Page 17 of High Sea Seduction

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 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 City, I even went as far as to google him—and had every single suspicion confirmed.

Hailing from seriously old New York money, he attended all the nauseatingly good schools, 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 arrived penniless on Ellis Island, but owned half of New York City by the time he died, is every bit the entitled, unapologetic alpha male I met.

The evidence 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 wasn’t able to stop the slice of electricity that sizzled through me each time I 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 slammed down my laptop lid and attempted to do something useful.

But those eyes 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 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 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 chest 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 stare. 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.

TheIL Indulgenceis easy enough to pick out. Even if it wasn’t already 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 ship 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.

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