The Complete Red-Hot Collection. Kelly Hunter

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      THEY WALKED AROUND the side of the bar to the staff accommodation so she could retrieve her bag. Going back to his boat felt like giving in, which seemed spineless after her great escape that morning. But the guy from the bar had shaken her. His disgusting words whispered into her ear along with the sickly scent of cheap whisky and Coke had made her stomach churn. Brodie had showed up at the right time and, though she would never admit it, she wasn’t quite sure how she would have got herself out of that situation.

      But it was a slippery slope from accepting help to being controlled, and she would never go there again.

      A pale yellow beam from an outside security light spilled into the tiny motel-like room, causing shadows to stretch and claw at the walls. She wanted to be here about as much as she wanted to stab herself in the eye with a stiletto. But the alternative wasn’t exactly peachy. Another night on Brodie’s boat… another night of searing temptation and slowly losing her mind.

      True to his word, he hadn’t mentioned them sleeping together, but the evening was young. Something about the way he watched her pack told her he wasn’t here out of friendly concern alone.

      ‘How many more shifts do you have?’ he asked, hovering by the door.

      He stayed close but didn’t touch her. Still, she was fully aware of the heat and intensity radiating off him. He wore a shirt tonight, soft white cotton with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A thin strip of leather hung around his neck, weighted with a small silver anchor. A silver watch sat on one wrist, contrasting against his deep tan.

      ‘I’ve got a month in total,’ she replied. ‘They’re pushing for more, though.’

      ‘You’re not going to stay, are you?’

      ‘If I don’t find something else I might not have a choice.’ She faced away from him, stuffing the few items she’d unpacked back into her overnight bag. ‘A girl’s gotta eat.’

      He frowned. ‘There must be something else you could do.’

      ‘Yeah, I could wait tables or work as a checkout chick at a supermarket. No matter how bad this is, it’s still dancing. It means I haven’t given up.’

      Slinging her bag over one shoulder, she walked out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her.

      Silence. She sensed a begrudging acceptance from him.

      ‘No word on the audition?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      Once on the yacht, Chantal stashed her things in the guest room, hoping it signalled to Brodie that she had no intention of sleeping with him again. Incredible as they were together, it was clear she needed to focus on her current situation. She was already taking way too much from Brodie. She couldn’t rely on him, his yacht or his money. She’d made this mess—she needed to get herself out of it.

      ‘Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll get dinner on the go?’ he said, already pulling a frying pan from the kitchenette cupboard.

      ‘Are you trying to tell me I smell?’ She smirked, leaning against the breakfast bar.

      Soft denim stretched over the most magnificent butt she’d ever laid eyes on as he bent down. He was the perfect shape. Muscular, but not OTT bulky. Broad, masculine, powerful. She swallowed, her mouth dry and scratchy.

      ‘If I thought you smelled I would come right out and say it.’ He looked over his shoulder, blond hair falling into his eyes.

      He mustn’t have shaved this morning. Blond stubble peppered his strong jaw, making the lines look even sharper and more devastating. Golden hair dusted his forearms, and she knew that his chest was mostly bare except for a light smattering around his nipples and the trail from his belly button down. She couldn’t get that image out of her head.

      ‘Hurry up—before I drag you there myself.’

      He said the words without turning around, and Chantal thanked her lucky stars that he didn’t. The words alone were potent enough, without the cheeky smile or glint she knew would be in his eyes.

      ‘Then you’ll be in trouble.’

      The steam and hot water did nothing to wash away the tension in her limbs, nor the aching between her thighs. Wasn’t a shower supposed to be cleansing? The quiet sound of rushing water only gave her time to replay the most delicious parts of last night, and she stepped out onto the tiles feeling more wound up than before.

      A mouth-watering scent wafted in the air as she slipped into a loose black dress, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The table was set for two. Intimate… personal.

      Two glasses held white wine the colour of pale gold. White china rimmed in silver sported a faint criss-cross pattern—simple, but undeniably luxurious. A bowl of salad sat in the middle of the table.

      ‘Pan-fried salmon with roasted potatoes and baby carrots.’ He brought two plates to the table. ‘Not fancy, but it is healthy—and pretty darn tasty, if I do say so myself.’