sensing you don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to drink shots off someone’s stomach aboard this yacht, but is it a problem for you…the inheritance?’ Prying lies outside the terms of my proposition, but I can’t help myself. Perhaps I can help him with some investment advice. Of course, he hasn’t said yes, so the point may be moot. I might never see him again.
He ignores my question, jumps out of the car and swings open my door. Reaching for my hand, he guides me from the low seat.
I ignore the sinking feeling in my chest and press on. ‘Most people would embrace such a life-changing gift.’ But I’m quickly coming to understand Cam isn’t like most people, in many respects—his two-fingered gestures at convention, the way he sprang from his seat last night to assist a stranger in need, the fact he’s even entertaining my proposition; most—no, all the men I know are way too rigid and full of their own importance to contemplate what I’m proposing. But with Cam it’s as if normal rules don’t apply, or perhaps it’s just the age difference, or perhaps he’s just exactly what he seems, killing time and enjoying his bender.
‘Let’s just say it’s more the origin of the gift that’s a problem, that and the terms…’ He locks the car and heads towards the marina, reaching back to take my hand.
I try to conceal my flinch, because despite our kiss back at the hotel, despite what we shared last night, my hand in his feels alien in its intimacy.
Alien, but thrilling every nerve in my body.
I swallow the surge of lust and longing. ‘Well, I’d be happy to advise you on how to manage your wealth beyond gambling it all away and buying impractical fast cars, if that’s of any interest to you—I have been known to make a savvy investment or two over the years.’ I’m over-talking to cover my reaction to the hand-holding.
His head snaps in my direction, his smile almost maliciously bright. ‘You think I’m frivolous.’
‘No… I didn’t mean—’
He comes to a halt. ‘Why would you want anything to do with a man who wastes money—is the sex that great?’ He delivers this with a smile, but there’s pain in the tension around his mouth.
I look down at my feet, stung but also ashamed that he’s spot-on—I have judged him, thinking only of what he can do for me, how he makes me feel, rather than what he might be hiding from, because years of swimming in the corporate shark tank have honed my instincts, so I know it’s something.
He didn’t get those calloused hands tapping computer keys. He’s hinted that we work in very different worlds. He has an inheritance he doesn’t seem to want. But he’s more than the clichéd playboy I pegged him for on first impressions, just as, despite my age and my hard-won success, there’s a little girl inside me still seeking her daddy’s approval.
Who is the real Cam? And who left him an obscene amount of money he doesn’t seem to care about?
I look up, regret that I can’t see into his beautiful eyes, which are hidden behind sunglasses, stealing my breath. ‘I’m sorry—making money is what I do. Pretty much all I’ve done my entire adult life—first for my father’s firm, and then for my own. It’s a hard habit to break. I didn’t mean to judge, but you’re right. I don’t know anything about you beyond the fact that, yes, the sex is pretty sensational. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know more, so why don’t we rectify that? What’s your surname, Cam?’
He lifts his sunglasses. ‘North. Cameron North.’ He smiles then, a belter of a smile. I release a shudder, appalled at how absurdly we’ve behaved—sharing a night of incredible sex without even knowing each other’s surnames.
I smile too.
‘And you are?’ he asks, his hand outstretched in my direction for the formality of a handshake.
‘Orla Hendricks. Nice to meet you.’ We grip each other’s hand, the fresh start unspoken but welcome.
‘So, Orla Hendricks,’ he says, guiding me towards a waiting speedboat, which will take us out to the yacht. ‘Let’s go have ourselves some fun, and then we’ll talk about this proposition of yours.’ He jumps ahead of me into the speedboat and then swings me after him, his hands gripping my waist. I want to kiss him again, but now I’m unsure of where we stand, the easy pleasure-seeking vibe we shared last night long gone.
We’re taken to the biggest yacht in the harbour, the Abella—sleek, at least seventy metres, her pristine hull gleaming in the sun. I hear the music before I see the throng of people on deck—most of the women bikini-clad and many of the men wearing shorts. I grind my teeth in frustration—I have a swimsuit in my case back on the dock. Why didn’t I think to put it on?
We disembark the tender and climb aboard the Abella. Cam takes a glass of bubbles from a member of the smartly dressed welcoming crew and hands it to me with a smile. Every inch of the stunning vessel is packed with beautiful people in a full-on party atmosphere. I grip Cam’s hand as we head to the upper deck, which features an infinity pool, a hot tub and the best views of Monaco.
We wind through the partygoers and head towards the rail. My phone vibrates in my bag, and I pull it out, scanning the message from my assistant but checking the time. Despite Cam’s promise to deliver me to Zurich, I’m aware of every second he delays. Perhaps this was a mistake. I certainly didn’t get to where I am by making many of those.
Cam spies my phone and I shove the device back into my bag. ‘So, are you thinking of buying this?’ I want to caution him against making such a rash investment, but then, boats like this are more about hedonism and status than sound returns and I don’t want to sound like a killjoy. But really, most people who own one of these spend a few weeks a year actually enjoying the lifestyle. Who has the time to take a year off work?
People like Cam, I guess, deciding to ask him about his inheritance if he agrees to come to Zurich.
‘She’s beautiful,’ he says. ‘Who wouldn’t want to own her? You could permanently live on board. She’s fully equipped—a cinema, a gym, a spa. And you should see the stateroom.’
‘But?’ We might be here so I can prove I’m not a stick-in-the-mud workaholic, but I can sense that sailing around the Mediterranean in the Abella isn’t his dream, despite her charms.
He smiles as if I cracked a code no one else has. ‘But I prefer bricks and mortar, preferably something I’ve built myself.’ He holds up his calloused hands in proof.
I nod, impressed. I want to get to know this side of him more but stop myself, remembering what happened when we steered too close to personal. ‘Blood, sweat and tears?’ I say.
‘Bingo,’ he says, his easy smile wider.
Then I spoil the moment by handing my untouched glass of champagne to a passing waiter.
‘You don’t like champagne?’ he asks.
‘I have work to do later—I need a clear head. And you’re not drinking.’
‘I’m driving you to the airport after this.’ I sense his disappointment, feeling as if I’ve failed the first test.
At his reminder that I’m on probation, I seize the change of topic to push my agenda. ‘So, will you come to Zurich?’ I want his company. I want the way he makes me feel,
