Reckless Abandon Read online

  We pass another bar area, a media room, a gym, and down a corridor where two staterooms sit at the end of the hallway. If I wasn’t so in awe of my surroundings I’d be nervous about the situation. You know, following a stranger down the hallway of a floating vessel. But if I were to die, this isn’t a bad place for it to happen.

  Devon stops and holds his hand out, motioning for us to enter one of the bedrooms. Leah and I do, but Devon remains outside.

  “There are robes and towels in the bathroom. You can shower and warm up in there. I’ll have someone come for your clothes so we can dry them. There’s a phone on the nightstand. If you call the hotel, they can get your passport numbers. It will help expedite the process.” Devon’s voice is authoritative. He’s being polite, not entering the room. It’s very southern gentleman. I appreciate his boundaries. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. Thank you. This is more than accommodating.”

  With a curt nod of his head, Devon closes the door, leaving Leah and I inside the stateroom of, what I can only guess is a multimillion-dollar yacht.

  “Holy crap, where are we?” Leah starts to laugh.

  I let out a huge breath of air and an hour’s worth of tension. “When you dragged me out of bed this morning, I was not expecting this. How loaded is this guy?”

  “Crazy rich. Did you see the sauna we passed by the pool? It was like a spa.”

  “What about the artwork that was in the living room, or whatever that was? I’m pretty sure those were originals.”

  “This is only the bottom floor. I’m dying to see what’s upstairs.” Leah looks around the room, opening drawers.

  “What are you doing?” I pull her hand away from a handle.

  “Trying to see how the mega-rich live.” She says, and then her eyes bug out as realization strikes her face. “Do you think the girl is still here?”

  I blink at her until I understand who she’s talking about. “I would hope if he were getting busy with some woman last night, he’d have the decency to let her stay the night.”

  “Devon was not who I saw yesterday. Trust me. I watched for a long time and that was not him,” she says, stressing the word long. “And the girl, if I see her, I’d definitely notice her. She was tall and thin with jet black hair and—”

  I snap my fingers to gather Leah out of her trance. “Listen, we can’t stay here. You get on the phone and call the hotel. I’ll shower and then we’ll switch. I need to get out of these clothes. I’m starting to smell like fish.”

  Leah leans into me and takes a sniff, pinching her nostrils together. “Yeah, you do.” She lifts up her arms. “How about me?”

  I return the favor and give her a once over. “Same. I’ll be quick.” I say and turn around and head into the bathroom. Flicking on the light and locking the door, I look around the space.

  This is a bathroom. It’s a guest bathroom. It’s a guest bathroom on a boat. And it’s nicer than any latrine I have ever been in my entire life.

  I don’t know a lot about rich people. Leah and I grew up in a normal, middle-class neighborhood. Our dad is a history teacher and our mom a homemaker. We lived in a three-bedroom house with one full bath. It’s the same bathroom I’ve been using the last six months since having to leave my home and job in Pittsburgh and go home for rehabilitation and mourning. It’s a good bathroom. It gets the job done. But what I am quickly learning about rich people is they know how to bathe in style.

  A marble steam shower big enough for four, a vanity, a toilet, and a bidet, plus a mahogany dressing table with everything a guest could possibly need during her stay. Deodorants, creams, shampoos, soaps, perfumes . . . yup, it’s all here.

  On a teak bench there’s a plush robe and a pair of slippers. Two of each, actually. After my shower, where I thoroughly scrub using sea salts and lather my face in seaweed, I wrap my hair in a fresh towel and put on the robe and slippers. I give my hair a quick dry using the blow dryer and brush it straight. I have to remind myself not to be too long. Leah needs to get in here and we have to get back to the hotel. I apply some of the creams to my face and body before opening the door.

  “Long much?” Leah asks, her tone sarcastic. She is wearing nothing but the towel Devon gave her earlier.

  “Once you go in there, you are not going to want to come out. Where are your clothes?” I ask.

  “A maid came by asking for them. She said she’d dry them for us. Thanks for locking the door because I had to drop my drawers in front of her.” Leah holds up a piece of paper. “Anyway, I have the passport numbers. I’m gonna hop in the shower while you bring this to Devon.”

  “Sure. As soon as our clothes come back.”

  She leans into me, her hands on her hips. “That could be an hour. You are beyond covered up. That robe hides everything.”

  I look down. She’s right. The robe falls at my calves and wraps around my body, snuggly up to my neck. “Fine.” I say, taking the paper from her hands.

  Exiting back into the corridor, I follow the way we came in, peering into rooms looking for Devon.

  I search all of the areas on the lower level we’re on with no sight of him. In the large seating area there’s a staircase. I grab the black banister and walk up the steps.

  The second floor is what I can only assume is the main living area. A grander living room is up here, similar in style to the one downstairs with more seating and a wall of windows leading to an outdoor deck with an outdoor dining area. I turn to the opposite direction and walk over the indoor dining room.

  Devon is in neither of these spaces so I continue on, passing a gourmet kitchen that rivals anything I’ve seen on TV.

  I blow out a breath and try not to think about how awkward it is to be walking around a stranger’s boat wearing nothing but a robe.

  Yes, not wearing underwear in someone else’s home is super weird.

  I call out Devon’s name but he doesn’t answer. In fact, no one does.

  Where are all the people who work on the boat?

  I follow a wide hallway, peering into more rooms, trying not to look like I’m spying. I really am just trying to find Devon. There’s an office, two other staterooms, and a butler’s pantry.

  Man, if someone sees me back here, they’ll think I’m trying to steal stuff.

  I am about to turn around and head back downstairs when something catches my eye from a doorway left partially open. I backtrack and head toward the room at the end of the hall. I push open the door and am taken aback.

  The room has a ceiling twice as high as the others. It sits at the front of the boat, with floor to ceiling windows, looking over the water. The view alone would make anyone stop and stare.

  Except for me.

  In front of the windows is the object that caught my attention.

  A cello.

  Okay, most people wouldn’t stop and stare at a string instrument but they’re not me. The cello is part of the violin family. The range of the instruments are similar but the tone quality and physical size distinguish them from one another. The violin is played under the chin, but the cello is played while seated and placed between the legs. With its lower octave sound, I always thought of it as the violin’s sexy and sensual lover. Don’t judge. It’s just the music geek in me.

  The violin was my passion for fifteen years. In grade school we were encouraged to play an instrument. My teacher played the violin for us and I asked to try it. After a few lessons, I was hooked.

  While most people think of the violin as being purely classical, I took my love for it one step further, playing jazz, rock, and with the use of an amp, heavy metal rock. I was accepted at a young age to the Pittsburgh Music Academy and my mother drove me two hours, three times a week so I could have the best musical education money can buy. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my parents knew it was my calling. My dream was to create a musical genre for the pop scene that no one had ever heard of. The sound was fresh, fun, and bold.

  I was good. I was damn good bec
ause I loved it. But one accident, a broken hand and a crushed nerve left me unable to pick up a bow. If I curl my palm to a certain degree, and hold it just a second too long, pain shoots so far up my arm I want to scream.

  Turning away from the cello, I walk to a far corner of the room where there is a large grand piano. It’s black, sleek and I know without checking it’s perfectly tuned. No one who owns an instrument as fine as this leaves it untuned. I take a seat and lift the lid to the keys. The ivory feels so smooth under my fingers.

  Just being this close to one makes me feel jittery and excited. I’m like a drug addict falling off the wagon—this is my line of cocaine.

  My mom has been trying to make me play something, anything. She doesn’t care if it’s the drums, the sax . . . a trombone. She just wants me to play. Said it would be good for me. But I couldn’t.

  Now, sitting here, in this foreign room, alone with this beast of dark musical power, I have an intense desire to put my hands down and . . .

  Play.

  Slowly at first, I let my fingers push down on the keys. I close my eyes and my hands dance. I play a melody that pops in my head. It’s not one I know, it’s one that is just playing. The piano is not my instrument. If I ever played, and it was so very rare, it was like this. Just a little melody from inside my head.

  Using both hands, I play a few chords and let them harmonize with one another. The sound is nice and I’m slightly surprised by that. I feel my lips tip up and my head falls to the side as the music takes over me.

  It’s unexpected how good it feels to play. My fingers move faster and my hands travel up and down the length of the piano, playing sequences I haven’t heard in so long.

  The wooden case surrounding the soundboard and metal strings vibrates and hums with each stroke of my fingers. The percussion resonates in my heart until the pain in my chest settles back in, causing me to slow down. I remove my hands from the keys and let my head fall forward.

  This felt good but it’s not for me. It will never make me feel whole again.

  Letting the air puff out from my lips, I swallow, then lift my head to rise and go back to finding Devon.

  But when I look up, I startle.

  Standing in the center of the room is a man. He is tall and commanding. His face is serious and tense by the look of his square jaw and stern brows. A straight nose and full lips are accented by light hair and bronzed skin. His body is well built, broad at the top and narrow at the waist.

  And if there’s one thing I notice it’s his piercing gaze.

  So piercing because of golden eyes.

  You know how yesterday I said the view of Capri was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen in my life?

  I take that back.

  He is the most beautiful thing I have ever, without a doubt, seen in my entire life.

  “What are you doing?” Those full lips let out a sound that’s deep, thick, manly, and frightening as all hell.

  I freeze for a second before remembering what I came in here to do. Staggering my words, I try to form a coherent sentence. “I’m sorry. I was looking for Devon.” I grab the paper off the top of the piano and hold it up. “I am supposed to bring this to him.”

  “Well, he’s not in here, is he?” Golden Eyes looks right through me. Even referring to him like that in my head makes him sound like a character out of a James Bond movie.

  He is intense and way too annoyed with my being here. He is wearing black shorts, a white polo, and boat shoes. I’m assuming he is one of the crew. Surely he must understand how overwhelming this boat can be to a newcomer.

  “I was looking for him when I saw the cello . . . I just had to see it, and then I saw the piano, and I . . . I just had to play.” I am rambling like a ninny. What is wrong with me?

  It’s the eyes. They are definitely setting me off-kilter.

  “You play the cello?” he asks.

  “Yes . . . no. Well, not any more. It’s a long, awful story. And the piano was just calling me. I can’t explain it.”

  “You play beautifully,” he says, his voice deep and melodic. Ugh, that sounds so ridiculous, even in my head.

  I stop to think about what he just said. I don’t play beautifully. I suck at the piano. Clearly this guy needs to be schooled in music if he thought that was good.

  “Thank you.” Even though he has no idea what he’s talking about, it’s best to be polite.

  I rise from the bench and become very aware of my attire when his gaze skims my robe. I swear I see his pupils dilate and I suddenly feel very, very naked.

  “Can you tell me where your boss is?” I ask, trying to break the unwanted stare.

  His head pops up. “My boss?”

  “Devon. I don’t know his last name. My sister and I fell into the water and I lost my bag. He was kind enough to bring us back here and let us change. I think someone is drying our clothes too.”

  The man looks at me perplexed. “Let me get this straight. My boss—Devon, you say—rescued you and brought you back here to change?”

  Clearly this guy is not going to bring me to his boss until I explain the whole story. “My bag fell in the water and it’s gone. We lost our passports, money, credit cards, everything.”

  “We?”

  “My sister Leah and I. She’s downstairs.”

  He is just staring—hot-molten-lava-of-lust staring—and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. His right arm is bent at the elbow and he is massaging his wrist with his left hand.

  “Devon said he knew someone at the consulate and could help with the passports.” I hold the paper out to him, again, and try not to make direct eye contact for fear I’ll go into cardiac arrest. “These are our passport numbers. If you could just give them to him I’ll go back downstairs and wait in the room.”

  Golden Eyes takes a few steps closer. His hand brushes mine when he takes the paper; I swear I actually gasp when his skin touches mine.

  Why am I acting like this? I must have really hit my head hard when I fell into the water earlier.

  He takes the paper but doesn’t open it.

  He’s just staring.

  And I can’t help but stare right back.

  Mi sono persa.

  I am lost.

  Someone walking into the room interrupts the moment. I look over to see Devon enter wearing the clean polo shirt he put on earlier but has changed into a pair of black pants. “Asher, excuse me, I—”

  “Ah, Mr. Smith. I’ve been looking for you.” Golden Eyes turns to face Devon.

  Devon halts on his way in and looks at the scene in front of him. He must be wondering why I am standing in this room, where apparently I’m not supposed to be, in nothing but a robe, with one of his crew.

  Golden Eyes turns to face me, and offers a hand, “I’m Asher,” he says, with a tone of uncertainty. “I work for Mr. Smith.”

  It’s an odd time for an introduction, but I’ll take it. I hold out my hand and shake his, feeling the warmth of his smooth, yet manly hand. “Emma.”

  Devon looks back and forth between the two of us. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve missed something.”

  “Not at all, sir. I was just making the rounds and found this beautiful woman in your music room,” Asher says, leaning into Devon. “Your very private music room where no one is allowed.”

  I open my mouth, feeling awful for intruding. “I am sorry about that. I was just looking for you and I got caught up. After everything you did for us today, I can’t believe I was so rude.” My voice is set to a pleading.

  Devon waits a long moment before answering. Turning his attention to Asher he says, “May I have a word with you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Asher says with a cocky smile. It’s odd for the level of tension that is currently festering. The two men leave me standing in the music room, still behind the piano trying to figure out what to do. I pretty much have only two options. Stay or go.

  I feel like an idiot. I have to get out of here. The look on Asher’s fa
ce was of dissonance and I do not want to face him again. Once he tells Devon, or Mr. Smith or whatever it is I’m supposed to call him, about how I was sneaking around his yacht, Leah and I will be asked to leave.

  Opting for option two, I open the door and exit into the hallway, relieved not to see Devon or Asher anywhere. I walk down the hallway and head through the main areas, down the stairs and walk my way down the hallway to the room where Leah is.

  I’m not in the room ten seconds before Leah is on me.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “You don’t want to know. Are our clothes dry?” I ask, making my way around her and over to the phone.

  “Not yet. What’s up with you?” Leah’s hair is dry and styled in the perfect way she always has it. From the smell of her she sampled some of the lotions and potions as lavishly as I did.

  Sitting down on the bed, I hold up the phone to dial our hotel to see if they can arrange a transport from the boat. “I think I majorly overstepped my boundaries.”

  “What did you do?” she asks in a high-pitched voice.

  I shrug my shoulders, embarrassed. My voice is sheepish. “Played his piano.”

  “Either that’s a euphemism for something I desperately want to hear about, or . . .” She pauses, “Emma, did you really play a piano?”

  I shrug again and slowly put down the phone.

  Leah moves over to the bed and takes a seat beside me. “That’s really good to hear.”

  The look in her eyes is one of relief. It makes me feel terrible to see it there. Relief should be a good thing but it’s a reminder of the worry I’ve seen on her face before—and on everyone in my family, to be exact.

  I wave my hands in front of me, wiping the air to change the tone. “Change of subject. This guy walked in on me. He was beyond pissed I was even in there, let alone playing on what had to be the world’s most beautiful Steinway. I mean, it was ebony and had to have been a model D—” The look on Leah’s face lets me know I’ve totally lost her. “Anyway, apparently it’s Devon’s private room that no one is supposed to be in.”