Deal with the Devil Read online

  Of course he’d get his exercise swimming in the middle of the goddamned ocean like he’s Aquaman. Suddenly, visions of Jason Momoa flash through my mind, and the uncanny resemblance between the two men hits me. No wonder I think Forge looks like a pirate, because he’s built like someone who plays a warrior superhero in movies.

  Before I can open my mouth to yell at him, he dives underwater and disappears.

  I count to sixty before panic filters into my system, overtaking the anger. Where did he go? He can’t drown. I need him!

  I grab the railing, craning my neck right and then left, looking for any sign of the man. When I see nothing, I spin around, looking for help. The sundeck is empty but for me.

  Two sets of wide white fiberglass stairs curve down to the giant swim platform, and I pick one, stumbling in my haste. There’s what looks like a large hidden door, which I would put money on is the one we drove into last night in the Bugatti.

  But that doesn’t help me. I need a life ring or something.

  I scan the spotless white wall of fiberglass until I notice a raised white cross on another panel. With no idea how to actually open the thing, I take my chances and shove it with the heel of my hand. Hydraulics pop it open, and inside are life jackets and the orange floaty thing that you see the lifeguards use on Baywatch.

  I yank it out of the compartment and turn . . . to see Forge hauling himself out of the ocean on a ladder that disappears down into the water from the swim platform. His broad shoulder muscles ripple as he pulls himself up, revealing his well-developed pecs and washboard abs.

  I didn’t think men over thirty could have abs like that. I was wrong.

  And then he takes another step up, and I see a whole hell of a lot more. Jesus Christ. My mouth drops open as his cock comes into full view.

  Blessed mother of all things holy. He’s naked. Totally, completely naked.

  And his dick is massive. And the ocean can’t be super warm. Which means . . .

  “It’s like someone unleashed the Kraken,” I whisper as he moves toward me, his dick bouncing from side to side with each step.

  My gaze is glued to his cock. I have zero shame. I can’t stop staring. It’s . . . it’s just perfect hanging there in all its glory, fresh from a dip in the Med.

  “The Kraken?” Forge’s entire body shakes as booming laughter tumbles from his lips.

  But I’m not looking at his lips. I’m still watching his dick as it bobs when he laughs. It’s also getting bigger.

  “Are you going to look at my face or just stare at my dick?”

  “I’ve seen your face before,” I tell him, not looking up. I got caught staring; I might as well make the most of it.

  When a navy towel with a silver monogram suddenly covers the object of my attention, I’m forced to glance up . . . at the most beautiful grin that has ever crossed a man’s face.

  Why is he so attractive? It’s not right. Money, abs, a big dick, and drop-dead gorgeous? If I needed any more proof that life is definitely unfair, it’s standing right in front of me. Even his laugh is perfect.

  Stop, Indy. Get down to business. He hacked your phone.

  “Stop laughing. This isn’t swim time. This is tell Indy why the fuck you hacked her phone time, and what the hell you want from me to get my sister back time.”

  Forge doesn’t stop laughing, though. He scrubs himself dry for several moments while chuckling.

  My concentration is tested, because while he’s doing that, I get little peeks of his beautiful cock every few seconds.

  Stop acting like it’s been a decade since you’ve seen a dick. Except it nearly has been, and I’m hard up.

  I thought it was the whiskey last night, but it wasn’t. It’s Forge. He’s the reason I can’t keep my wits about me.

  Start fixing that right now then, Indy.

  I take a deep breath and drag my attention from his groin to his face. He’s still smiling, and he needs to stop, because I can’t handle those straight white teeth grinning at me when I know there’s a monster cock hidden beneath that scrap of fabric. I’m just not built to withstand that kind of temptation. I don’t have that kind of self-control.

  But I will find it, I vow.

  Forge knots the towel around his waist before his gaze darts behind me to where the cabinet is open and the lifeguard float is halfway yanked out of its storage space.

  “Were you worried about me, Ms. Baptiste?”

  Not willing to admit anything I’ve thought in the last five minutes, I press my lips together and try to come up with a decent-sounding lie.

  “I thought I needed protection in case I had to beat you off. It would’ve been self-defense.”

  His lips curl up again in a way that I really, really need him to stop. “I don’t know how you ever bluff in poker, because your lying skills need work.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Forge. My bluffing is superb.”

  I pin my attention to his right shoulder, where there’s a hint of black ink snaking over from his back. Sweet Jesus, he can’t have tattoos too. That’s just not fair.

  “If either of us needed to beat someone off, I’m guessing it’d be me. Did you get a good enough look, or do you want me to lose the towel?” He grips the knot with one hand, and part of me wants to tell him to drop it and then mount him right where we stand.

  “I’ve never been a fan of the Kraken. Too angry.”

  His eyes close for a beat as his chest shakes again with laughter, and I remind myself why I tracked the man down before I got distracted by the beast between his legs.

  “Why the hell did you hack my phone? I sent you—”

  “Nothing. You sent me nothing. I assume you had a few too many drinks and couldn’t manage the email address. Instead of losing precious time waiting for Sleeping Beauty to wake, I did what needed to be done. You can thank me later.” He walks past me toward the staircase on the right. “I’m hungry. If you want to talk, you’re going to have to do it while I eat.”

  This fucking arrogant bastard.

  “Why the hell did we leave Monaco? You can’t really kidnap me!” I yell as I follow him up the stairs. He stops at the top and I skid to a halt, barely missing running into his back.

  Yep. That’s a tattoo. A traditional sailor’s anchor that does nothing but highlight the slabs of muscle that make up his back. I shove down the unfairness of it all as he turns to face me.

  “You’re free to leave anytime you’d like, Ms. Baptiste.” Forge gestures to the open ocean. “Go right ahead.”

  “Unlike you, I don’t swim like a fish.”

  “Probably because no one has ever tossed you off the side of the boat and asked if you wanted to live,” he mutters under his breath as he walks toward the automatic glass doors, and I barely catch it before the ocean breeze whips it away.

  “What did you say?”

  He doesn’t stop until he takes a seat at the table in the salon. “If you have special requests for the chef, feel free to relay them to Dorsey. She’s been assigned to meet all of your needs while you’re on board,” he says as he shakes out a white napkin and drops it onto his lap.

  “The chick with the navy polo and dark hair who wouldn’t tell me a damn thing?” I ask as I approach the table.

  Forge pours himself a glass of what smells like freshly squeezed orange juice and takes a long drink before replying. “She doesn’t need to tell you anything to do her job, which is to make sure you have what you need.”

  “What I need is some goddamned information. Did you find anything out about my sister? Are you going to help me get her back?”

  Forge gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. Eat.”

  “Why are you always trying to feed me?”

  His dark gaze travels up my body, skimming every single curve still on display from the daring red dress I wore last night. “Do you really need to ask? I like tits and ass, and I wouldn’t want you to start losing yours because I didn’t keep you properly fed.”

  My mouth drops open as he lifts the lid off a steaming platter of scrambled eggs and moves half of them onto his plate.

  “If you don’t want answers to your questions, then don’t sit and eat. Your choice, India.”

  I drop into the chair across from him with a huff.

  Am I being a brat? Probably, but this man is maddening. I have no idea how to navigate this situation, and I’m doing the best I can.

  I’m not the type of girl to roll over when life throws me a curveball, but that doesn’t mean I know how to handle a man like Forge. He’s attracted to me, that much I know, but he can turn it on and off like the flip of a switch. Obviously, he has self-control that I don’t.

  Adds self-control to my mental list of things to work on, ten thousand lines below get my sister back before she’s auctioned off as a sex slave.

  Forge eats his eggs with the assistance of a slice of crusty bread that looks absolutely divine.

  So what if I’m capable of being both dick-struck and carb-struck. Sue me. I have weaknesses. I’m talking my pride into allowing me to steal a piece of bread when Forge speaks.

  “You should really choose a more difficult pass code for your phone. Your sister’s birthday is a pretty obvious choice. It wasn’t hacking so much as getting it right on the second try.”

  I glare at him. “Aren’t you smart. Do you want a cookie?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t turn down a blow job from your smart mouth.”

  My eyes widen, and I lock down the shock that must be reflected on my face.

  “Are you always so crude?” I ask as I reach across the table to grab a hunk of the bread I was eyeing.

  “I was raised on a ship full of men who fucked everything in sight as soon as we hit port. What do you think?”

  I take a bite of the bread and chew the crunchy outer edge and soft middle of nutty deliciousness before replying. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  He watches me for a moment before nodding. “And you?”

  “According to my passport, German. Which is funny, because I don’t speak a word of the language.”

  His gaze narrows on me. “What about your sister? Does she have a German passport too?”

  “No, she was born in Amsterdam. Our mom basically dragged us around Europe.”

  “What did she do?”

  I shrug. “What didn’t she do? If you asked her, she’d say she was a burlesque dancer, but mostly she just stripped and did peepshows and whatever else paid the bills. She taught me how to pick pockets when I was eight and she got pregnant with Summer. She thought she wouldn’t be able to make rent. But it turns out, everyone has a kink, and you can make decent money stripping as a pregnant chick.”

  “This isn’t the mother who was at your flat when Goliath stopped by.” It’s a statement rather than a question.

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because you don’t sound like you have a whole lot of respect for the woman you said dragged you around Europe.”

  “Alanna’s our adopted mom. She found us when I was sixteen and Summer was eight. She wouldn’t leave us alone until I agreed to let her feed us.”

  “I think I’d like her,” he says with a quirk of his lips, and I assume he’s referencing the fact that he’s always trying to feed me too. “What happened to your birth mom?”

  I reach for another chunk of bread, even though I know it’s going to go straight to my already curvaceous love handles. “Don’t know. She left one night, a few months after we came to Ibiza, and never came back.”

  “When you were sixteen?” he asks before taking another drink of orange juice.

  “Fifteen, almost sixteen. We made it about six months on our own, and then Alanna came into the picture.” I reach for the pitcher and pour myself a glass. I take a sip, and it’s just as sweet and fresh as I hoped.

  “That’s not an easy life for a kid, especially trying to take care of a sibling.”

  “I did my best. I picked pockets. Learned to play cards. Then Alanna happened.” I set the glass down and wave my hand around at the interior of the salon. “I’m guessing despite all of this, you didn’t exactly have it easy as a kid either, did you? That’s why you’re such a hard-ass.”

  He chews a bite of his eggs and toast but doesn’t answer my question. I feel like that’s because I’m right.

  Regardless, it doesn’t matter. Only one thing does.

  “What did you find out about Summer?”

  He washes the food down with the remains of his orange juice and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass and mine. “Your sister got herself into a hell of a mess.”

  “I know. Trust me, I know.”

  “Is that normal for her?”

  My hand stills as I reach for my OJ. I glance up at Forge’s unreadable expression. “Does it matter?”

  “It is if she’s constantly expecting her big sister to bail her out of trouble,” he replies before lifting his napkin to his lips.

  “She’s my only family, Forge. I’ll always do whatever I can to help her.”

  He puts his napkin down and leans both elbows on the table. “Even sell your own soul to do it?”

  I swallow a lump in my throat. “If I have to.”

  Something flickers in his dark gaze, but I have no way of reading him.

  “Good. Then you’ll have no problem agreeing to my proposition.”

  “What proposition?”

  He rises. “I’m going to shower, and I expect you to eat some protein. You have a busy day ahead of you.”

  “What do you mean, busy day?”

  But he’s already striding out of the room, the towel flapping around his calves . . . until it slips down, revealing a tanned and muscular ass you could bounce a quarter off.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Life is so unfair.

  27

  Forge

  I wrap my fist around my dick, one hand pressed to the wall of the guest shower. I haven’t jacked off twice in twenty-four hours since I was fourteen fucking years old. But give me a woman in a rumpled red dress from the night before with a smart mouth and sassy attitude, and I’m harder than a steel beam.

  She wants me to release the Kraken? She can have it anytime she wants.

  My laughter echoes in the shower, and I stop what I’m doing for a moment to rest my head against the tile.

  When was the last time someone made me laugh like that? I don’t have an answer for the question, but as soon as her face pops back into my head, I finish myself off in record time, shooting my load down the drain.

  Next time, I’m coming down her throat.

  I make that promise to myself, but I also know there’s no way in hell I’ll take something that isn’t offered. And after today . . . there’s a good chance India Baptiste is going to want my head on a pike.

  She’ll get over it. Eventually.

  Means to an end. That’s all that matters.

  I scrub the salt off my skin and think of how she was going for the rescue buoy, assuming I was drowning in the ocean. When was the last time someone was actually concerned about my safety when they weren’t on my payroll?

  No one since Isaac.

  All lightness flees from my mind as I remind myself why we left Monaco—because de Vere was still there, and I wasn’t taking a chance that he was going to attempt some last grand gesture to try to get the girl.

  Not that I think de Vere is capable of grand gestures, but he’s capable of fucking my life up beyond recognition. Which he’s already done once, and I’m not giving him the opportunity to do it again.

  I dress in khaki shorts and an unbuttoned white linen shirt I had Dorsey retrieve from my cabin. When I return to the salon, it’s empty.

  I press a button on the intercom panel to contact Dorsey. She responds immediately.

  “Where is she?”

  “Changing, sir. I’ll escort her back to you as soon as she is finished.”

  “If you hear a splash, assume she jumped overboard and call out the crew.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I move away from the intercom and check my phone. Fatigue from a night with no sleep might bother most people, but I’m used to it. However, I wasn’t ready for the temptation of having India Baptiste asleep in my bed. After I slid her under the covers, I left the room and forbade myself from returning. Because if I had . . .

  Not thinking about that now. I don’t have time for another shower.

  A few minutes later, India follows Dorsey into the salon.

  “Is your entire crew under orders not to share anything helpful with me?” India asks, frustration underlying her tone.

  She’s wearing clothes left on board by another female guest, which would no doubt piss her off, so I have no plans to tell her. The top definitely doesn’t fit her quite the same way, because her tits are damn near about to fall out of it. I’m not complaining, however. She looks incredible, which shouldn’t be possible in cast-off clothes and no makeup.

  The corner of my mouth tugs upward, which happens all too often in her presence. This time it’s because India Baptiste is a little liar. She made a big production out of the mess in her hotel room and how high-maintenance she is, but she looks even more entrancing fresh faced from the shower.

  “The crew’s orders are to see to your comfort. Information isn’t necessary,” I tell her.

  “Information is necessary, Forge. Because if you don’t tell me what your plan is or what the hell you want from me, I’m about to jump ship, and I’m not joking.”

  I look to Dorsey. “Leave us, please.”

  The steward nods and disappears.

  India watches her leave and then looks back to me. “Cut the shit, Forge. It’s time to lay out our cards.”

  28

  India

  His black hair is wet from his shower, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows that I used the fancy showerhead in his bathroom to get myself off. I checked for cameras before I climbed in the shower, and then I realized how stupid I was being. It’s his sanctuary. He wouldn’t allow anyone to see anything in there.

  I also poked through his cabinets and drawers, trying to find some insight into the man I’m dealing with. Other than high-end products and cologne that I might have thought about stealing, there was nothing useful to be learned.

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