Freefall (The Indigo Lounge Series, #5) (7 page)

“Wow, who would build a boat like this just for themselves?” I ask with an incredulous laugh.

Bethany hesitates and I frown. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. That depends.”

“On what?” I ask as the launch slows alongside the yacht. This close, the vessel looks huge, like a floating palace of pure decadence. Had my hands not been full, I’d have reached out and stroked the sleek indigo lines running alongside the silvery metallic paintwork—my lady wood for the stunning vessel is that hard.

But Bethany hasn’t responded, and my frown deepens. “B, what’s going on?” I spot the driver’s waiting to help me out. “Hold on, let me get off this launch.”

I tuck my clutch under my arm and step onto what I know from the vessel plans is the second floor. It’s where I’ll be welcoming the guests in a little over a week’s time, and I’m struck dumb as I walk into the silver and indigo trimmed reception room.

Holding the phone to my ear, I start to turn in a wide circle. “Wow, Bethany, this boat is incredible.”

“Keely there’s something you should know. It may not affect how you feel about the project, but—” I stop listening as I catch a shadow from the corner of my eye. And even before I turn fully, I
know
. 

My senses jump to alert as my eyes widen. The phone slips from my useless hand and clatters to the hardwood floor as I recognize the man entering the room.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Mason Sinclair?”

Keely

“H
ello, Keely.”

I thought I’d exaggerated the brooding growl of his voice. But as it washes over me, I realize I’d underestimated its feral power.

A shiver ripples down my spine as he stalks slowly toward me, his eyes conducting a leisurely survey over me, which does nothing to reassure me that this man isn’t anything but a menace to my wellbeing. And he hasn’t answered my question.

“I said what—”

“I heard you,” he cuts across me without raising his voice. When he stops in front of me, I force myself not to take a step back from the raw energy vibrating from him. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing him here, or it’s the setting sun behind him, bathing him in a larger than life aura, but an inner voice mocks my attempts to put him in a safe, comfortable box.

There’s nothing safe or comfortable about Mason Sinclair. Despite the stylish black roll-neck sweater and faded jeans he’s wearing, I’m not fooled into thinking there’s anything civilized about him. His full beard is gone, but it’s been replaced by a day-old stubble that somehow intensifies the dark, unrelenting allure I find myself getting dangerously drawn to again.

I forcefully snap my gaze from his, bending to retrieve my phone. The blank screen announces my lost connection to Bethany, and the sensation of being even more untethered irritates me.

“If you heard me, then perhaps you care to answer me?”

“I will if you attempt to ask the question again without the foul language.”

A smirk plays on my lips as I tilt my head. “My dirty mouth really bothers you, doesn’t it?” I tease.

“There’s a time and place for it.”

“Don’t tell me. You’re the
I-like-a-lady-on-my-arm-and-a-whore-in-the-bedroom
type?”

Deep hazel eyes gleam at me and I get the feeling he’s secretly amused by my question. “Doesn’t every man?”

Before I can answer, he looks past my shoulder and nods. I turn to see a waiter heading our way with a tray of drinks. Mason hands a champagne-filled one to me and takes the other—soda with a wedge of lime—before dismissing the waiter.

“Shall we start this conversation again?” he asks with a sexily quirked eyebrow.

“If it’ll get my question answered quickly, sure, why not? What
on earth
are you doing on this boat, Benedict Mason Sinclair III?” I ask in fake upper crust tones and wide-eyed pseudo innocence. Then I immediately cringe inside because I’ve let slip that I know more about him than he’s revealed so far.

His smile tells me he’s noted the slip, and I take a hasty sip of champagne and wait for the inevitable smug comeback. “I’m setting up the entertainment lounges for Zach.”

My champagne threatens to go down the wrong way. I hastily clear my throat. “
You’re
the designer I’m meeting?” Nothing in his online profile had said he was a designer. Then again, it hadn’t said anything specific about what Mason does for a living.

“I am. And bravo,” he murmurs, watching my lips as I frown.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“You just expressed yourself succinctly without swearing.”

Jesus effing Christ
. “Okay, fine, cool your jets, mister. I can actually speak without swearing.”

“Then why do you choose not to with me?”

“Because...” I stop, then kick myself for floundering. No way am I going to tell him he brings out the flustered, awkward teenager I used to be. Or that I secretly hate that he’s seen me at my lowest. So I shrug. “I don’t know, you seem to bring out the worst in me.”

That twitch at the corner of his mouth again, the one that makes me even more irritated, and even more attracted to him. We watch the sun heading for the blue horizon for a few minutes until the silence becomes too uncomfortable for me.

“So, your first name is Benedict?”

His gaze slides to mine, but again he doesn’t respond, only tilts his glass to his lips and takes a long swallow.

“Do you prefer Ben, Ned or just Dick?” I ask, my tongue firmly in my cheek.

His jaw flexes. “I told you what I preferred two weeks ago. For an intelligent woman, your continued need to aggravate strikes me as quite reckless. Or perhaps it’s something else entirely?” he speculates, his voice a low, rough rumble that reminds me of all the time I’ve wasted trying to forget that voice, that face.

“What, it’s suddenly reckless to make conversation?”

“You’re not making conversation. You’re goading. The question is why. Are you hoping I’ll punish you again like I did out in Montauk, Keely?”

Suddenly, I’m hot. My breath strangles somewhere in my lumbar region and I can’t quite meet his gaze. If what he did to me on the hood of that car was punishment, then I shudder to think what his brand of pleasure would feel like.

“Get over yourself, my buttons aren’t that easy to push,” I lie.

“Really?” He turns toward me and cocks his hip against the railing. That stance should make him seem relaxed, cordial. It should make
me
relax, but it does the opposite and brings to mind an image of a cobra drawing back before it strikes, sinking its deadly venom into unsuspecting prey. “So far the evidence points to the contrary,” he says, his eyes staying on mine with a ferocious intensity that makes me aware of every single vulnerable pore in my body.

I can’t seem to move, or respond. He conducts another survey down my body, this time deliberately lingering on the pulse hammering at my throat and the shadowed area between my then dropping to my hips and legs, before climbing back up again.

Every inch of me tingles. I want to shut off the sensations this man seems to pull so effortlessly from me, but I can’t. My usual ability to flirt and discard at will has deserted me, and all I can do is watch him watch me.

“Perhaps we should explore that,” he invites with a dark undertone.

I desperately pull myself together. “Or perhaps we should get back on point and you should give me a tour of the boat, seeing as that was the purpose of this meeting?”

He blinks disgustingly long lashes and frustration hums from his body. I recall his condemnation of basic social graces in his kitchen two weeks ago and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing in this place if mingling with society is so abhorrent to him.

Of all the places on earth, Monte Carlo is the very fleshpot of decadence and flashy luxury, a place where people specifically come to see and be seen. So far Mason Sinclair has struck me as the very antithesis of that lifestyle.

He remains silent for the time he takes to finish his drink, and I realize another thing about him. He’s not a man who feels inclined to fill silences with conversation.

Whereas I’m the opposite. Silences terrify me. I can’t help but wonder what another person sees and thinks of me when they’re not talking to me.

The moment he sets his glass down, I turn away from the breathtaking view. “Shall we?”

“In good time.” He folds muscle-roped arms across his broad chest and my attention is reluctantly drawn to his shoulders. “You want to tell me something about yourself?” he asks lazily.

I bristle at his indifferent tone. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Since you’ve gone to some effort to find out about me, I thought I’d make an effort to extend the courtesy.”

The implication that he’d rather not be asking makes my teeth grind. “I know how basic etiquette bores you. You needn’t feign interest on my behalf.”

“My interest in you isn’t feigned. I think I made that clear on our first meeting.”

“And I think we also drew a firm line under our meeting that night?”

His head cocks to one side. “Did we? That’s funny. I remember walking away feeling distinctly...unresolved.”

I shake my head, exasperation seeping through my tight hold on composure. “Heads up, I’m going to use a dirty word in a minute, so you might want to hang on to your fluffy cravat. Your blue balls are your problem. I have no interest in fucking you. Before I fuck someone I have to like them. And I don’t like you, Mason Sinclair.”

He studies me for almost a minute before a blinding smile spreads over his face. The transformation in his features makes me eternally grateful to be holding onto the rail when I feel the power of that smile move through me like a potent burst of electricity.

I remain in place as he drops his arms and closes the distance between us. “Why don’t you like me?” he asks. The smile is gone, but his voice remains darkly amused.

“Do I have to have a reason?” I ask, denying myself the urge to breathe deeply and take in more of that earthy scent pulsing off his body. I want to bury my nose in that scent. Roll around in it like a goddamn bitch in heat.

He reaches up and toys with a strand of my hair, moving it through his fingers like it’s his divine right. Like I’m his possession.

“No, you don’t. Same way I don’t have to have a reason for the need to strip you of every stitch of clothing you’re wearing—bar those fuck me boots—bend you over this rail right now and ram my cock so far up inside you, you’ll taste me in your mouth for years. I just do. And unlike you, I don’t intend to fight it.”

I stare at him, feeling hot. And dirty. And more turned on than I’ve been in my entire life.

I also feel afraid. Because that look is back, lurking in his eyes. The one that says he’s riding an edge that could take a wrong turn at any moment. Like a tornado you think you’re safe from, only to watch it twist your way and annihilate you in the blink of an eye.

He continues to caress my hair, the back of his fingers faintly grazing my cheek. Then he steps closer and brings his mouth to my ear. “I know how tight your abstinence has made you. Or it could be you’re that naturally tight.” His chest rises and falls and he seems to be lost in his own head. “No matter. Either way, the first time will be fast and a little rough. I haven’t fucked anyone in a very long time. But after that, I’ll take my time...make you ready to accommodate me. But not too much time. I want to stretch you, make you feel every inch of me. To do that, I’ll have to get a little rough. But you can take it, my little nerd girl. Can’t you?” he breathes in my ear.

A full body shiver engulfs me. I turn my head slightly so my mouth is close to his ear. I wait a beat, make sure I have his full attention. “Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t.
You
will never find out,” I say.

I step back and summon a smile I’m far from feeling.

His eyes gleam with a simmering fire before his features smoothen into a blank canvas I find impossible to read. “You’re fucking someone else?” he bites out in a low but ferocious tone.

I laugh at the sheer audacity of him. “You think the only reason I refuse you is because I have someone else in my bed? It can’t be that I don’t want you?”

“Are you denying that you do? Or are you denying that you’re involved with someone else?” he challenges, his eyes narrowing.

“What does it matter which one it is?”

He grabs my upper arms in a tight hold, and his nostrils flare in such animalistic exhibition of rage that I swallow. “I’ve never quite mastered the art of sharing my things, so yes, it matters which one of those two things you mean.”

I fight the heat dragging through my pelvis with everything I’ve got. Through the material of my sweater I feel the naked stamp of his touch on my skin. “There’s this wonderful little thing called free will that lets me say yes or no to whatever and whomever I want.”

“Answer the question, Keely. Are you fucking someone else?”

I wish with all my heart I can answer in the affirmative. But even the
mind your fucking business
that rises to my lips dies a quivering death when confronted with the dangerous vibes spiking from him.

I open my mouth to answer when a throat clears behind us. “Excuse me, sir—”

“Leave!” Mason snarls, his gaze not once moving from my face.

I gasp at the depth of his rudeness, and my head swivels to see the crew member hightailing it down the stairs. “You can’t speak to the staff like that!”

He catches my chin in his hand and forces my gaze to his. “Keely,” he breaths my name with a rumble that shoots straight to my belly.

“Jesus! No, I’m not screwing anyone right this minute. But I can’t promise that won’t change anytime soon.” I pull myself forcefully from his arms, and he lets me go.

“Do you have anyone specific in mind?” he enquires silkily.

“Why?” I toss back, bewildered at the path of this conversation.

“So I can ensure they meet an unfortunate end before they get anywhere near you.”

Normally, a statement like that would be uttered with a smile or joviality intended to take the threat and bite out of it. Mason Sinclair says the words with a lethal bluntness that makes my eyes widen. “Did you crawl out from under some rock recently?”