The Ruthless Gentleman(7)

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

My heart, which had been skipping in my chest, suddenly sank to the floor.

Please God, tell me he drinks.

A sober charter guest was the worst. I’d take someone who demanded all his sheets flown over from Italy and his whiskey from a distillery in the remote islands of Scotland over a guest who didn’t drink.

“You’ve disabled the Wi-Fi?” Hayden turned to ask Captain Moss.

“As you requested,” Captain Moss confirmed.

The Wi-Fi was disabled? Usually it was the other way around. Guests were always asking for a better connection, failing to understand that when you were afloat, there were things beyond our control—like the freaking ocean.

“Okay, I’m going to need everyone’s mobile devices,” Hayden announced. “Phones, tablets, laptops.”

No one moved and I glanced across at Captain Moss, but he wore his normal impassive expression. Were they being checked for something?

“You heard our guest,” Moss said. “We’ll be waiting.”

We all filed back inside the yacht and headed to our sleeping quarters, where the few personal things we had on board were kept. We were unusually silent as we collected our devices, unclear on why our guest was demanding our personal things.

“Is this everything?” Hayden asked as Chef Neill, the last person to emerge, placed his computer and phone on the teak table that would be later set for lunch.

“It’s vital to me that nothing leaves this boat. No pictures, no phone calls, no emails, nothing,” Hayden said.

Privacy was rule number two in yachting. We all knew how to be discreet. No one on a yacht gossiped about their guests outside of the yacht. Well, that wasn’t true. We all gossiped about the guests, but we never mentioned names. We never attributed the outrageous stories that we collected during our careers.

“I understand that it might be a challenge, so as an additional layer of security, you won’t have access to your communication devices during my stay,” Hayden said.

The entire charter without our phones or laptops? He had to be kidding. August gasped beside me, and I fisted my hands, trying to keep the smile on my face.

“Nothing for eight weeks,” the captain confirmed, and I could tell the entire crew were desperate to complain but no one would want to embarrass Captain Moss.

The third rule of yachting was the guest gets what the guest wants. I was used to outlandish requests, but no phone or internet for eight weeks wasn’t just inconvenient. If I’d known this before the charter started, I probably wouldn’t have said yes.

“Please, may I clarify?” I asked. Ordinarily I sucked up everything a guest asked for—went above and beyond what they’d hoped for—but I couldn’t hold back. “We’re not going to be able to contact our family for two months? Some of us have personal situations—”

“Not from this yacht,” Hayden snapped. “I have very few requests, but my need for absolute privacy and discretion is paramount. There are no discussions or negotiations about this. You can contact people from the shore, but if you don’t like it, then you will need to find a different yacht to work on.”

It was as if I’d been thrown against a wall by the force and intensity of his words. The jerk hadn’t even let me finish my sentence. I’d dealt with unreasonable guests in my time, but normally I could separate the job from the real me and I didn’t care less. I wanted to explode and yell that there was no way I could be without any way of contacting my dad for two months, but I knew I should be setting an example to my two interior crew members, Skylar and August. I had to stay calm and then figure out what the hell I was going to do.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Hayden said as if he’d asked us not to chew gum or wear pink for the next eight weeks. What a way to start a season.

“Avery will give you the tour,” Captain Moss said.

I smiled, trying to focus on something other than Mr. Wolf’s almost-perfect face and how I wanted to kiss it and slap it in equal measure. I knew there must be a catch to being that handsome—he was clearly totally paranoid and an asshole. But I was a problem solver. Maybe I could change his mind.

I handed my tray to Skylar, my second stew. “Let me show you to the main salon first. If you’ll slip off your shoes?” I asked, pausing at the automatic sliding doors and indicating a shallow basket by the door that I’d left out specifically for shoes.

“Really?”

I nodded. “I’m afraid so. Yacht decks are traditionally unvarnished to keep the color natural, so shoes are likely to damage the teak. Every yacht’s the same.”

He glanced at my stockinged feet, then bent and untied his shoelaces. I glanced over his broad back. Who wore a suit to the start of a vacation? I needed to know more about this guy than that he was good looking, British and so suspicious. “How was your journey?” I asked. Perhaps he’d relax and in a couple of days we’d have our phones back. I didn’t want to have to walk away from this beautiful yacht and the increase in pay, but I had to be in contact with my father. I’d figure it out. I’d have to.

“Fine,” he replied, rising from where he crouched, and picked up his briefcase that he’d set down.

I reached for it. “Can I take that for you?”