The Ruthless Gentleman(3)

“I didn’t want to ruin all our hard work,” I replied. When we’d come back to the boat after taking our drinking ashore, I’d encouraged the crew to stay in the mess. I knew what it was like to arrive on a new yacht with the whole place in carnage, and I didn’t want that for the next charter crew. I wanted to go home to California with a clear conscience.

I couldn’t wait, or remember the last time I’d had a whole month off. Thirty days to hang out with my brother and dad, see my old friends. How I’d gotten through the last five months of the Caribbean season, I had no idea. It had been a brutal winter, and no doubt I’d spend the first week in Sacramento sleeping.

“Avery, Avery, this is the captain,” my radio echoed out.

I rolled my eyes. “What does he want me for?” I checked my watch. “I’m off the clock.”

The Caribbean season was officially over, and I had a plane to catch. But off duty or not, I never ignored the captain radioing me. Some captains were born assholes. Captain Moss wasn’t one of them. He was a stern but fair captain who I imagined would have been very handsome thirty years ago before the weather and the job had taken their toll.

I unclipped my radio from my waist and depressed the button. “Captain, this is Avery.”

“Wheelhouse, please.”

My shoulders slumped. My whole body itched with the need to get off this boat. Five months on this thing and I was so done I was charcoal.

“Roger that, sir.”

I turned to Leslie and we hugged. “I’ll catch you in France.”

“Or Italy.”

Italy had some of my favorite ports—they were quieter than the south of France and the people more relaxed. And of course, pasta. “I hope so.” Unless I’d renewed my contract with the same vessel, I never had my next season planned out much in advance, but I could hope for a season that involved a lot of Italy. Even if it was from the water.

I released Leslie and headed up to the wheelhouse, where the captain navigated the boat, barked orders, and generally made sure none of us died while we were on board.

“Avery, come in,” he said as I knocked on the door. “Have a seat.”

I slid into one of the two chairs bolted to the floor. “You’ve had a good season,” he said, sitting opposite me.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m putting a crew together for the Med season, and I’d like you to be chief stew.”

“That’s very flattering. Which yacht?”

“The Athena—refurbished in dry dock two years ago. She’s a 154-footer. I’ve done a season on her and she’s a nice vessel.” As if he sensed he’d need to sweeten the deal, he added, “You’d get your own room.”

I frowned. “Really?” Private space for the crew in yachting was as rare as hens’ teeth.

He smiled. “Heaven, right? And the base salary’s good—a forty percent uplift on what you had this season.”

“Are you serious?” Salaries for chief stewardesses were well established and based largely on the size of the yacht. “How come?”

He shrugged. “The request came in from the yacht owner, actually. He’s personally requesting every single member of the crew and willing to pay to get his way.”

I wasn’t sure how the yacht owner would even have heard of me. Usually, they simply hired a captain and left them to source the rest of the crew. “Forty percent more? What’s the catch?” There must be a reason the yacht owner was paying so much.

“Well, the first charter of the season’s a long one. Eight weeks. So there’ll be little time off during those first two months. I think he’s trying to soften the blow.”

Usually between charters of the five-month season, crew had a day or so to kick back and regroup. I slept like the dead on those days off. Eight weeks was a long period with no guest-free time. But a forty percent uplift was worth considering. My savings had trickled away into nonexistence, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new pair of sandals or a new outfit. I sent all my money home and even then it was only just enough. More money meant building an emergency fund and maybe a trip to Zara to add a couple of pieces to my wardrobe.

“But the upside is there’s only one guest.”

“Really?” That sounded too good to be true. “For a 154-foot yacht? There must be six bedrooms.”

“Yup. The boat’s got capacity for twelve.”

I frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“The guest is very private, apparently. Wants a working vacation.” He shrugged. “Maybe he’ll have guests once he gets settled.”

“And how many interior crew will I have?” Maybe this was the big catch. “Would it just be me?”

“You’ll get two. So the crew won’t be different just because there’s one guest. But, if we lose a member—for illness or incompetence—there won’t be any replacements. We’ve been background checked.”

It was unusual but not unheard of to be background checked. “Is it some celebrity doing a detox or something?”

“I have no idea. I’ve also been advised that we won’t be given details of who it is or their preferences for food or drink.”

The whole reason guests went on these charters was to have every whim catered for, but if we didn’t even know what this guy liked to eat and drink, then how would we make sure he had the best possible experience?