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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 TheMedusa. 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.


Tags: Nicole Fox Stepanov Bratva Erotic