yards lined with metal shipping containers and towering cranes for loading and off-loading the heavy containers. The port’s heart is this commercial center ringed by expensive condo developments, private slips, and narrow causeways. The place hums with energy even in the early hours of the morning. With the Miami River behind me now, I move out into the bay and toward the sea. Miami River is a major entry point for contraband. Drugs, people—any kind of contraband one person pays another to move. Shippers call to off-load cargo, then load up to make the run to the Bahamas and further out into the Caribbean. Until recently, the port was a Wild West.
Six hours until race time—all the time in the world. The yacht’s prow splits the surface cleanly, and there is nothing but clean air out here. Behind us, the lights of Miami fade away as I ride the waves out to sea.
4
XANDER
I hit the docks early. It is race day, and I need to know who is running late, who nurses a hangover, who just looks as if it will not be his day. Those details make a difference when you fly into the final turn and the harbor is dead astern and there is room only for one yacht. Those other men will flinch and pull back, but I will be all in. Besides, who the fuck am I kidding? I like to win. I crave it like an addict does the next hit of his drug. If I crash the yacht getting to the finish line first, I will still be the winner.
I have a bet to win with Liam and Jack.
I am not the only racer with a game plan, of course. My team arrives when I do, and we move down the slips, checking out the competition. Both Liam and Jack are here, despite our late night sail. The dock bristles with yachts, most of which never sail more than twenty miles offshore. I do not confine myself to that playpen. The entire goddamned ocean is my playing field. Even before serving my time with the Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation Department, I never liked being confined, and nothing beats the changeability of the ocean—she is all wind and water, constantly changing. No two races are ever the same, which is fucking awesome. We have ten yachts starting in today’s race, and I will beat their asses.
I am below deck running through pre-check when there is a stir on the docks. My cell buzzes with an incoming call from my security chief.
“You got a guest,” he says when I answer. “Come on up and collect her, or I’m sending her home.”
Then he hangs up on me. He is the best in the business. Bullets, bombs, terrorist threats and kidnappings—he has that shit handled. Conversational small talk, however, is not his favorite thing, and he refuses to make the effort. As long as he keeps me not getting killed, however, I will deal. When I come above deck, I spot Lily right away—she is a beautiful woman in a sea of racers. She sticks out and not just because she is trying to hide behind a pair of big, white sunglasses that make her look as if she is channeling Audrey Hepburn.
Her gaze runs over the Koa . I want those glasses gone because they make it hard to figure out what she is thinking. Part speculation, part resignation. I can see that, but I want more. I have spent years trying not to think about her, forcing myself to stay away, but now she has come to me and the game is on. The small, hard-shell suitcase by her feet is a sober black with a duct-taped frowny face on the side.
Someone should tell her I love a fucking challenge. If she is unhappy about our current arrangement, I simply have to talk her into changing her mind. While I stare at her, thinking dirty thoughts, one of my bodyguards takes the case from her and looks at me. I am the man in charge. My word is law here, and it seems Lily just cottoned onto that. Now she looks at me as if I am Johnny Fucking Depp, putting the moves on her when she has pledged her undying love to Will.
“My cabin,” I tell the bodyguard. He nods, vaults over the side, and disappears past me.
She sucks in a breath.
Six hours until race time—all the time in the world. The yacht’s prow splits the surface cleanly, and there is nothing but clean air out here. Behind us, the lights of Miami fade away as I ride the waves out to sea.
4
XANDER
I hit the docks early. It is race day, and I need to know who is running late, who nurses a hangover, who just looks as if it will not be his day. Those details make a difference when you fly into the final turn and the harbor is dead astern and there is room only for one yacht. Those other men will flinch and pull back, but I will be all in. Besides, who the fuck am I kidding? I like to win. I crave it like an addict does the next hit of his drug. If I crash the yacht getting to the finish line first, I will still be the winner.
I have a bet to win with Liam and Jack.
I am not the only racer with a game plan, of course. My team arrives when I do, and we move down the slips, checking out the competition. Both Liam and Jack are here, despite our late night sail. The dock bristles with yachts, most of which never sail more than twenty miles offshore. I do not confine myself to that playpen. The entire goddamned ocean is my playing field. Even before serving my time with the Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation Department, I never liked being confined, and nothing beats the changeability of the ocean—she is all wind and water, constantly changing. No two races are ever the same, which is fucking awesome. We have ten yachts starting in today’s race, and I will beat their asses.
I am below deck running through pre-check when there is a stir on the docks. My cell buzzes with an incoming call from my security chief.
“You got a guest,” he says when I answer. “Come on up and collect her, or I’m sending her home.”
Then he hangs up on me. He is the best in the business. Bullets, bombs, terrorist threats and kidnappings—he has that shit handled. Conversational small talk, however, is not his favorite thing, and he refuses to make the effort. As long as he keeps me not getting killed, however, I will deal. When I come above deck, I spot Lily right away—she is a beautiful woman in a sea of racers. She sticks out and not just because she is trying to hide behind a pair of big, white sunglasses that make her look as if she is channeling Audrey Hepburn.
Her gaze runs over the Koa . I want those glasses gone because they make it hard to figure out what she is thinking. Part speculation, part resignation. I can see that, but I want more. I have spent years trying not to think about her, forcing myself to stay away, but now she has come to me and the game is on. The small, hard-shell suitcase by her feet is a sober black with a duct-taped frowny face on the side.
Someone should tell her I love a fucking challenge. If she is unhappy about our current arrangement, I simply have to talk her into changing her mind. While I stare at her, thinking dirty thoughts, one of my bodyguards takes the case from her and looks at me. I am the man in charge. My word is law here, and it seems Lily just cottoned onto that. Now she looks at me as if I am Johnny Fucking Depp, putting the moves on her when she has pledged her undying love to Will.
“My cabin,” I tell the bodyguard. He nods, vaults over the side, and disappears past me.
She sucks in a breath.
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