I raise my eyebrows. "You'd keep catering?"

"I'm the one who hires caterers, not the one who works for them."

"Are you offering me a job?" I joke bitterly.

He cocks his head to the side. "If you want it."

I frown when he blinks. He's not joking. "Excuse me?"

"You see that yacht over there by the far right dock?" he asks. I follow his pointing finger to see the biggest boat by far. It's a glistening hull of purest white, catching the setting sun and the faceted sapphire reflection of the water below.

"The Medusa?"

He nods. "She's mine. And I'm in need of a caterer."

I stare at him in shock. "You're serious?"

"Yes."

His gray eyes are hypnotic. A shiver passes through me, but I'm not sure if I'm hot or cold.

"When?" I manage to croak out. "When are you leaving?"

He smirks. "Right now."

2

ANTON

"I don't even know your name," she says, looking at me sideways.

Her eyes are an unusual hazel, the light green and caramel brown mixing into a kind of beautiful golden honey.

Sobbing in the sand in a wedding dress is what caught my attention. But her eyes are what held it.

"Tell me yours and I might return the favor."

"Jessa," she tells me. "Jessa Gilmore."

"Jessa," I murmur. She tastes good on my lips. "I am Anton."

If she notices that I've left out my last name, she ignores it and looks out toward The Medusa. My yacht is sitting pretty at the edge of the dock, ready to set sail.

"That's a nice boat," she remarks.

"Some men would take umbrage at that word."

"Boat?" she asks.

I shake my head. "'Nice.'"

She smiles. Her eyes flash golden, the same shade as her hair.

"Not that you asked," I continue, "but I pay my head chefs seven thousand dollars a night."

Her jaw drops. "I must've misheard you."

"Depends on what you heard."

"Seven thousand dollars for one night?" she bleats. "Is that true or is this just pity?"

"I'm not the pitying kind, Jessa. I pay well, but I expect you to earn it."

"I can cook," she says, her tone growing proud and defensive.

"Excellent. The staff will already be on board," I tell her. "The menu is more or less complete, but according to the ingredients at your disposal, you could change what you like."

She takes that in. "If you have all of that ready, why don't you already have a chef?"

"He canceled at the last moment," I lie seamlessly. "Family emergency, apparently. The sous chef was going to take over, but the girl is not as experienced as I prefer."

"You don't know what kind of experience I have," she points out.

"I have an instinct about these things."

I can tell she wants to question my logic, or lack thereof. But she also doesn't want to talk herself out of the possibility of escape.

She keeps looking back over her shoulder every few minutes like she's expecting to see someone running after her.

"Clock's ticking, Jessa," I say softly. "You need to make up your mind. Coming or going?"

She chews at her bottom lip as she thinks. I take the opportunity to survey her without shame.

The neckline of her gown scoops down, revealing the tops of her generous breasts. The tight bodice tapers at her waist before flaring over her hips. She's sin in white, with ocean foam and soft pearls of sand clinging to the hem. A fucking vision.

Over her shoulder, I notice my brother, Yulian, striding down the dock toward where we're standing on the shore. He raises his eyebrows the moment he sees the woman at my side.

"You're not going to ask me?" Jessa says abruptly.

"Ask you what?"

"About what happened," she says, gesturing to her dress as though she's asking for my opinion.

"Do you want me to?"

"I... I don't know yet."

"Then no, I'm not." I start walking to the boat. After a moment, she follows. Yulian meets us halfway.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" he asks in a cheesy cartoon villain voice.

Jessa looks between us in confusion before it clicks. We look too much alike to escape the obvious conclusion that we are, in fact, brothers.

"This is Yulian," I tell her. "My right-hand man."

"And brother," Yulian adds.

"The only job he can't be fired from."

Yulian smirks but keeps his eyes on Jessa. "Don't let the grumpy bastard fool you. He loves me."

She smiles nervously, still glancing back and forth between the two of us. I understand her hesitancy -we're not the most approachable duo.

I'm six-four and lean with muscle earned the hard way. Yulian is only two inches shorter, but he still spends hours in the gym to make up for the difference.

"Jessa is the new head chef for tonight," I explain to him.

Yulian gives me an intrigued smile. "New head chef? Well, that's something."

"Is it a problem?" Jessa asks immediately. "Because if it is, I don't need to be here."

"No, no," Yulian says in a hurry. "It's not a problem at all. I'll go and inform the staff now."

Yulian retreats back up the dock and disappears into the yacht. I turn to Jessa and offer her a hand to help her transition from boardwalk to boat. Her fingers tremble when they make contact with mine.

The moment we're onboard, she wrenches her hand back like I've burned her. I ignore it-for now.

"Come with me," I say, taking her below deck. "I'll find you something comfortable to wear for the night."

Her golden eyes scan the yacht, taking stock of everything as we walk. She looks impressed, but there's an air of caution about her, too. She's clearly never accepted an offer like this before.

Hell, I've never made an offer like this before.

I walk her to one of the bedrooms. Inside is a wardrobe filled with spare clothes.

"Jesus, it's even bigger than I thought," she mumbles.

"Even the smallest spaces can be manipulated to look big," I say.

"I'm a little sick of being manipulated today, actually," she replies bitterly.

I let her words hang in the air for a moment as I peruse the options hanging in the wardrobe. "I'm assuming you're talking about the man you were supposed to marry," I say casually, pulling out a simple white dress.

It activates a sense memory the moment I touch it. The cotton between my fingers as I shove her away from me. The feeling of her pulse, warm and frantic, underneath my-

No. I ruthlessly yank myself back to the present.

"Dane," Jessa fills in, distracting me. "That's my fiancé's name. Ex-fiancé, rather."

I push the white dress aside and opt for another, less practical option. One that doesn't trigger an unwanted rush of things I've spent a long time suppressing.

The blue slip dress in my hand will do just fine for this little kotyonok.

"I walked in on him with my maid of honor."

I shake my head in disgust. "Could he get any more cliché?"

"Right? It would be laughable if it wasn't so devastating."

"Is it devastating, though?"

She seems confused by the question. "What do you mean? Of course it is. I was supposed to marry the man."

"And now, you don't have to spend the rest of your life tied to a cheater," I point out. "Or with a shitty friend."

"Yeah, but there's an alternative scenario I thought I had locked up," she says, her piercing eyes fixed on me now. "One where my fiancé isn't a cheating bastard and my best friend isn't a backstabbing bitch."

"That's not the reality you're living, though. No matter how much you try to fight it."

She sighs. "No, I suppose not."

I hand her the blue dress. She accepts it mutely, but the moment she actually studies it, her eyebrows knit together.

"This is beautiful."

Yeah. That was probably her one redeeming quality. The woman who bought this had good taste.

"It should fit. It's just something to wear underneath your chef's whites," I tell her.

She eyes the dress skeptically. "Is it really okay if I wear this?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Doesn't it belong to someone?"

I turn towards the door so that she won't see the black expression that flickers across my face. "Not anymore."

Then, without bothering to wait for an answer, I stride out of the room, leaving Jessa stranded behind me.

* * *

The moment I get above deck, Yulian is in my face, a shit-eating grin on his face. "She's pretty."

"Did you take care of Anatoly?" I ask.

Yulian smiles. "He just disembarked. He wasn't too thrilled, but when I handed him the paycheck he didn't earn, he got over it."

"Money usually has that effect."

"I've informed the kitchen staff of the change in command, too," Yulian adds.

"Good."

I walk towards the cockpit. Yulian trails behind me. "Can she even cook?"

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Jesus, bro," he says with a laugh. "This is a lot of effort to go to for a quick lay."

"Who said anything about sex?" I ask.

He arches an eyebrow. "Why else would you offer that hot mess a job? Especially tonight when there's business to be conducted. Anatoly may not be the prettiest to look at, but the man knows how to be discreet."

"She's here to cook," I point out. "She doesn't need to know anything more about what happens onboard."

"She doesn't look stupid, sobrat."

No, she does not. I've noticed that, too.

"She'll be below deck the whole time," I say dismissively. "And at the end of the night-"

"Oh, you don't need to tell me what's going to happen at the end of the night." Yulian interrupts me with a suggestive smile. "Just for the record, I don't disapprove. It's about time you quit moping around like a kicked dog and did something for yourself."

I roll my eyes and push him aside. Laughing, he heads below deck to take care of the last minute chores before we push off. When the captain comes down to ask me if we're ready, I give him the goahead.

The engines fire up. Water churns, white and relentless at the tail of the boat. I take a seat on the bow and gaze out at the horizon.

Darkness paints the sky as the sun disappears. In a little while, a smaller vessel will bring the Meninsky clan out to meet The Medusa in international waters. But until then, I've got two hours of sky and sea.

And an erection that I can't seem to get rid of.

3

JESSA

"He's a looker, ain't he?"

I give a start of surprise and turn to the petite brunette in the kitchen with me. I've already forgotten her name, but she's looking at me with a little bit of amusement and a lot of understanding.

"I don't know what you mean," I answer lamely. It takes more willpower than I'd like to admit to keep from looking back towards the kitchen's long rectangular windows. We're below deck, but the windows open out across the floor of the yacht's upper deck, enough for me to see glimpses of what -or rather, who-I'm trying not to gawk at.

"It's okay," she laughs, not buying my lies for a second. "I've been there myself. I don't blame you for looking."

"I'm just intrigued, is all," I say as I blush hot. "He's... strange."

"That's not the word I would use to describe him," she says. She picks up a knife and starts dicing onions for the soup I'm preparing.

"What word would you use?"

"Dreamy," she says with a giggle that betrays her age.

She can't be more than twenty or twenty-one. Young enough that she can lust after Anton without stopping to consider whether that kind of thing is a good idea.

I smile. "I'm just here to cook."

"And I'm here to chop vegetables and carry dishes," she retorts. "But a little eye candy never hurt anyone."

"Which one are you talking about?" another girl chimes in. "The hot younger brother or the even hotter older brother?"

She's maybe a decade my senior. A chatty blonde with a mischievous smile and sharp eyes. I've forgotten her name, too. My brain is a little flustered right now, for more than one reason.

"You know Anton is more my type," the brunette says. "He's taller and he's lean but still muscly, you know? Also, he's got those gray eyes. To die for."

The blonde snorts. "You're a sucker for the whole 'dark and broody' thing."

"And? What's wrong with that?"

"It's the quiet ones you've got to watch out for."

I should probably remove myself from the chatter. Just find a quiet corner to put my head down and work. But the truth is that, deep down, another part of me wants to be here, soaking up every little tidbit I can about the broody older brother who seems to have every woman on land and sea alike eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Not necessarily," I hear myself saying. "My fiancé wasn't quiet at all. In fact, he was the life of the party. And he turned out to be a complete dirtbag."

Their eyes fall on me and I wonder why I spoke at all.

"Well, it's not, like, an absolute rule," the blonde mumbles awkwardly.

The brunette is more direct. "What did he do?"

"He cheated," I answer, mostly because I feel the need to say it out loud. "With my best friend. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's been cheating consistently for as long as we've been together."

"Jesus... when did you find out?"

"On my wedding day. Today."

She winces. "Fuck. I'm so sorry. That's rough."

My eyes flit back to the rectangular windows. Anton is sitting in the same spot he's been in all night. He's got one leg cocked at an angle over his other knee, arms spread out over the white cushioned sofa.

Only a certain kind of man can look quite so relaxed and on guard at the same time. Like he's fully aware that the entire world is at his fingertips for the taking.

"You deserve a medal for being here at all," the blonde says.

But what she really means is, What's wrong with you? She's looking at me as though I have some sort of terminal illness.

"Not really. Cooking always calms me down. I feel positively peaceful right now."

I notice the two women exchange a look, but their opinions barely touch me. No one can. I'm marooned on a desert island, emotionally-speaking.

Or at least, I'd like to be.

Probably why I've been ignoring my phone since the moment I set foot on The Medusa. It's resting on the corner of the spice shelf over the stove. I'm vaguely aware of the display light flashing with new notifications. But I have no interest in checking any of them.

"I'm changing the main course up a bit," I announce, taking advantage of their shock. "We're still going to use the fish, but I'm going to pan fry instead of sous vide. We don't have the time to waste."

"Whatever you want, chef."

"One more thing," I say, unable to avoid it any longer. "Can you repeat your names for me again?" "Molly," the brunette says.

"Lisa," answers the blonde.

Neither woman seems to take offense, thankfully.

I nod. "Lisa, I'm going to need you to watch the onions. Tell me when they turn golden brown. Molly, keep an eye on the sauce while I pinbone the fish."

I leave them to their tasks and move around the kitchen, checking to make sure all three courses are moving along. I was told dinner needed to be served at eight o'clock and we're already at half past seven, so I need to keep things moving.

Two of the other staff look up at me with interest-and some wariness mixed in, too-when I step over to their station.

"Can you chop those scallions a little finer, please?" I ask the skinny bald one. "Yes, chef."

"Andy, right?" I check.

"Anders."

"Right, sorry. Anders."

He points at the other man. "And this is Cory."

I nod towards the plump, older man. He seems to prefer quiet while cooking. I'm of the same mind.

"Cory," I say, "I've decided to make penne instead of ravioli. But don't worry, we're going to use the same dough."

He nods deferentially and opens his mouth to say something when we hear footsteps on the gleaming mahogany stairs that lead down to the kitchen.

Yulian stoops down and peers through the door. His eyes find me instantly. "Chef Jessa, you're wanted on the deck."

I blink in surprise. "Me?"

He nods. "You."

I want to refuse. There's too much to do and there's a lot of money on the line. But I don't want to disappoint anyone, either. Least of all Anton.

Something tells me he's not the kind of guy who likes being disappointed.

I move over to the stove and lift the lid on the stock pot. Steam pours out, followed by the delicious, brothy smell of the soup.

I turn down the fire and look at Molly. "Leave it to settle for ten minutes then ladle out two spoons into each soup bowl. Once those onions have caramelized, sprinkle one tablespoon over each of the soups. Got it?"

"Got it, chef," she says with a crisp nod. But her eyes keep drifting to Yulian.

I don't bother removing my chef's whites as I head upstairs behind Yulian. "Was there something wrong with the canapes?" I ask, feeling suddenly nervous.

I'd meant to only send up two different kinds of canapes, but I ended up making four. There was so much fresh seafood and so many choices. I have a tendency to overdo it. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew and compromised the quality.

"The canapes?" Yulian asks, throwing an amused look over his shoulder. "Hardly. Those were the best damn things I've ever put in my mouth."

"Oh. Right. Thanks."

Feeling slightly more confident after that brazen praise, I let him lead me through a darkened nook before we finally resurface.

The ocean looks eerily calm as I step up into the fresh air. A flat plane of dark glass. But it's not enough to hold my attention when I set eyes on Anton. He's leaning against the railing of the yacht now, holding a thin flute of champagne.

"Thanks, Yulian," Anton says, giving his brother a dismissive nod. "That'll be all."

"I'll be below deck if you need anything," Yulian says before immediately disappearing.

I look around, taking note of the fact that we seem to be alone. Then I remember the kitchen windows and look back.

Molly and Lisa are both openly staring at me through the slim pane of glass like we're on a reality TV show. When I turn back to Anton, he gives me a lazy smile and starts walking around to the other side of the yacht, away from the curious eyes that follow us.

"You have admirers below deck," I tell him, mostly to break the silence.

"Does that include you?"

I blink. Cat's got my tongue, apparently.

He saves me by laughing. "Your canapes were extraordinary, Jessa," he says. "The best I've ever eaten."

Warmth floods through my body instantly. "Thank you," I mumble, eyes downcast.

"Your talents are wasted doing corporate catering and one-time gigs. You should be the head chef of your own restaurant."

I rest my hand against the cool metal railing. "That's the dream. But it's not a realistic one, unfortunately."

"Money problems?"

"Isn't it always?"

"For some," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Less so for others." Then he offers me the flute of champagne in his hand. "Have a sip."

"Oh, it's fine, I-"

"Have a sip, Jessa." It's not a question.

Like I'm hypnotized-and hell, maybe I am-I find myself accepting the glass and placing my lips against the exact same spot his had rested only a few seconds ago.

I tilt it back. The rich liquid slides down my throat like silk.

"Whoa," I breathe, staring at the glass in my hand.

"1959 Dom Perignon. Good, isn't it?"

I nearly choke on my next breath. It takes everything I have not to bleat out, You must be fucking joking. Because if I remember my wines course from culinary school correctly, a 1959 Dom Perignon champagne runs a casual forty-something grand per bottle.

Who the hell is this guy?

Swallowing back my million and one questions, I just squeak, "Yeah. Incredible."

He nods. It seems like he blinks less than most normal humans. I find myself wishing he'd do it more, if only to give me a break from the piercing intensity of his stormy gray eyes.

"It gets claustrophobic down there sometimes," he remarks. "I thought you might need a little breather."

"Do you do that for everyone on your payroll?" I ask.

"Just the ones that interest me."

"Hate to disappoint, but I'm not that interesting," I say, trying to cover my blush with another sip of the champagne.