I look around the inky water, then back to the island. Nothing looks amiss, but why should I trust this guy?
I lean on the railing. “How’d you get left?”
I think I hear a hollow laugh, but it’s lost in the music of the water lapping at the boat’s hull. His head lifts back up toward me. “Passed out.”
“What ship was it? Which cruise-liner?”
“Sierra of the Seas.” He sounds frustrated. Tired.
“They don’t get up close to islands like that.”
“I went on a snorkeling thing.”
That could be true, I guess. “And you passed out? Drinking?”
“I’m a fucking idiot, okay? Let me up—please. It’s nighttime, and I’m fucking bleeding here.”
I rub my hand back through my hair. I am, of course, going to let him up, especially since it’s likely my fault he’s bleeding. I’m just not going to do it quite yet.
I fold my arms and look down at him, trying to gauge his build and age from just the swatch of shoulders I can see. Up here on the deck, he seemed well-proportioned. I get the sense he’s younger than me—but that’s probably because of the profanity and the passing out.
“Were you traveling alone? On the cruise?”
This time there’s no mistaking his hoarse chuckle. “Booked the trip with my fiancée.”
“Where is she?”
“New York.”
I wait a beat for him to say more. When he doesn’t, I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Hey, yeah…you got the internet? Google me, man. Vance Rayne.”
It takes me a second to find my phone, lying face-down where I dropped it on the deck. I shut the porn window, take a second to delete the history, and search the name he gave. The first thing that pops up is an article from Page Six where he’s pictured on a red carpet beside a tall, thin blonde in a sapphire blue gown.
I squint at her familiar face—one of the Ellisons, I think—and then drink in the image of the man in the tuxedo. Prickling heat spreads through me as I note his messy brown hair; sharp, dark brows; and a rougeish dimple paired with a smile that’s part mischievous, part chill. The jacket stretches over his broad shoulders, so he’s bulky…but seems lanky, too.
I skim the article, which confirms he was engaged to Lana Ellison, one of Manhattan’s career socialites, until the date of the article, which reports they’ve broken things off. The story refers to him as an artist. I click on that link.
“Hey, man—”
“Give me a second.”
I squint down at a mural depicting a blue-haired woman with her face tilted up toward pink clouds. It appears to cover the side of a brick building. Interesting.
I slip the phone into my pocket and search the deck for my Bunnahabhain, find it by the rail and scoop it up. I’m still warm and fuzzy from the scotch, so I splash my face with some water from an Evian bottle before stepping back over to the railing.
“Meet me at the stern, Vance.”
He’ll know how to get up. He’s already done it once.
This time, I drop the ladder for him and watch him ascend. I was right about his build. He looks lean—almost lanky, but with too much muscle to be called that. Moonlight shines off his impressive chest and shoulders. Water rivulets twine down his well-defined legs, dripping from swim shorts that cling to him like a glove.
When he steps onto the deck, he pushes his hair out of his face, and I realize it’s almost shoulder-length. I look him discreetly up and down. Guy works out. Probably not every day, but with some regularity. I can’t tell who’s taller—him or me—but I think I’m definitely bulkier. I’m an every day guy. Got the home gym thing going.
Vance Rayne, long-haired artist, wipes a palm over his face, and I can see he’s classically attractive. Strong, dark brows over striking eyes. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose…lips that aren’t too thick or too thin. I think he’s maybe twenty-five.
His eyes find mine.
“Water. Please.” His voice is rough. His face, all Adonis lips and cheekbones, looks suspended in the moon glow. He’s half swallowed by the inky darkness—not quite corporeal. And yet his realness drums through me.
“Sure,” I manage.
I beckon him forward a few feet to the sectional seating around the cockpit. The space has the feel of several couches arranged in a broken square. He doesn’t sit, though, as I grab some water from a cooler.
I notice a dark blot on his forehead. It smears down toward his eyebrow, and my stomach does a slow roll.
“You are bleeding.”
I watch as he drains the water bottle dry. As I pass him another, something dark falls like a shadow over my heart. It’s as if the night has gelled around us. Seconds crawl past surreally. I drag in a long, slow breath, and he quirks his brow, reminding me I need to do something about the gash.