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Sundown had painted the sky pink and gilded the Cannes harbor across the gently rippling Mediterranean Sea. Stephanie Forssell stood on the deck of an enormous white yacht, clutching a chilled champagne flute in her trembling fingers. Around her, conversation drifted in the warm October breeze as gentlemen in their middle years flirted with young women dressed in revealing cocktail dresses.
How could she have thought she’d feel comfortable in a crowd of strangers? She shouldn’t have agreed when Marie asked her to stand in for the girl who dropped out at the last minute. No one would believe she was a model, and what demon had possessed her to wear the electric blue scrap of silk that hardly covered anything at all?
Trying to keep the gesture unobtrusive, Stephanie tugged at the neckline of the skimpy dress in an attempt to cover up her breasts. As she raised her eyes, she met the amused grin of a broad-shouldered man who stood at the stern, slightly apart from the others. His unruly tawny hair and tanned skin gave him a healthy outdoor look that reminded Stephanie of the farmers and fishermen in her native Sweden.
Acting on impulse, she took a step toward him.
His grin vanished, replaced by a dismissive sneer.
Startled, Stephanie halted. To disguise her embarrassment, she raised her glass and gulped another frantic sip of champagne.
Their host, a swarthy Middle Eastern gentleman whose name she kept forgetting, stalked across the gleaming deck. “You’re supposed to entertain my guests,” he growled behind a jovial smile. “Get to it.” With a curt nod, he hurried away to instruct the uniformed waiters to keep the champagne flowing.
Alarmed, Stephanie searched the crowd, but couldn’t find Marie.
The tawny man leaned against the railing, watching her with a bored expression on his handsome face. Stephanie gritted her teeth and set off toward him. There was something about him that drew her in. If she had to talk to a stranger, despite his lack of welcome, he was the best candidate.
“Hello. I’m Stephanie Forssell.”
The man didn’t reciprocate the introduction. He swirled a tumbler full of amber liquid in one hand and jammed his free hand in the pocket of his immaculate evening trousers, making it clear that he had no wish to touch her—not even to shake hands. His posture grew rigid beneath the black jacket that fell in a perfect cut over his muscled shoulders.
“Do you have a name?” Stephanie asked, keeping her voice light, although a spark of temper ignited inside her.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Her fingers tightened around the champagne glass. “But you worry it might wear out from too much use.”
The man’s hazel eyes narrowed to angry slits. “That ought to be your worry, not mine.”
“What do you mean?” Puzzled, Stephanie frowned at him.
“That you might wear out from too much use.” He threw her a look laced with disgust and stormed off without bothering to offer his excuses.
Stephanie blinked to hold back the tears of humiliation. When a gaunt gentleman with mottled skin walked over, she smiled at him in relief. For the next hour, she made small talk with strangers, who all appeared to be inspecting her with bold eyes that sent a shiver of distaste down her spine.
Several times she felt her skin prickle, and when she glanced around, she saw the tawny man quickly look away. He appeared to be in his mid thirties, younger than most other male guests on the yacht, and from his lazy drawl, Stephanie had recognized the easy confidence typical of so many successful Americans.
A while later, she spotted him talking to their host. Sharp tentacles of alarm curled in her stomach when both turned to stare at her. The tawny man appeared to be asking a question. Their host gave an eager nod, and then he beckoned her over with an urgent wave of his hand.
Stephanie mumbled an apology to the people clustered around her and set off across the deck. Their host melted away, leaving her alone with the tawny man.
“I don’t normally do this, but it’s been a hard week, and I’m in need of recreation.” His words came out harsh. “Stateroom Two. I’ll be down in five minutes. I want you in bed, with your clothes off. I don’t want to take too long over it.”
“Excuse me?” Stephanie stammered, her back snapping rigid with indignation.
The tawny man raked his eyes over her. “Don’t act coy. Fayad assures me you’ve been paid, so we can skip the awkward haggling. I want you below deck, naked, and ready to do your job.”
“My job?” Inside her, fury leapt to life, mixed with a hard edge of dread.
“That’s right. Your job.” The tawny man gave her one final look of scorn and eased away from her. “Five minutes,” he said as he strode off.
Gritting her teeth, Stephanie surveyed the crowd until she spotted Marie. The vixen stood between two men. One of them had his hand curled over her buttocks, where his fingers boldly kneaded her flesh. Marie listened with an air of rapture as the man spoke, and then she threw her head back and roared with laughter.
Stephanie sauntered over, cursing the spindly heels that hampered her progress. “Marie, I need to talk to you.”
“Why don’t you talk to Claude?” Marie nodded at the man in front of her, at the same time wiggling her bottom against the burrowing fingers of the other man. “Claude owns half Marseille.”
“The better half,” Claude said in a thick French accent. He eyed Stephanie up and down and sent her a predatory grin. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone?” He flung his arm around her and hauled her to his side.
Paying the man scant attention, Stephanie shoved against his hold and pulled away. “Now, Marie. Please. We need to talk.”
“Oh, all right,” Marie agreed petulantly. She bent to peck a kiss on the cheek of the short heavyset man who’d been fondling her buttocks. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Stephanie grabbed Marie’s elbow and dragged her into the shelter of the nearest lifeboat. “The truth,” she demanded. “Why are we here? What’s the deal? Have we been paid, and if so, for what?”
Marie fidgeted with the straps of her dress and released an irritable sigh. “Oh, all right. We’ve been paid. Five thousand Euros each.”
“What have we been paid for?” Stephanie asked, her tone icy.
“Well…” Marie began to twist around the dress ring with a big yellow stone on her right hand. “Sometimes, if a guest fancies a girl, and wants some company…”
“Prostitutes,” Stephanie said through clenched teeth. “We’ve been supplied as hookers to sleep with any of these men. All they need is to snap their fingers, and we’re supposed to spread our legs and show enthusiasm.”
“It’s not like that,” Marie protested. “Most of these men are really nice, and sometimes they take on a girl for weeks.”
“A mistress?” Stephanie glared at her friend, questioning once again the sanity of sharing an apartment with someone whose values differed so drastically from hers. “In addition to being a hooker for the night, I’m supposed to be auditioning to become some horny old goat’s mistress.”
“Don’t be angry, Steffi,” Marie whined. “I was hoping that nobody would ask to sleep with you, and then you’d never find out. It’s just that I’d already been paid for two girls, and I’d spent the money.”
Stephanie sucked in an angry breath. The conversation they had in their tiny Paris apartment echoed through her mind. Come on, Steffi, you’ll enjoy it. A free trip to the Riviera on a private plane. You’re not a model, but you’re a classic long-legged Swedish blonde with blue eyes and an upturned nose. And, anyway, it’s not modeling. It’s just some trashy billionaire throwing a party on his yacht in Cannes. He’s invited a few girls to improve the scenery.
She ought to have known better, but she’d brushed aside her doubts. She’d worked so hard on her studies at the École des Hautes Études Commerciales, and she hadn’t been able to afford a vacation in two years…not since Anders got sick. Marie had fooled her into thinking she could get something for nothing, and now the time had come to pay for her gullibility.
Not sparing Marie another glance, Stephanie turned on her high heels and marched across the deck to the staircase that led down to the cabins. Rage roiled in her gut, sending a bitter taste into her mouth. As she clipped down the steep steps, her feet stomping in mutiny against the shiny timber, her fury was directed equally at Marie, their host, and the tawny man.
Grant Buchanan curled his hands over the mahogany railing on the deck and swore under his breath. Normally, once he made a decision, he buried his scruples. Now, frustration and uncertainty seethed inside him in equal measure.
Damn Fayad and his inclination to provide a team of hookers in the lavish parties he threw on his yacht. When Grant first saw the slim blonde, looking lost as she struggled to yank up the revealing neckline of her gown, something lurched inside his chest. He thought she was an innocent who’d accepted an invitation to a sunset cruise and a few drinks, unaware that Fayad ran his parties as floating brothels for his business associates.
Like a fool, he’d felt an urge to protect her from the predatory crowd.
And then she made her move, and he realized that the girl with short flaxen hair and enchanting smile was part of the paid entertainment. An inexplicable sense of fury had surged inside him. For an hour, he had struggled against the lure of her long legs and glowing skin.
Then he gave in.
Grant glanced at the bulky diving watch on his left wrist. Two more minutes. Then he’d go down into the cabin and get rid of the tension that had ruined his relaxed mood. As he turned to face the stairs, a slender figure in a bright blue bathing suit emerged through the revolving doors. In front of her, she hauled a black trash bag tied with string at the top. As she strode past, she gave him only a cursory glance.
Hello. I’m Stephanie Forssell. Her greeting echoed in Grant’s ears, the husky timbre of her voice as vivid as if she’d spoken again.
His brow knotted into a frown of disbelief as he watched the girl stride to the edge of the boat, where she paused to adjust her grip on the plastic bag. Clutching the tied top, she swung the bag over the side. Then she climbed on top of the railing, and performed a neat dive into the cool blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
“I’ll be damned,” Grant muttered.
Several other curious guests crowded at the railing beside him. In fascination, they all watched as the girl cut through the water with a smooth breaststroke. The sack, which contained enough air to remain afloat, bobbed like a big beach ball along the rippling waves as she pushed her floating luggage before her.
When she reached the shore, she scaled the steps, rising like a mermaid out of the dark sea. She yanked the plastic bag out of the water and carried it to the concrete pier. Oblivious to the curious stares around her, she untied the string at the top, pulled out a towel, and dried her skin.
Then, with awkward contortions, she shielded her body with the towel while she dressed in a pair of jeans and a pink long sleeved top that hugged her lean figure. Socks and sneakers followed. When she was fully clothed, she lifted a leather travel bag from the sack and inspected it carefully for water damage. Satisfied, she lowered the bag to the ground, turned the empty refuse sack inside out, wrapped the wet towel in it, and shoved the bundle into the bag.
Then she slung the bag over her shoulder and walked off without looking back.
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