The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

They were charming men; I will give them that. Both stupidly good-looking too. And rich. Rich was an important factor for a lot of people.

Even with all that going for them, I’d never had even an inkling of attraction. See they were roguish bad boys. They liked to have entertain and explore the world. They were both light and fun most of the time.

Me?

I had a thing for dark and broody. And maybe just a bit dangerous.

Okay, fine.

More than a bit.

I had been trying to quit bad guys since my teens. What can I say? They were a hard habit to kick. It wasn’t like they made a patch for it or something. I was on my own with nothing but my willpower. And as someone who could—and frequently would—eat a dozen donuts all by myself, let’s just say self-restraint was not one of my strong suits.

“Stop wobbling.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to my own stomach, the boat, the ocean, or a combination thereof, but my tone was getting increasingly sharp as I made it to the bow of the vessel, taking another deep breath at the sight of a lone male figure lounging in the u-shaped seating area made of pristine white couches. They were the kind of white that was always stark: meticulously clean despite the endless parties often held there and the pouring—and spilling—of liquor.

A part of me wanted to vengefully smear my lipstick all over the perfect material. But, really, that would only be punishment for the staff, not Fenway or Bellamy – two men who likely didn’t even know what a bottle of fabric cleaner looked like.

“I suggest running,” I called to the lone figure on the couch. “I am feeling homicidal,” I added helpfully, getting closer.

I blame the sun in my eyes.

And the pounding in my head.

Though, let’s face it, in my profession, there was no excuse to be off your game. Not even when you were drugged and woozy. Not even if you thought you were among friends.

That was how you got yourself killed.

I’d had a pretty remarkable track record of staying alive so far given the clusterfucks I’d been in, surrounded by men with more ego and temper than brains.

Yet I didn’t see it.

Until I was right on top of it.

It wasn’t Fenway.

Or Bellamy.

Oh, hell no.

This man? No one would ever confuse him for light and playboyish.

No.

He was all dark and intense and, well, manly.

I won’t lie: my body? Yeah. It did that thing it always did when it was confronted with a man who exuded confidence, whose aura flickered with danger, whose gaze felt like it was slicing through me and examining the pieces.

It responded.

Strongly.

It didn’t hurt, either, that this man in particular looked like he belonged on cologne ads or something.

If I had to pick an age, I would put him in his late thirties with deep brown hair, gooey brown eyes to match, framed with thick black lashes and overshadowed by a stern brow. He had a strong forehead, a strong jaw covered in a short beard, a straight nose, and wonderfully golden-kissed tan skin.

And this man?

He had the sort of body suits were built for. Much like the dark blue one that was covering his strong six-foot-three frame.

The top two buttons on his crisp white shirt were opened. I knew men well enough to call this a power move. Because only a man who was secure in his position in life dared to break suit-wearing rules.

He was magnificent.

But he was there.

A place he shouldn’t have been.

With me.

Who had very definitely been drugged.

Had I even seen Bellamy the night before?

Was this yacht still Fenway’s? Rich men traded expensive seafaring vessels the way some might flippantly get rid of last season’s fast fashion.

Yet, despite this being a possibly very dangerous situation, was I frantically trying to figure out if I had a weapon on me, or, in lieu of that, what was close-by that could be used as a weapon?

Nope.

No, I was not.

What was I thinking, then, you might be wondering.

If my hair was as messy as I thought, if my clothes were flattering enough, if my hangover was making me uglier?

Because, you know, those were important things to be wondering when I could potentially be in a life-or-death situation.

“I don’t feel much like running, kopelia mou,” he told me, his voice a shiver over suddenly very heated skin.

I knew that accent.

And I knew that term.

Kopelia mou.

My girl.

Greek.

He was Greek.

Suddenly, the images came flooding back. The beautiful water. The white cave houses. The blue accents.

Santorini.

We were off the coast of Santorini.

How the hell strong were the drugs that were given to me if we got all the way to Greece from New Jersey without me waking up?

Following that slightly panic-driven thought, and all the possible ramifications of being that out of it—was another realization.