely legal women who drink too much and need help from falling overboard in the middle of the ocean. Oh, and cleaning up the aftermath of the parties that always end in an orgy of rich men, the muscle, and intoxicated women. Not my finest moment, but when you’re a mom of two boys who used socks or tissues to clean up their messes, there’s not much that fazes me anymore.

What I’m actually doing this weekend is driving up the coast to visit someone. Someone I haven’t seen in ages. I’ll also talk to Dark. We keep in touch every other day. The closer we get to the main event, the less I’ll hear from him. You’d think it would be the opposite, but we have characters to play. He can’t worry more about me than I worry about him. We must stay focused.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask casually as I sip the rest of my wine and lean back in my chair. I pat my belly for effect.

Seeing I’m finished, Romeo cleans away my dessert dish and my glass when I hand them to him to wash. As he rinses the wares with his back to me, he explains, “There’s a farmers’ market I visit each month.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is perfection. The highest-quality ingredients.”

If Sugar said this, I’d ask where the market is and what she planned on buying. In this world, even if I’m curious, I swallow down my questions and smile instead. Asking too many questions and prying can raise suspicions, which we’re trying to avoid.

“That’s amazing,” I say instead, waiting to see if he divulges more.

Romeo dries his hands on a kitchen towel and turns to face me. “How do you feel about filo?”

“For dessert?” I thread my fingers together on the counter and lean forward excitedly. Part an act. Part eager to hear more.

He grins, lopsided and almost shy. “Si.”

“Do I get a nibble?”

His surprised laughter booms through the galley. “Oh, yes. A nibble. A whole plate. Whatever you want, mi amor .” Romeo’s head tilts to the side fondly, assessing me as I grin at his flirtation, not exactly welcoming it but not shutting it down either.

“I’ll eat anything you make,” I reply, leaving any hint of innuendo out of my words. Coming on too strong could backfire, but it doesn’t make it any less true. I will eat anything he makes.

“Strawberries?”

Biting my bottom lip, I nod once. “Yes.”

“With chocolate?”

My eyes widen, and my mouth waters. He chuckles deep and rumbly, knowing he’s got me hook, line, and sinker.

“I’ll see what I can find at the market.” Romeo winks, and I’m sold. For the next week, I’ll get fed by an incredible chef, and then the real fun begins. Finally. I can’t wait.