The warm sun glimmered over the crowd gathered on the dock, covering them in a hazy shimmer. Their expensive clothes and even more expensive jewelry were a statement to exactly where we were—a private yacht club in Tarifa, Spain. One whose annual membership fees cost more than the average American made in a year.
The murmur on the dock was a mass of varied emotions. Some congratulatory, some growling with displeasure, but all poised and groomed enough to keep it together and not throw punches. The wagers on the race had been bigger than the prize itself, and Demario had just lost his followers a boatload. Even if they could afford to lose the cash, it still stung to watch it wash away with the tide. It would make Demario even hungrier to agree to the terms of the next contest.
Demario docked in the slip next to us. His dark, Italian face was broody as hell, and Angelica was still scowling. If she’d been at the helm, I might not have been able to pull off the win. She put my skills to the test every single time we went up against each other.
This adventure from Tarifa, across the Strait of Gibraltar, to the tip of Morocco and back had been her idea. She’d raced it in their boat more times than I had. Hell, she’d practically grown up racing it.
Amen from the Spanish Yacht Club was one big grin as he approached. More good news. We needed him onboard if we wanted a chance at the Conquistar de la Atlántica cup.
“Quite the flashy ending,” he commented. His English was better than mine. Just like Dax’s. They’d both been raised in Europe, educated at the most exclusive boarding schools and universities, and taught an English that was full of proper vowels and full syllables.
My English was California hick town. Soft a’s and slurred s’s. But it gave me an advantage in this world I’d been living in for five years. They always underestimated me. I was always the blue-collar American who surprised them—even after all the wins Dax and I had under our belts.
We moved from the pier into the exclusive club full of eighteenth-century gold-gilded charm. At the antique bar, I ordered a round for the four of us.
“To Angelica and Demario for their fabulous attempt to displace Dax and me in the charts,” I said, raising my glass to them.
“It’s not over, Langley,” Demario grunted out.
“You’re in then?” Dax spoke before I could. “You’ll join Enzo and us in an attempt to win the cup?”
Demario glanced at Angelica. She gave a curt nod.
“Another round to celebrate,” Dax called.
I was never quite sure what Demario and Angelica’s relationship was. They didn’t seem friends or lovers. It seemed like they tolerated each other for the sake of the race. Whereas Dax and I were friends. Best friends.
Our relationship might have started off extremely unbalanced when he’d found me working as a mechanic at the marina in New London. But every time I’d passed up my winnings to put them back into the racing company we’d built, the scales had drawn a bit closer.
“I hate the idea of giving you more money,” Demario griped. “Can’t I use my own goddamn boat instead of the behemoth you’ve built?”
Dax bristled. Our yachts weren’t behemoths. They were goddamn pieces of art. A slick combination of a jet boat, cigarette boat, and day cruiser. Perfect for long-distance racing but also a design we could sell to the socialites in Dax’s inner circle who would use them as a statement to the world.
I’d designed the structure and the motor. Dax had designed the aesthetics. The Italian shipbuilder we were working with had thrown a hand in once they’d realized just what we’d envisioned. We had three finished and on their way to New York with ten more in the works.
“Quit griping, Demario. We’re practically giving you the boat,” I said, slapping him on the back. “They’ll be worth a nice little chunk of change when we win the Conquistar in them.”
Movement out of the corner of my eye brought Jada into focus. She was dressed in a bikini glittering with gems that was supposed to be hidden under a coverup, but the bright-blue material was practically sheer. Her silky black hair was tied back in a low ponytail and hidden beneath a floppy sunhat that would have given Audrey Hepburn