She blinked a few times and glanced behind herself at Anjali, who was still stuck to the window, and then resumed looking out her window with her hands braced on his thigh, the one closest to the door.
Nice.
He rested his hand on the back of Colleen’s knee, which could have looked like it was to steady her, and occasionally stroked just an inch up the delicate inside of her thigh but no farther as she stared at Monaco rushing by outside the window.
The car dodged sideways and then dove down a ramp, rocking all of them. Anjali fell backward from the window, bumping Colleen’s butt and driving her breast into Tristan’s hand, where he ran his thumb over her nipple that he could feel beaded through her shirt and bra.
The girls were laughing and apologizing, but Colleen’s cheeks were pink when she turned back to him. She settled herself over his thighs again, ostensibly to look out the window.
Tristan said, “We’re here.”
The Monaco Yacht Club was a long, rectangular building of glass and steel, constructed just a few years before. The architectural lines vaguely resembled a superyacht, with an elongated deck and pool area on the fifth-floor roof pointing toward the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea where the prow would have been.
Tristan led them down the sidewalk of the quay, their smaller suitcases bumping over the seams and down the long pier lined with yachts toward his boat. He carried Jian’s bag and his own. He would’ve preferred to carry Colleen’s and Anjali’s bags, too, but couldn’t.
The yacht club’s marina was situated in a deep-water harbor at the foot of the towering gray headlands called Le Rocher in French, which translated as The Rock. The Prince’s Palace occupied the seaward side of Le Rocher, as it was the fort that defended Monaco from invasions from Genoa to the south and the French in the north.
Brilliant Mediterranean sunshine showered the sea and the flotilla of yachts between the cliff face and the quays built around the marina, and the fresh sea wind blew from the water, flapping the flags flying off the ends and along the rigging lines of the yachts.
Seagulls screamed overhead, begging for French fries from the tourists strolling on the sidewalks outside the barrier and up the roads on the cliff above, whilst the waters of the Mediterranean lapped at the wooden piles supporting the pier.
Colleen hopped up the pier and walked beside him. “Wow. I mean, wow.”
Tristan nodded, feeling his Iowan roots as he noticed the yachts around him for the first time in years. The smaller ones were worth tens of millions, but the big ones and the superyachts moored offshore were worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
“Which one’s yours?” she asked.
The urge to explain that he wasn’t a snob and he wasn’t too wealthy, that he was just a regular guy, washed over Tristan. “My boat is just a few berths farther down.”
“Okay.” She trotted beside him.
Having the smallest boat in the marina would’ve been less nerve-racking. “Here we are.”
Tristan’s yacht was a gleaming navy-blue colossus with the words Ark Nemesis emblazoned across the stern. “Here we are. It had the name when I bought it.”
The two ladies stopped short as Tristan was opening the gate on the back of the boat. Jian stopped because he’d been bringing up the rear, and the two girls were blocking the narrow pier.
“No way.” Anjali gaped at his boat and then shut her mouth with a snap. She turned to Colleen. “I would like to apologize for suggesting that Tristan King was catfishing you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Colleen said, not turning to look at her. She asked Tristan, “Seriously?”
Seeing their reaction, Tristan glanced back at his boat out of the corner of his eye and saw it for the ostentatious monstrosity that it was.
With the prow poking out beyond the ends of the other ships, his yacht appeared to be the mutant love child of a cruise ship and a spacecraft. The long, sleek hull extended nearly three-quarters of a football field, disguising the spacious cabins and enclosed entertaining spaces inside. The berth had four large cabins, including his. The three exterior decks with chairs and tables, one on each floor above the waterline, became more party space.
The yacht even had a jacuzzi.
Colleen looked up at him, her jaw softer because it was about to hang open. “Do you vacuum that whole thing?”
Tristan mumbled, “It requires a crew of four. Come on. We can have an early lunch before the markets open in the US, shall we?” He shrugged. “Welcome aboard.”
Jian went ahead to liaise with the yacht’s staff, whom Tristan had alerted that they would be arriving. The crew had prepared a warm buffet of Italian and Monegasque dishes in the dining room.
Tristan showed them to their cabins first. Jian would take his usual room, so he put Anjali in the one next to Jian.
Colleen was leaning over the boat's gunwale, looking at the dark seawater lapping at the hull far below. The Mediterranean breeze plucked at her hair, swirling the oaken strands around her pretty face.
He rested his elbow on the side and asked her, “Do you want a separate room to preserve your modesty and reputation?”
She laughed. “No.”
“Excellent.”
Tristan grabbed her bag and her hand and pulled her inside his cabin. She stumbled to a stop and looked around at the bright mahogany and the four-poster bed, because of course, he had a four-poster bed. Tristan dropped their luggage on the floor, smashed her up against the wall, and slanted his mouth across hers.
The last few days had been chaotic with trying to rescue Anjali and Jian and then the mad dash across the Atlantic Ocean in a plane that did not have a separate bedroom for privacy. Colleen had been right next to him the whole time. The perfume of her skin and softness of her curves had been within reach and yet off-limits. He’d been at half-staff and bitterly regretting his choice of rental jet for nearly a full day.
But now, his door was locked.
Colleen was kissing him back, and the warmth and softness of her mouth under his was honey and nourishment.
He broke off and dragged his lips down her neck, nipping at her fragile skin and wanting to squeeze his jaw over her shoulder and mark that skin so she’d feel his mouth on her every time her shirt rubbed.
Colleen whispered in his ear, “You told them to meet us for lunch.”
If she was thinking that clearly, Tristan wasn’t doing his job.
He redoubled his efforts, stroking his hand over her curves and up her side to cup her breast. Her body tensed in his arms as she arched against his hand and his mouth.
He growled in her ear, “You want this?”
“Well, yeah, of course. But those guys might be waiting for us to eat lunch.”
Tristan picked her up from under her armpits, and she gave a little whoop but wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, just as he’d intended. He walked over to his bed and tossed her on it.
She bounced on the mattress, giggling, and he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back so that her legs were hanging off the side.
From that vantage point, looking down at her back, the view of her round ass was spectacular.
Tristan grabbed the waistband of her shorts and tugged, but it didn’t give. They were not the stretchy kind. With an arm slipped under her waist, he pulled her up to her hands and knees and reached around her waist to unfasten her shorts.