Chapter 8
DANGER: BILLIONAIRE IN A TUX AHEAD
MIA
Nearly three weeks into August, and the Cannes heat is draped over the West Wind like velvet.
Heavy, decadent, and inescapable.
The Mediterranean is all glittering blue and gold, the kind of backdrop that makes even a breakdown feel cinematic.
Which is fitting, because I’m in the middle of one.
Roarke is polite. Courteous, even.
But the man who inhaled me like I was oxygen under the stars?
He’s vanished. Replaced by a version of himself I’ve only seen in business meetings.
Precise. Unreadable. Distant.
At breakfast, Isla chatters happily about Eliza from Hamilton while Roarke scrolls through market reports.
"THE RAIN IN SPAIN!" Captain Feathers bellows.
Roarke finally looks up—but only at Isla.
“That’s impressive,” he says, offering a small smile. “You’ve been practicing.”
“I’m going to be Eliza in the talent show,” she declares proudly. “Mia’s helping me learn the whole soundtrack!”
Roarke sets his tablet down and leans in slightly. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll rehearse the chorus together. I’ve been told I have excellent pitch.”
Isla squeals. “Yes! We can all do it together!”
He tucks a curl behind her ear. “Deal. But only if Captain Feathers promises not to sing over me.”
The bird squawks something unintelligible. We laugh.
And then Roarke glances at me.
A brief, flickering look.
Then it’s gone.
My phone buzzes. I step into the corridor to escape the tension and answer. “Hello?”
“Ma chérie,” comes Mémé Ada’s unmistakable voice. “Are you ready for tonight’s soirée?”
I blink. “I’m sorry—what soirée?”
“The Champagne étoilée Investor Gala,” she says like I should have it circled in red on my nonexistent billionaire social calendar. “It’s a cocktail reception hosted at Villa Lumière. Very private. Very exclusive. Roarke always goes. And tonight, you will be his guest.”
"I wasn't aware I was invited," I say carefully.
"Pah! Of course you are invited. He gets a plus-one, and he has not used it in over a year. This is perfect opportunity to show investors that he is not just cold businessman, but man with... how you say... personal life."
"Mémé Ada, I'm not sure that's appropriate. I'm his employee."
"You are perfect woman for him! And tonight, you will look the part. I am sending help."
Click.
Two hours later, I understand what "sending help" means when three people in identical black outfits board the yacht carrying enough equipment to stock a small salon.
"Miss Rossi?" The woman leading the charge extends a manicured hand. "I'm Céline, your stylist for this evening. Mémé Ada has given us very specific instructions."
"There's been a misunderstanding.” I shake my head as they transform the main salon into a beauty station. "I'm not attending any event tonight."
"Oh, but you are," Céline says cheerfully, producing a garment bag that probably costs more than my monthly salary. "Mémé Ada was very clear. You are to look 'devastating' tonight. Her word, not mine."
I catch Roarke watching the chaos from the upper deck, his expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, he simply nods once and disappears back into his office.
Four hours after that, I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror in a midnight blue dress that hugs every curve I used to be insecure about.
My hair gleams in cascading waves, and my eyes look smoky and mysterious and nothing like the exhausted forty-three-year-old in the mirror that I’ve been trying to outrun.
By the time Roarke emerges to escort me, he’s dressed in a dark tux, gray-blue eyes narrowed, his silver-streaked black hair styled just enough to make my pulse fly into my throat.
“You look…” his deep voice falters when he sees me. His gaze drags down, slow and scorching. “…amazing.”
"Your grandmother is very persistent," I reply, smoothing the silk skirt.
"She's many things. Subtle isn't one of them." He offers his arm. “Shall we?”
The Champagne étoilée is held at Villa Lumière, a private 19th-century estate perched above the bay, its marble terrace gleaming with chandeliers, fountains, and champagne towers that would bankrupt a small nation.
Servers float past with trays of oysters and gold-dusted macarons.
The air smells like brine and earth and wealth.
Meanwhile, Roarke slips effortlessly into business mode.
His broad shoulders squared, perfect poise calibrating.
He talks numbers with investors and strategy with start-up founders, and I nod and sip. And smile.
But he doesn’t look at me. Not once.
Until he does.
And that’s when I see him.
My ex.
Ricardo Benedetti. Holding court near the terrace doors with the same casual arrogance that once made me stupid enough to fall in love with him.
Laughing too loudly, one hand on the hip of Saskia the Blogger Barbie he left me for.
His eyes skate past me, then land. He blinks.
Recognition. Smugness.
And that’s when I walk.
Out onto the terrace, down a short flight of steps toward the garden path.
The night breeze off the Mediterranean feels like salvation compared to the suffocating atmosphere inside. I pace over the stone-lined walkway, trying to calm my racing heart.
Cooler air hits my skin. My chest tightens.
"Running away from something?" Roarke's voice behind me carries an edge I haven't heard before.
"Or someone," I admit without turning around. "My ex is here. With his new girlfriend."
“Not that celebrity chef guy?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I could have guessed. Heard that he was serving up much more than canapés on his clients’ charters.” He exhales. Hard. “Do you want to leave?"
"No. No, I don’t.”
“Understood.”
Fire burns in my chest as I finally turn to face him. “Actually, I’m more interested in you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. And any excuse you may have for why you've been treating me like a stranger all week."
His jaw tightens. "I've been professional."
"You've been cold. There's a difference."
"Mia—"
"Did I do something wrong? Because three nights ago you seemed perfectly happy to—"
"That's exactly the problem." He steps closer, his voice dropping. "I can't stop thinking about it. About you. I haven't been able to focus on anything except the way you felt, the way you tasted…” His expression shutters, blue gaze falling. “And it was wrong. It’s still wrong. I’m your fucking boss, Mia. I have responsibilities. I sure don’t have time to think. And obsess. And follow you around.”
I swallow, chin lifting. “Well, you didn’t have to follow me.”
“I didn’t like the look on your face.”
“You haven’t looked at me all week.”
He doesn’t answer, but his jaw flexes.
“One minute, you’re touching me. Holding onto me like I was air. Like you needed me.”
His voice is tight. “I still do.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly his mouth is on mine, and nothing about it feels “wrong.”
Because it isn’t.
With Roarke West, nothing has ever felt so right.
The man is pure heat—all finesse. And his hard body fits against mine like it was made for this.
He guides me into a sunroom tucked off the garden path.
Empty. Dim, with a stained-glass skylight and velvet-draped chaise.
The air is thick with florals and candle wax.
My back hits the door as he closes it behind us. His mouth crashes into mine again, all hunger and heat.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he growls. “The way you sound when you come. The way you look when you break.”
I moan as his hands slide down, lifting the hem of my dress.
“I want you spread out,” he rasps. “I want to hear you beg.”
“Then take me,” I whisper.
He groans, pulling me into his body. “Tell me you want this. Right now. Here.”
“Yes,” I whimper. “God, yes.”
He spins me gently, guiding me down onto the velvet chaise. The dress pools around my hips, and he kneels between my thighs, kissing the inside of my knee, my thigh, the spot where I start to tremble.
“I’ve thought about this every night since that kiss,” he murmurs. “Every night, Mia.”
His fingers stroke through my already wet folds—across my clit, drawing a gasp from my lips.
“You’re soaked,” he huffs, surprised. “Fuck, I love how ready you get for me.”
He tugs a condom from his wallet, rips it open with his teeth, and releases his cock from his dark slacks.
The length of him is glorious. Thick. Sturdy. And mouth-watering. Positioning the thin rubber, he sheathes himself quickly, smoky blue eyes never leaving mine.
Then he sinks into me.
The first thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.
“Oh my God…”
“You feel so good, Mia,” he grits out, holding still. “So warm. So fucking soft.”
He starts to move, slow and controlled, rolling his hips as his hand closes gently around my throat.
“Look at me, Mia,” he whispers. “I want to see you soaking my cock, sweetheart.”
I meet his gaze.
It’s dark. Possessive. Worshipful.
“God,” he breathes, “do you know what it’s like—watching you day in and day out, not being able to touch you? Wanting to bend you over the boat railing and fuck you three ways from Sunday?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “Roarke, please. Don’t be—“
“Be what?”
“Soft. Gentle. I want you.” I exhale. “Hard.”
He speeds up. Thrusts deeper.
Harder.
“You wanted more than a gentleman?” His darkened gaze pins mine. “You’ve got him. I’ll give you everything, Mia. Just keep making those sounds…” His eyes close. “Fuck, I’ll never get enough of you.”
My nails dig into his back.
My orgasm slams into me like a tidal wave, and I sob his name as I shatter.
Following with a deep groan, my sexy-as-hell billionaire boss thrusts once, twice more before spilling into the condom and collapsing over me, panting against my neck.
For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing. The storm we created.
I feel the truth in every breath we share.
That this isn’t just lust.
It’s longing. It’s fear.
It’s a man and a woman who didn’t mean to fall into something that’s suddenly bigger than either of them.
We don’t speak. We just feel.
And for those several seconds, when his breath is still ragged and his lips are on my shoulder, I realize something terrifying.
I don’t want to leave the yacht when the month is over.
Translation? I don’t want to leave him.
And when we finally dress in silence, I don’t ask what tonight means.
Because I already know.
Back inside, he slips into business mode again. Shakes hands. Nods. Poses for a photo with someone from Monaco Tech.
He’s the perfect gentleman. An excellent escort. His hand on the small of my back.
A touch here. An embrace there.
But he doesn’t speak my name again.
When we return to the yacht, Isla is waiting up with Mémé Ada.
“Uncle Roarke!” she squeals, running into his arms.
He scoops her up, presses a kiss to her hair. “What are you still doing awake?”
“Captain Feathers kept singing Les Mis!” she giggles.
He chuckles. “Tomorrow, you’re going to bed early.”
When he sets her down, he looks at me. And for one brief second, there’s something in his eyes.
Then it’s gone.
Leaving his niece with his grandmother, he walks me to my cabin door like a courteous stranger.
"Thank you for accompanying me tonight," he says, once we reach my cabin door. “I…appreciate it.”
“Of course. I—“
“I promise it won’t happen again. No matter how much I want it to.”
He grabs me, tugging me in for a hard kiss before he turns on his heel and stalks away.
Gaping, I gaze after him, still in my gown and heels, wondering how it’s possible to feel so desired one moment and so discarded the next.
Several seconds later, I stumble inside my cabin, closing the door with a soft click.
It’s a sound that feels remarkably like a coffin lid.