Chapter Twelve
“The entire orchestra came down with norovirus. They can’t perform until Dubrovnik,” a stocky man in a black suit says while blotting his forehead with a tissue.
He looks seconds away from expiring in front of Rex.
The party prince himself is anything but carefree at the moment. He glances in my direction but I duck behind a column just in time, my heart pounding.
Why the hell am I hiding, anyway? This is public space. It’s not like I’m breaking any rules.
“Carpe diem, Olive. Break some rules.” Mia’s imaginary laughter reaches my ears.
“Do we have backup? Symphony under the stars is tonight, Gregory.”
Gregory pinches his nose. “No, not for this one. Vienna Orchestra was the first to confirm and reconfirm. We didn’t think there’d be a need for a backup.”
“Fuck!” Rex slams his hands on the railing, his dark hair ruffled by the wind.
“Sir, perhaps we should apol—”
“Give me a second. Let me think.”
What happens next has my traitorous pulse clamoring, the very reaction I was hoping to get when I met Dr. Rhys Fenton earlier.
Rex, in his towering, navy-suit-wearing glory, straightens. He grips the railing and tilts his face toward the sky.
The stark bluish daylight—the sun having disappeared behind thick clouds while I was at the medical bay—collides against the sharp panes of his face like a violent painting, as if the artist couldn’t decide if he loved or hated his subject.
Rex’s corded throat works. His eyes are closed, his lips moving, but I don’t hear any words spoken.
A ridiculous thought crosses my mind. It’s like he’s trying to absorb the elements, to distill energy from them.
I grab my camera, my fingers moving on autopilot, and snap photo after photo, the image of him burning into my retina.
This version of Rex Anderson—raw, rough, and complicated—feels like the real him.
What are you hiding? Why are you hiding?
His eyes snap open, and he stares at the cerulean seas. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Spin a story in our favor. Call Lana and reword as you see fit.”
Gregory takes out his phone. “Ready when you are, sir.”
“Imagine a once-in-a-lifetime, mythical experience. The Temple of Apollo, an immersive auditory adventure set inside a reconstructed Grecian temple on the open seas.”
An electrifying energy pulses from him as he weaves invisible threads to form a bewitching tapestry.
“The Oracle of Delphi has learned of the prestigious individuals aboard this vessel and will bless us with her presence a millennium after she appeared in ancient Greece. She offers us the rare opportunity—delivering prophecies to the guests.”
“Prophecies, sir?” Gregory blanches. “H-How are we—”
“Honestly, I don’t fucking care. Get fortune cookies if you need to and make them sound fancy. There’s nothing old money likes more than learning they are destined for greatness. Feeds their ego.”
I stifle a snort. He isn’t wrong there.
“Got it.”
“The prime minister knows about the cruise. I’ll call him to invite his most talented cultural musicians.
We’ll say we’re spotlighting their culture and thanking them for their wonderful Greek hospitality.
Ninety percent of the world’s wealth is on this cruise and a lot of money can funnel into the government here.
He’ll bend over backward to accommodate. ”
Gregory nods, his fingers flying over his phone, clearly taking copious notes.
“You got the details, right? I don’t need to do that for you, do I?”
“No, sir. We’ll have everything prepared for tonight.” The man has his phone to his ear as he scurries away to do Rex’s bidding.
A satisfied sigh escapes Rex’s lips as he faces the ocean again. I can’t help but smile at what I just saw—quick thinking, creative and meaningful, like all the Fleur marketing campaigns I’ve seen before.
I used to think these campaigns, like last year’s Project Echo, a silent red carpet premiere for a biopic about a non-verbal neurodivergent artist, resulted from his stellar marketing team.
After all, before today, I’ve only seen him joking with his family, taking nothing seriously, or flirting shamelessly with women.
A prickle of guilt pinches me. This is why I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Back on the jet, I thought he was one of those guys who had everything handed to him. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe all those successful campaigns came from him, because he’s good at what he does.
Then what are you trying to prove, Rex?
The earlier tension in his shoulders isn’t visible anymore, but instead of looking happy or relieved from a crisis averted, he takes out something from his pocket—a small red ball?
After staring at it for a few seconds, he puts it away and grips the railing again, eyes closed, obviously deep in thought.
And because my impulse control is low today, I steal a few more photos of him.
“I’d think doctors are well educated enough to know eavesdropping and secretly taking photos of people are rude,” he murmurs, his back still facing me.
I startle, my camera slipping out of my hands. Thank God it’s strapped around my neck.
“I didn’t want to intrude.”
He scoffs. “So, where’s that magical little notepad of yours? What did you glean from learning about my cruise getting off to a rocky start? Waiting for me to fail spectacularly? For trying to be anything but the fun Anderson?”
My brows pinch, my feet carrying me toward him before I realize what I’m doing. “Why do you do this?”
“What?” He finally turns to face me.
“Hate yourself. Talk down to yourself. Think you have nothing to offer other than the Rex-a-Million the public knows.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bullshit.
“I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait.” A wisp of hair slips out of my bun and I tuck it behind my ear. “We have an entire month for me to get the truth out of you.”
Jaw clenching, he narrows his stormy eyes. “You know what? I’ve been trying to figure out why you’re here. It can’t only be a favor for Lana.”
He steps toward me. “Is it money? I heard we’re making a donation to your research society. You know, I can just wire you the funds from my personal account.”
“No. I don’t take handouts.”
His piercing eyes rove over my face, then my body, and, damn it, my skin heats from his perusal.
Rex’s nostrils flare. “No. Of course you won’t.” He leans in, and I smell his intoxicating scent of bergamot and amber.
“I’m good at reading people, Olivia.” His voice ghosts over my skin and I shiver. “You’re hiding something.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“I’m right though, aren’t I? You accuse me of hiding because you’re the one with secrets you don’t want to see the light of day. So now who’s deflecting?”
My traitorous heart kicks into a turbulent rhythm, much like the wind suddenly gusting around us. My training should kick in now—defensive patient equals backing away, softening my tactics, and redirecting the conversation.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, panic rattles me.
How does he know? Are my guilt and loneliness so obvious on my face? Is he wandering in a dark forest too, foliage covered by fog, not knowing what lies ahead but having no choice other than to walk forward?
I square my shoulders and maintain a straight face, even if it feels like a thousand ants are crawling over my body.
Rex suddenly smiles.
Damn it. He must’ve seen something.
His stormy irises darken, and he cocks an arrogant brow. “Unless you’re here for what other women want…”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t even try reverse psychology on me. I spent years in medical school studying the mind. You can’t out-doctor the doctor.”
“But that’s it, isn’t it, little Olive?”
Olive. Only Mia called me that. She used to say her name means “my” in Italian, and since we’re twins, she nicknamed me “Olive.”
My olive. Her best friend. Two peas in a pod.
The sudden pain spears me and I rub the soreness over my heart.
Rex’s eyes snag on the movement. He steps closer, his presence heavy and menacing. Not because I’m afraid of him, but because I suddenly feel naked, all my scars exposed.
I hiccup. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’re like everyone else. You want a good time, don’t you?” A sinful smile curves his lips, one I’ve seen him use on models, actresses alike.
He steps into my space and I back away. “Is that pussy of yours achy, Olive? You want me to clear out those cobwebs? You want the Rex-a-Million special and have me fuck you until you can’t walk straight? Is that why you’re here?”
I gasp, shock at his inappropriate words slamming into me. My voice deserts me.
The asshole. Inappropriate. Infuriating. I want to strangle him.
But then, his comment replays in my mind.
A slow, sultry heat moves up my spine, and my pulse batters my ears.
“That’s it, huh? My straitlaced doctor isn’t so innocent, is she? You’re panting. Breathless for me, aren’t you? You know, you don’t need to pretend to care about me as my doctor to get me interested. I’ve never fucked a psychiatrist before and I’m a curious man. Got to try everything once.”
His gaze, the smolder of a devil, dips to my mouth and he rasps, “I wonder how these pretty pink lips would look wrapped around my cock. Do you want to taste it? My dick? My cum? Be used for your three fuck holes, to submit to me and stop thinking, delirious with pleasure?”
His words swirl around my body, brushing against my chest and settling deep inside my pussy. Unwanted images of me kneeling before him—him fisting my hair and using me only for his pleasure—fill my mind. My core clenches and the telltale wetness dampens my underwear.
Why am I turned on by this degradation? What’s wrong with me?
It’s easy to be swept away by the devil in his seductive tempest.
Maybe he’ll make me forget the guilt, the pain, the loneliness.
The hole in my chest.
Don’t let him succeed, Olivia. He’s goading you. These are normal physiological reactions to a virile man. Nothing more.
“Stop it, Mr. Anderson.” My command comes out in a breathy whisper, but it’s better than being silent around this…asshole.