Close Quarters: A Billionaire Romance, page 1
Copyright (C) 2021 Kandi Steiner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent of the author except where permitted by law.
The characters and events depicted in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Kandi Steiner
Edited by Elaine York, Allusion Publishing
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Design by Kandi Steiner
Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Publishing
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
On the Rocks - Chapter One
On the Rocks - Chapter Two
More from Kandi Steiner
Acknowledgements
About the Author
I knew now what it was.
That feeling I’d had that first day on the boat, when the sun was high and warm on my neck in Barcelona — the way my stomach had somersaulted like we were in a deep sea storm even though we were still tied up at the dock.
It was a warning.
I didn’t see it then, didn’t recognize it as anything more than nerves and maybe a little sorrow swimming in my gut.
But now, with the blood pooling around my head, soaking into the teak and my hair all the same, I understood.
It was a warning.
The universe knew long before I did the way this all would end, and it cautioned me the only way it knew how.
But I ignored it.
Now, as the blackness invaded my vision, the splitting ache at the crown of my head going numb, I caught one last glimpse of the man responsible for it all and I wondered how I never saw it coming.
How did I never see what he was capable of, when pushed, when threatened?
How did I ever let him hold me, kiss me, have me in every way there is to be had?
How did I fall for the lie those eyes told, for the heart within that chest, for a man so evil?
They say love is blind, and in most cases, I imagine that means you look past the faults of those you love — how they leave the cap off the toothpaste or throw their dirty clothes on the floor — or perhaps past your own inhibition telling you that maybe you could do better, that maybe you deserve more.
In this case, it meant death.
Through the fiery haze, the smoke and the flames, the broken crystal and the last fragments of my heart — I saw the smirk of victory on his face.
I tried to ask him why, but it came out as a cough instead, the blood around my mouth bubbling with the effort.
And then, everything went dark.
Three Months Earlier
I was going to vomit.
The reality of that unfortunate truth settled in more and more as we walked the main deck, me following behind Joel, him excitedly pointing out places on the ginormous super yacht he was going to be working on for the next few months using terms I’d never heard before while I held onto my camera and looked for places to yack.
There was a head at the back of the boat, which I learned was yacht talk for the bathroom. That would work. There were a few large plants on either side of the bar we’d just walked through. The pots they sat in wouldn’t do too badly. There had to be a trashcan in there, too — perhaps behind the bar.
I supposed the easiest option would be to just lean as far overboard as I could and let the contents of my stomach feed the fish below. But I’d have to have control — if I got even one drop on this yacht, I’d die of mortification before the owner would likely kill me for real.
“Pretty sweet, right?” Joel asked me, spreading his hands out on the railing at the front of the boat — or rather, the bow, as he’d so cheerily corrected me. “It’s a bitch to clean it all, though,” he joked. “Especially when it’s time to scrub the teak. Not looking forward to that.”
I tried to smile through my nausea.
“Can you even imagine being rich enough to own one of these things?” He shook his head, turning to face me again with the same dazzling smile that had made me fall in love with him our freshman year of college.
It was hard to believe that was four years ago now.
“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for years, Aspen… working my ass off as a deck hand, catering to horrific guests on charter after charter…” He shook his head. “And now, it’s finally all paying off.”
Joel’s smile doubled at that, and he swept me into his arms, though my hands didn’t wrap around him in return. They were too busy holding onto my camera where it hung from my damp neck, like I was afraid if I removed them I’d lose all composure and my lunch, too.
“And you’re here to experience it with me.” He kissed me hard and quick, and I did my best to meet his smile with a convincing one of my own.
I had no idea why I was sick. We hadn’t eaten anything of the dicey variety, and the boat wasn’t moving at all where it sat at the dock. Perhaps it was a stomach bug, coming out of nowhere.
Or perhaps I was just going to miss Joel.
That had to be it.
It wasn’t like we hadn’t spent summers apart in the past. Every year since I’d known him, Joel had been working out of Fort Lauderdale on whatever yacht he could get a job on. He’d worked his way up from just a deck hand on a charter yacht to finally getting what he’d always wanted — a permanent spot on a super yacht with an owner.
And this time, he’d be the lead deck hand.
I didn’t really understand why that was a big deal, but from what he’d told me, it meant no more having to deal with crazy guests or difficult-to-please divas or worrying that you’d get stiffed on a tip. Apparently, the guy who owned this yacht was known for being easy to work with, for letting his crew have a little fun — in other words, he didn’t care if they partied, so long as they got their work done.
And if there was anything Joel loved more than me, it was partying.
Plus, who wouldn’t want to be on a yacht in the Mediterranean — working or not?
I was excited for him — just as excited as I was for myself to spend the next few months backpacking through Europe. Joel would work on the yacht, I would get enough photographs to build a strong portfolio, and then we’d both be back in the States and starting a new chapter of our lives together.
At least, for a while, until Joel was called back to the yacht, of course.
That was the perk he’d been working so hard for, to have a permanent spot on an owner’s boat as opposed to working charters. That meant we’d be in a long-distance relationship for a while, but it wasn’t like we hadn’t been through that every summer, anyway. Besides, he’d have some time off now and then, and he’d either come home to Colorado, or I’d meet him wherever he was for a new adventure.
For now, I was caught up thinking about my adventure.
It was something I’d dreamed of, spending some time alone, wandering through the streets of foreign cities with my camera at the ready. Dating an extrovert had pulled me out of my comfort zone more times than I could count over the last four years, and in that time, I hadn’t taken a single trip by myself. This was a dream of mine, to travel alone, to experience new cultures from behind the lens.
It had just always seemed so far off — graduation, traveling, the real world and the jobs it held for us in it.
But it was here. The future was now.
And apparently, my stomach was very upset at that fact.
“You okay, baby?” Joel asked, brows furrowed as he swept a strand of my dark hair back and tucked it behind my ear.
I nodded, smiling again. “Just a little nauseous,” I said, tapping the railing as my cheeks flushed. “Guess I don’t have my sea legs like you do.”
“We aren’t even moving,” Joel said on a laugh, but then he kissed my nose. “Hang tight. I have something that will help.”
He was gone in the next breath, and I held tighter to my camera, forcing an exhale as I leaned against the railing. When I felt a little steadier, my eyes wandered over the sea of catamarans and yachts, the sun reflecting off the water between them, glistening like diamonds. These “boats” were so massive, so luxurious that I hardly believed I was in their presence at all. They were the kind of behemoths you saw on television, the ones purchased by the rich and the famous, the ones you only ever dreamed of stepping foot on.
I hadn’t
Barcelona was rich in culture, and I already had half a memory card filled with photographs I’d snapped during our week here together. The owner of the boat paid to fly Joel out, my parents pitched in to help me get my ticket, and at the end of the summer, we’d meet back here to fly home together. I’d already decided I’d stay a few more days on my own in Spain before I made my way to France because I was nowhere near ready to leave the food or the people — not yet.
I still had so much more left to capture.
I powered my camera on — the gently used Nikon D850 DSLR that I’d used my graduation money to buy — and smiled my first genuine smile at the sound of it coming to life. Even used, it was a massive upgrade from the old camera I’d had since my senior year of high school, the one that had somehow gotten me through undergrad. I looked through the eye of it, adjusting the focus on the lens and widening the shot. Then, I waited until the sun slipped behind a cloud, casting an almost eerie glow on the boats before I pressed my finger on the shutter trigger.
Click.
I pulled the camera away from my eye long enough to glance at the digital screen on the back, seeing what I’d just captured. Then, I held it up again, playing with the focus, waiting for the right light.
My stomach was already settling with the familiar comfort photography brought me. The way that sleek little machine felt in my hands made me feel more like myself than anything else. It was like a fifth limb, always attached to me, and without it, I’d have been handicapped. It had been like that ever since I could remember, ever since my mom handed me the little Kodak disposable camera during our family vacation to the Grand Canyon and asked me to take a picture of her, Dad, and my sister, Juniper.
From the very first time I clicked that shutter and realized I could capture a moment forever in time, I was hooked.
I frowned at the camera display after taking my next shot, turning until my back rested against the railing and sifting through the photos. Then, I lifted the camera to my eye again, searching for a new focus.
I found it more quickly than I expected.
And then I promptly lost the ability to breathe.
There was luxury all around us — riches so unfathomable to someone who grew up in a middle-class household that I didn’t even try to comprehend. But none of the expensive wood or gold-plated trims or crystal chandeliers compared to the power exuding off the man framed in my camera lens.
He was tall, and lean, and dressed like he just walked off the shoot for People magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive” issue. The charcoal gray suit he wore was fitted and tapered to perfection, his Armani dress shoes making an expensive clicking sound each time they tapped down on the teak. I could imagine the muscles lining that broad chest of his, the narrow waist, the legs that carried him effortlessly across the main deck.
The way he walked, shoulders held back and down, head high, each step calculated and sharp told me long before anything else that he was the owner of the yacht. It was in the way the crew practically bowed as he passed them, moving out of the way so as not to be seen, not to be in his way. It was in the way his lips pressed into a flat line, in the way his dark sunglasses shielded his eyes, in the way he held a briefcase with one hand as the other swung confidently at his side.
His sturdy, square jaw was dusted with a light stubble that seemed at odds with how he was dressed, but somehow worked. If anything, it only added to the power radiating off him — as if he wanted everyone to know he was rich enough to wear a tailored suit on a casual day with a five-o-clock shadow he forgot to shave.
I felt each step he took like an anvil vibration through the deck, and it seemed all the manners I’d learned in my twenty-two years had evaporated the moment he walked onto the boat, because I still stared at him through my camera lens without a care in the world if he saw me.
His dark blond hair caught a ray of sun as it slipped through the clouds above, and my finger pushed down automatically — without thought, without the good sense to pause and decide if it was a good idea or not. The clicking shutter sound of my camera sounded more like an echoing gunshot in a cave, and as soon as the picture was taken, the man’s head snapped my direction.
He stopped walking, brows furrowed above his sunglasses for a moment before they relaxed. His lips turned up, just at one side, and then he started walking again.
This time, toward me.
“Oh, God,” I murmured to myself, flushing so furiously it felt like a sunburn as I turned to face the front of the boat again. I had my camera pulled into my stomach, eyes on the screen, pretending like I was studying the shots I’d taken yesterday when Joel and I had explored La Sagrada Familia. I didn’t dare take my eyes off that screen, not when I heard those Armani shoes approach behind me, not even when the man stopped a few feet away, clearing his throat.
“Hello,” he said simply, and a wave of chills ran down my spine at the sound of his voice — thick and smooth, like maple syrup.
I swallowed, pressing my eyes closed with one last internal curse at myself before I turned to face him.
I wished I had sunglasses on. I wished I was wearing something more impressive than ripped-up jean shorts and an old University of Colorado t-shirt. I wished on every star there was that I wouldn’t have taken that damn photo.
I rolled my lips together, trying my best to smile. “Hello.”
His lips tilted up more at the greeting, and he slipped his free hand into what I imagined was a satin-lined pocket of his dress pants.
“I don’t remember hiring a photographer for this trip.”
Another wave of heat flushed my cheeks, and I tore my eyes away from him, looking down at where I still held my camera in my hands as my dark hair fell around my face like a curtain. “I… I’m sorry about that. I’m just, I didn’t mean—”
“May I see it?”
I glanced up at him through my lashes, confused.
“The picture you took,” he clarified, and his hand came out of his pocket, reaching toward me, instead. He took a step forward that had me inching back without even thinking to. “May I see it?”
“Oh,” I babbled out, shaking my head and tucking my long hair behind one ear. “It’s not… it wasn’t anything special. I was just taking a few shots of the marina and then I…”
My next words were cut short because his warm, strong hand covered mine where it held my camera. It wasn’t even a full second, his skin on mine, but it shocked me still and silent, and I released my grip on my camera like it was never really mine to begin with.
It all happened so fast, me submitting to him. I stripped the strap from around my neck, surrendering the camera and standing there by his side like he was my professor and I was turning in my final assignment of the year.
I watched his thumb slowly tick the dial, the photos I’d taken of the dock and the boats flashing on the screen. He smiled a little more with each turn, and then the screen lit up with the picture of him, and his smile faded, his hands gripping my camera a little tighter.
I held my breath as he stared at himself, and I found myself leaning closer to him subconsciously. I wondered what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked at that photograph.
I wanted his approval, I realized idly. I wanted this powerful man to tell me he loved what he saw.
Something of a laugh came from his nose, and then his smirk was back in place, and he handed me my camera as I took a heady step back from where I’d been entirely too close to him.
The man moved slowly then, tilting his head a bit before he removed his sunglasses, revealing steel gray eyes that matched his suit. They were rimmed in navy, flecked with turquoise, an ocean of color that was utterly bewitching. Those eyes watched me for a long moment, a weighted pause that even the birds seemed to quiet for.
“What’s your name?” he asked in lieu of commenting on the photograph.
But before I could answer, Joel jogged up beside us, half out of breath, his slight panting breaking the trance.
“Mr. Whitman,” Joel said, taking off his ball cap before he extended his right hand for the man in the gray suit. “Wow. It is such an honor to finally meet you in person, sir. I’m Joel Woods, your lead deck hand. Thank you for having me onboard,” he continued as they shook hands, and I could tell he was nervous, because his voice was a little more high pitched than usual, and his words came out a little too quickly. “I’m a hard worker, sir, I assure you. And your boat is in good hands.”
