Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” he replies as he takes the cards from her.
Huh, fourteen nights? I frown as I follow him into the elevator and the door closes behind us.
“You booked me for fourteen nights?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies as he watches the dial above the door go up the floors.
“Why?”
“So you have somewhere safe until you get yourself sorted. This may come as a surprise to you, but I am not exactly thrilled about leaving you here alone.”
“Oh.” I smile gratefully. “Thank you.”
We stay silent as the doors open and I follow him down the corridor to the room. He opens it and I stand still. Wow. It’s glitzy… like, super glitzy.
A beautiful, cream upholstered king bed with a studded Head board and a huge leather caramel lounge. Sheer curtains line a back wall that is alight with natural light. Behind the bed is a coffee-coloured glass wall, and I peer around to see a huge free-standing bathtub and marble bathroom.
I laugh out loud.
He smiles a proud of himself smile. “Is it okay?”
“Okay?” If I could hug him, I would. “It’s the nicest room I have ever seen.”
He walks over to the window and pulls the sheer curtain back to look down at the road, as if thinking. “I will take you shopping and then I will head straight back to the ship,” he replies as he keeps his eyes firmly on the street below.
My good mood instantly falls. “Oh, okay.” Yes, he’s right, he needs to go. Of course he does. “What do we need to go shopping for?”
“Clothes. You don’t own a thing.”
I shrug. “Ah, that’s okay. I’m not really a things person.”
He turns and looks at me in surprise. “You don’t like things?”
I shake my head.
“All women like things.”
“I’m not all women. I have done without things for most of my life and I know for certain that things don’t make me happy.”
His eyes hold mine for an extended time before he finally answers. “We will get you what you need.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“We will open you a bank account while we are here.” He fumbles around in his bag and pulls out a wad of cash and passes it over to me. “Here is five thousand to deposit.”
I frown as I stare down at the thick bundle of money in my hand. “You’re giving me money?”
“Of course I am. How are you going to live if you don’t have money?”
I stare down at the cash in my hand, overwhelmed at his kindness.
“I-I will pay you back,” I stammer.
“Not necessary. I earn a lot.”
Regret swirls in my stomach. I have stolen his diamonds and here he is being nice and giving me his hard earned cash. Well, not technically his diamonds, but the same thing I suppose. He is the boss of the ship and they are under his watch. What if he gets into trouble because of me?
What if they kill him?
Oh no, my mind starts to race. What if they do kill him? What if they torture him to death and think that he was in on this with me? No, they wouldn’t. He would blame Stucco, that’s what I would do. Someone was already stealing from the ship. The key went missing remember.
Fuck.
Should I fess up?
No. Don’t be stupid.
The air in the room changes and I feel panicky and sick.
I look over at his broad back as he stares down at the street lost in his own world. What is he thinking about?
Is he onto me?
I don’t want him to take me shopping now. I want to get as far away from him as possible. I feel guilty. I know he is feeling somewhat guilty for letting them take me, throwing money at me and all. What if he knows I took it and he is setting a trap to see if I will really go through with it?
Oh, I hate this. I am not cut out to be a fucking criminal.
My thoughts are broken by his deep, husky voice. “Come on then.” He moves to the door and ushers me out.
Moments later, we are walking through the reception area and he picks up my hand and takes it in his. My heart flutters. We haven’t been intimate since he told me he was bored in the cabin and was going to Chelsea, and he hasn’t tried to touch me at all. Not that I have wanted him to. He is probably lucky he hasn’t, to be honest, because I may have cut off his hand.
Part of me—the insecure part—wonders if he turned off me when he heard about my fucked up family, of me being broke and hiding all of my life. Of my own flesh and blood murdering the mother of his child in front of that child. I know I shouldn’t feel embarrassed and it’s not my fault, but I feel as though, in the eyes of others, it taints me.