First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars #8) - Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page 0,84
more?
Too depressing to think about.
***
The launch she’d hired picked them up the next afternoon and took them out to the prince’s yacht. With four decks, a helipad, and a Darth Vader–black hull, it was an ocean-bound fortress, and the closer they got, the more nervous she became. Coop, however, was hard-eyed and focused. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
A steward, who introduced himself as Malik, greeted them with cardamom-scented coffee and dates. “Let me show you to your stateroom. You can change into swimwear there, if you’d like. His Highness will arrive soon.”
On the way to their stateroom on the second deck, Malik pointed out the direction to the pool, movie theater, and gym where, he assured them, guests would find a complete array of shoes and workout clothes. As they passed through the main salon, he indicated the grand staircase that eventually led to the owner’s private quarters on the top deck and also mentioned the saunas, hair salon, and massage room.
Their stateroom had picture windows looking out at the sea and enough gilt for a cathedral. “Even you’re not rich enough to buy one of these little boats,” she said with undisguised glee. And then, “Are you?”
“Hard to say.” He looked around with distaste. “It’s fine for a couple of days, but I like dirt under my feet.”
“And coming out of your mouth.”
Their bedroom romp had been a deliciously erotic verbal smut fest, and he grazed his knuckles over the top of her breast.
After she’d changed into her suit, she wrapped a zebra-striped scarf she’d retrieved from her bag of disguises around her waist. His gaze moved from everything she hadn’t covered up to the bright yellow tote she wasn’t letting out of her sight. “What all do you have in there?” he asked suspiciously.
“The latest issue of Cosmo and an eyelash curler—what do you think?”
He gave her his deadeye look. “I think you’d better keep your cool.”
“You worry about yourself.”
“If only it were that simple,” he muttered.
They headed down one deck to the pool. Half a dozen pristine sail-shaped canopies protected the white couches and cushy chaises from the sun. Tables held platters of tropical fruit, cheeses, flatbreads, roasted nuts, and exotic-looking dips, while the full-length bar displayed every variety of liquor forbidden in the Realm. Malik appeared to see what they would like to drink. Coop ordered a beer, but Piper opted for iced tea.
Coop looked disgustingly amazing in dark green board shorts that turned his eyes into pirate’s doubloons. As he headed toward the pool, he tossed aside his T-shirt, revealing the chest she adored, not only for its impressive muscles, but also for its sprinkling of hair—just enough so he looked like a real man instead of an oiled-up male centerfold.
She regarded him enviously as he performed a semigraceful dive off the board. Her new black swimsuit was technically a one-piece, but with two diagonal cutouts—one a big sideways V under the bandeau top, and the other above the low bottom—it didn’t feel dependable enough to risk a dive. She’d have preferred something more functional, but she couldn’t imagine any of Coop’s girlfriends worrying about practicality. And that’s what she was passing herself off as. One of Coop’s girlfriends.
Uneasiness crept along the pit of her stomach. Being a girlfriend implied a relationship, with maybe some kind of potential. But that wasn’t how they were. She was his sex partner, his investigator, his bodyguard, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not. A bogus girlfriend.
Coop hauled himself back up on the pool deck, rivulets of water running down every taut muscle. She wanted to lick him. Instead, she slipped her sunglasses to the top of her head and curled her lip. “That dive was a six-point-three at best.”
“Let’s see you do better.”
That’s the way it was between them. Challenges and competition. Neither willing to give the other an inch.
A helicopter buzzed overhead. Soon, a jet-black Airbus landed on the helipad in the bow.
The prince joined them half an hour later, along with three young—very young—beauties in the most minuscule of string bikinis. The girl-women retired to the couches on the other side of the pool, not speaking to him or to each other.
She’d seen photos of the prince, but his dyed black hair and weird mustache made him even less appetizing in person. A gaudy gold crest decorated the pocket of his white sports shirt, and his navy Bermudas revealed pigeon legs. From twenty feet away, she could smell the overpowering musk of his