600 P.M.
MIGUEL
Miguel stood at the bar of the covered al fresco dining area on the sun deck sipping a glass of very good Champagne.
(Although, after a childhood spent only ever seeing Champagne in movies, to him, anything bubbly that came with that thrilling popping sound was always very good.) The sun was setting and a light breeze persuaded the stifling heat to let go of the hold it had on this part of the world earlier in the afternoon.
To either side of the yacht, smaller vessels were docked, bobbing in the gentle waves created by a cruise ship leaving port in the distance.
Quiet classical music played over the speakers at just the right volume so as not to distract, creating a calm and inviting atmosphere.
Taking another sip, Miguel watched the cruise ship, wishing momentarily that he was on it so he could escape what could very well be a disaster.
All it would take would be some tiny tipoff from Travis Bishop to let Winslow know that he’d been lying to him for weeks.
Miguel would have to be alert, attentive, and exceedingly careful to hide the truth from his husband.
But just a little bubbly couldn’t hurt, could it?
He and Winslow had been instantly annoyed when they were told the Bishops would be delayed.
As soon as the door to their suite closed behind them, they went off.
Who did they think they were? Having them travel all this way only to stand them up?
Winslow was a very busy and important man.
Easily as important in the UK as Bishop was in the US.
Rude. Inconsiderate. Typical. Oh, look at that lovely welcome basket! Are those Knipschildt's truffles?
Yes, they were. And as soon as Miguel tasted the decadent ganache, he felt a lot more forgiving.
In fact, he quickly realized tonight was the perfect opportunity to get the inside scoop from Ted and Antonia—two of the biggest stars of the Summit Broadcasting Network.
They had managed to film their show in Seattle all these years, and Miguel was certain it would have been much cheaper to move them to the lot in Burbank.
And this evening, he’d use every ounce of charm he had to find out how they did it.
At the moment, Winslow was leaning against the guardrail on the opposite side of the deck, deep into some dull conversation about profit margins with Ted Dawson, who fancied himself an amateur investor (a shocking trait in a wealthy middle-aged white guy—later he and Winslow would laugh about it).
Ted was telling him how his son was a day trader who had gotten caught up in the whole Volmageddon debacle earlier that year and was asking how he could prevent that sort of thing in the future.
Oh sure, Ted, why not hassle a stressed-out hedge-fund manager on the first opportunity he’s had for a real break in months? Very classy of you.
The two women, Antonia and their assistant, still had yet to arrive for dinner.
They probably had overindulged on truffles too, and couldn’t even think about supper.
The very handsome Oliver, chief steward, was preparing a pitcher of some sort of cocktail.
Miguel watched him for a second, enjoying the flex of his tanned forearm as he pressed a wooden juicer into half a grapefruit.
He stifled an immature giggle about the phallic shape of the juicer as the grapefruit acquiesced, sending a gush of pink liquid into a cocktail shaker.
Oliver, who was clearly aware he was being watched, threw a grin Miguel’s way. “It doesn’t get fresher than that.”
Running his fingertip over one of the tiny lobsters embroidered onto his shirt, Miguel lifted the corners of his mouth. “No, it really doesn’t. What are you making?”
“I thought a French Blonde would be nice in this heat.”
“Mm, yes, a French blonde is always good. Although a French brunette might be even better.” Was he flirting? He shouldn’t be flirting. Not when he was about to be on the thinnest of ice with his husband.
Oliver added a generous pour of Sipsmith London Dry Gin, followed by Lillet Blanc, and elderflower liqueur.
“That’s really going to pack a punch,” Miguel said.
“It goes down easy too, which makes it extra dangerous,” Oliver answered.
“Strong, goes down easy, and dangerous. Just my type.”
Oliver let out a hearty laugh. Was he flirting back? That laugh said so.
“Do you love your job?” Miguel asked, quickly adding, “I think in another life I would have loved working on a yacht. Actually, now that I think about it, I would really only enjoy the living part. Not the working.”
“Best job in the world. Especially during the nine months of the year when I have her all to myself.”
“Just you, all alone on this massive boat?”
“A cleaning crew comes in two days a week, and she’s dry-docked for a month for maintenance, which is when I go visit my parents. But otherwise, she’s all mine.”
“That’s incredible. How did you get so lucky?”
He chuckled. “It actually was luck. I used to be a dealer in Vegas. Mr. Bishop was at my table one night—well, he kept me there until afternoon. He was on a hot streak and insisted I stay until he was done. After he cleaned out the other guys at the table, he offered me a permanent job on his yacht. I said yes immediately.”
“Wow. You never know where life is going to take you.” Miguel was going to have a lot to tell his sisters when he called home, especially about how much of the year the yacht went unused.
They loved hearing about the wasteful ways of the ultra-rich almost as much as he loved spilling the tea on how the top one-percent lived.
“I just can’t believe nobody uses this gorgeous vessel for months at time. ”
Shrugging, Oliver grinned again. “Well, I use it.”
The clicking of heels against the teak deck boards shifted Miguel’s attention.
It was Dr. Antonia Dawson, dressed in a flowy floral sundress with an open linen shirt over it, presumably to hide her arms. As a brother of three older sisters, he knew all too well how hard women were on themselves when it came to their bodies.
And he was certainly going to use that knowledge to his advantage.
He walked over to her with his arms held out.
“Look at you, you’re a vision well worth the wait. ”
He gave her a quick hug and two air kisses, one for each cheek.
“I’m Miguel Ramirez-Taggart. I’m a huge fan of your show.
” By that he meant he had binged it one day when he was extremely hungover, and by the time he shut the TV off, he felt much, much worse.
“It’s both juicy and helpful at the same time. ”
She offered him a strained smile. “Thank you, Miguel. That’s very kind of you.”
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, as though he were the host.
“I’d love one.” She turned to Oliver, who offered her a choice between Champagne and a French Blonde.
Before she had a chance to mull over her options, Miguel snatched two of the cocktails off the bar top and handed her one. “Let’s have these. The Champagne’s been in a bottle for who knows how many years, whereas I just watched Oliver squeeze the juice.”
Winslow and Ted made their way over to them, with Winslow leading the way. Miguel could tell by his face he’d had enough shop talk for the evening. Introductions were made and empty Champagne flutes were swapped out for full-to-the-brim cocktails.
Miguel gave the couple a once-over. Something seemed off between them.
Like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit.
Ted looked like he was knee-deep in a midlife crisis and had taken to the gym to get through it, while Antonia was fighting her middle-aged frumpiness with shimmery eye-shadow and red lipstick.
Her blonde bob cut a sharp edge at her jaw line which only highlighted the fact that it was sagging.
Ted smiled at him. “To new friends.”
They clinked the glasses together. “To new friends.”
After a long sip, Antonia said, “Oh that’s nice. Very refreshing. So, how do you know the Bishops?”
“Miguel is in talks with Travis Bishop for a design show that I’m sorry to tell you is sure to become the biggest thing on the network,” Winslow answered. “Whereas I’m afraid I’ve never met them, so it’s a bit off-putting to be trapped with them for an entire week.”
Wiping an imaginary piece of fluff off Winslow’s shoulder, Miguel said, “Not trapped, darling. Blessed to be pampered by them.”
“Oh yes, pampered,” Winslow answered. “By strangers. My favorite.”
Antonia chuckled. “This whole thing does seem unusual, doesn’t it?”
“I wonder why they’re delayed,” Miguel asked, throwing a glance in Oliver’s direction. When Oliver continued what he was doing—wiping down the counter—without answering, Miguel looked to Antonia and Ted for any signs that they might know.
Ted gave him an authoritative look. “I’m sure it was a business emergency.”
“Yes, most likely. It must be nearly impossible for a man like him to get away from the office,” Miguel answered. “Oliver here was just saying this yacht sits empty nearly the entire year. Except for him, that is.”
Before anyone could respond, the young woman who had boarded the yacht with Antonia and Ted arrived.
She had long dark hair that spilled over one shoulder, a light tan (that Miguel assumed came from a bottle), and striking blue eyes.
She was dressed in a navy and white striped summer romper with a deep V-neck, spaghetti straps, and shorts that allowed a lot of leg to show.
She was lean and filled with the same power of youth and beauty that Miguel had.
She looked slightly out of place as she offered them a small smile.
“Sorry I’m late. I was just finishing up some emails. ”
Miguel glanced at Ted in time to see him look at her like he hadn’t eaten in a month and she was a four-course meal. When his gaze shifted to Antonia, he could read the discomfort on her face as she smiled at the woman. “Charlotte, you look beautiful.”