Hooked (2 page)

Quitting turned out to be a bit of a letdown. It was hard for me to accept being so expendable. When I explained that I landed a new job as a private chef on a yacht, Chef Asshole warmly congratulated me. It seems that once I was no longer his employee, the entire façade slipped away. He didn't seem particularly hurt or even annoyed. Matter-of-fact as hell, he got one of the cooks on the phone right away to suss out his buddies. Then he surprised me by pouring a round of shots for the crew and toasting my new career.

Water. Bridge. And I was so outta there.

My roommate Rachel took the news with her usual calm. I've always adored Rachel for being everything I'm not. She's steady, realistic and uncomplicated. She's pulled me off of more than one cloud. I knew I'd miss the hell out of her.

She said she'd miss me too, but what a deal. Who wouldn't be happy? An absentee roomie who paid her half of all the bills was sweet. Plus, she'd be free of the responsibility of dishing out my daily dose of reality. Rachel was an angel for putting up with me the past couple years. No matter how ridiculous or disastrous the situation I put myself in, Rache was always able to take the edge off.

I lucked into being Rachel's roommate during the last year of culinary school. We scored a very cute little two bedroom apartment above a commercial space right off of Collins Avenue. At first it seemed kind of weird to be living over an adult 'bookstore' but I got used to it. I sure learned that triple X is not just for creepy dudes in trench coats. I saw every variation of the human race pass through the doors below me. I always got a kick out of 'Mr. & Mrs. Average Middle Age' coming out hand in hand with a jumbo pack o'porn. It made me feel good to know that there's life after thirty or forty.

It wasn't really an option not to keep my place. I simply didn't have enough time to pack up all my stuff, put it into storage and tie up loose ends. Besides, with the fat pay the expense seemed trifling. And as quickly as everything had moved, I kind of liked the security of knowing I still had a home and that Rachel was minding it. Just in case.

"I'm psyched for you Lara. Chef on a luxury yacht. Way cool." Rachel poured us two glasses of pinot and we sat down on the couch clinking glasses in a toast to my future.

"To El Lobo!"

"To sailing off into the sunset!"

"To rich farts with big boats!"

"To no more jerks telling you what to do!"

I cleared my throat. "Well, that might not be entirely the case. The Captain told me that the owner is difficult and demanding."

"How much more difficult and demanding can he be than what you've put up with for the past year?"

"That's more or less what I told Captain Richard." The wine swirled in my glass as I gave that thought some air time. "I mean, he's just one man, right? One man, three meals a day. How hard can that be?"

***

I left for work on El Lobo as soon as I could down some coffee the following morning. I didn't do 'early' very well. My small suitcase contained what little clothing I thought I'd need when I wasn't wearing my uniform. My jackets and chef pants were slung over my shoulder in a hanging bag. I didn't have a clue where we were headed so it was hard to pack any leisure clothes. I figured on what I was going to be paid, there would be plenty of cash to pick stuff up along the way.

I scanned the hulls of the boats as I passed them. "Princess Jackie", "Bone Shaker", "Reel Adventure" and "Potentate" I read as I searched for "El Lobo". I couldn't help but wonder how people decide what to name their multi-million dollar toys. In El Lobo's case it was obvious. Kitchen Spanish had given me a fair grasp of the language and I'd learned more than just food words and insults over the past year. Many of the Central Americans who staffed the restaurants of South Florida had nicknames. 'Lobo' had been a five-foot tall dishwasher who took a fair ration of shit for calling himself 'Wolf'. So "El Lobo" was a pretty obvious choice for a man whose name was Wolf.

Finally I saw the boat. It was gleaming under the fierce midday sun. Everything was white-- pristine, perfect white. I'm no expert in boats, but I could appreciate the kind of skill and vision it must take to bring something like El Lobo to life. What a beauty! The boat rose from the water with three levels above the deck, all encased in dark glass. It was a floating mansion for sure, ultra-modern and sleek as a rocket.

I was about to step onto the gangplank when a little Latino man barreled past me with a small duffle bag and a knife case tucked under his pudgy arm. He was slinging Spanish insults back to the boat over his shoulder. "Loco gringo" and a great variety of creative cusswords flew from his mouth. He was hilarious. Little spit balls whitened the corners of his mouth and his wide, greasy nostrils flared in rage. The guy should've had cartoon steam coming from his ears.

The sun was in my eyes but I could make out the contours of a tall man standing at the transom yelling back. "Damn you, Rodrigo, we'd be halfway to the Bahamas by now! I hope you fucking cut your fingers off with that knife you're so proud of!" As I moved into the shadow of the yacht I saw a handsome angular face knotted in frustration, black brows slashing over blue eyes. I instantly knew who he was. Morgan Wolf would have looked like he owned the Queen Mary if he'd been standing on her deck.

He was choreographed with natural rhythm as he paced the wide span of the boat. I love a graceful man. I was sick to death of guys who walked around with put-on gangsta strides or puffed up looks that said 'Hey, I work out!' "
Yeah, bro, I can tell--your trapezius seems to have swallowed your neck!"
Ick.

I suppose I was expecting some clichéd gray-haired gentleman in a blue blazer, maybe with an ascot and a fake coat-of-arms on his breast pocket. Instead, I saw a man not much older than me in a fishing shirt and board shorts.

None of my various musings in the short time since I'd been hired had included having a boss who looked like he stepped right off of a TAG billboard for 'rugged sportsmen who demand precision' or some such nonsense. It was a face that would command attention anywhere. At least, it would command my attention and pretty much any other girl I knew. The dark, several days old growth of beard may or may not have been his usual style. I usually hated that look. It made me want to scream "
Make up your mind! Shave or grow a beard!
" On
this
man, it just looked masculine and sexy as hell. A fantasy moment flickered over my inner thighs as I imagined the whiskery feel of his face between them.

The fleeing little man's "
Fookeen
mono" needed no translation when I saw a tiny animal jump onto the transom chattering indignantly. The monkey seemed as fired up as the retreating man and was clearly enjoying its contribution to the little drama. I wouldn't have been surprised to see it shake its little fist.

"She never liked you anyway!" Wolf snarled and held out his hand to the white-faced creature. She leapt into his arms.

I gingerly picked my way over the gangplank that swayed under my feet. I tend to have vertigo any time I am suspended over anything. Bridges kind of freak me out and I wouldn't be caught dead on a zip line. Captain Richard appeared on deck and both men watched me slowly approach. With both hands full, I couldn't hold on to the rail as I would have liked. My steps were slow and clumsy.

The monkey scrambled up her tree-tall owner's body and perched on his shoulder. She looked comically small against his broad frame. Morgan Wolf towered above Captain Richard and gave the mischievous primate a perfect perch from which to try and steal the captain's cap. He ducked away from her grasp as if they'd played that game before.

"I fail to see why that midget bastard found Mrs. Dalloway so infuriating," I heard Wolf say as he ran the monkey's dark tail through his elegant fingers. His almost unnaturally resonant voice came from the depths of his broad chest. It was a shiver worthy voice; the kind that would sound great reading Shakespeare. Preferably the sonnets.

"Something about a banana soufflé, Boss." Richard answered him with a poorly suppressed grin.

"It was her birthday!"

Richard inclined his head toward me as I reached the side of the boat. "Here comes our new chef." He relieved me of my suitcase and offered his hand to me. I descended the teak steps onto the floor of the cockpit grateful to be on 'solid' ground. "Lara, welcome aboard." He gave me a beaming smile, creases deepening around his mouth and eyes. I guessed Richard was in his early thirties, but a life at sea might have weathered him. His cute boyish face seemed almost innocent.

Kindness was written all over him. It was one of the reasons I had taken the job. Richard made the thought of being the only female on a ship in the middle of the ocean feel a little bit safer.

The man standing slightly behind him had something entirely different written all over his face. Kind was not a word that sprang into my mind. The 'Boss' gave me a thorough once over with a fierce cobalt stare. "You're not what I expected." I thought that was a rather terse way to greet a new employee, but I gamely offered my hand and introduced myself.

"Lara Lamb." It unnerved me a little when the monkey began to bob up and down as we shook hands. He reached up with his free hand and sort of pinned her in place by her feet. I noticed the pale aura around his eyes that comes from lots of hours wearing sunglasses. His hand engulfed mine. There was no warmth in it.

"Morgan Wolf."

Richard let out a great snort and began to laugh. We both turned to him. "The
wolf
and the
lamb
. Now that's some coincidence, isn't it?"

For some reason, the observation made the heat rise in my cheeks. Morgan dropped my hand and cleared his throat. "Yes, well . . . welcome aboard, Chef. I hope Richard has told you we'd like to get underway as quickly as possible."

"Yes, Mr. Wolf. I'm going to try to have everything in place tomorrow."

"Don't try. Just do it." He shook his head as he gave me another long, appraising look. "No, not at all what I expected." Then he turned his back and disappeared into the salon. His abruptness struck me as a little rude.

He crossed the cockpit on long legs that probably covered twice the distance in a step as I did in two. They were athletic, muscled and beautifully tanned. The hair on them had been bleached to a golden brown that caught the sun.

The monkey turned her head and kept her eyes on me as long as she could. He continued to hold her in place against his shoulder as he passed through the automatic doors that closed with a faint whisper behind his back.

"He's not real warm and fuzzy. But you get used to it. Just grow some thick skin. I hardly notice any more."

"Thick skin's a line chef's armor, Captain. I'm used to actual
abuse
in the kitchen."

"Well, I've never known him to be abusive. He's just brusque. And demanding. And occasionally a little irrational."

"Swell
,
just what I left the restaurant kitchen to get away from
," flashed through my head. But I just smiled at Richard and said, "I can take it." I decided I had to ask, "So, why am I not what he expected?"

"Oh, don't pay any attention to that comment. I think when I told him I hired a female chef he must have formed a mental picture of  . . . you know, spiked hair, tattoos. Butchy."

"I'll hold my comment on the stereotyping, but I'm curious as to why you didn't correct his assumption."

Richard looked at me for a moment before he answered. "Frankly, if I had told him that his new chef was a pretty little brunette with gorgeous amber eyes he might not have agreed."

There was no mistaking the flirtation in his voice. I thought it wise to ignore it, at least for the time being. I was going to take plenty of time to shape my relationships on this job. No stupid crushes I'd regret later. I hadn't been with a guy in forever and even when I had been the experiences were on a scale where the low end was disaster and the high end was disappointment. I was ready for that to change but this time I was determined to get it right. "But why would he hold that against me?"

"I've known Morgan forever. We were wharf rats together on this very pier. He has certain cubbyholes for people, especially women. I could tell the moment I met you that you weren't going to fit into any of his boxes. I just figured it was better this way."  He guided me to the salon doors and the etched glass panels opened in front of us.

Much as I would have liked to explore his comment, the discussion was instantly forgotten. I couldn't stifle a gasp as I took in the room. It was my first look inside a mega-yacht and the sight was mind-blowing. The room was huge. Humongous. White leather sectional sofas were arranged around polished wood coffee tables. There was a dining table for twelve at the far end of the room. The walls between the expansive windows were all hardwood paneled and the ceiling had wooden beams separating embossed sections with recessed lighting. It was contemporary, but warm.

"Kick ass, isn't it?"

"It's beautiful. Forgive me for gaping. I've never seen anything quite this luxurious."

"Believe it or not, you'll get used to it."

"The artwork is beautiful." I admired the many bright, Impressionistic paintings that hung in the salon. I stood in front of a reclining nude for a moment and admired it. I remembered it from one of my many interminable art lessons with my mother. To see something as valuable as the painting was hanging in a
boat
blew me away.

The woman in the picture was round and ripe. She was drying her curves with a towel that draped around her and echoed the folds of her flesh. Behind her, the background bore swirls of blues and pinks. Every part of the work was soft and dusky, as if painted through gauze.

"Probably worth more than the boat," I started at the sound of Morgan Wolf's voice. He was standing close behind me, casting an electric shadow over my body. My body registered his nearness by slamming the needle on my wattmeter to the max. "She's a floating gallery. Are you a fan of Renoir?"