The Italian Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge (2 of 2 free samples)

---

COPYRIGHT
The Italian Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge by Jacqueline Baird. Copyright 2007 by Jacqueline Baird.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

---

Previous

CHAPTER ONE (CONT'D)

'Will you look at Il Leonessa? Now, that is what I call a yacht. I think it's the new Predator class. Wow! Never mind the ship--what about the man? Look . . . Look . . . Oh, my God. Isn't he just the most gorgeous hunk of masculinity you ever saw? Look at those shoulders, that chest, the legs . . . '

Sara felt the dig in her ribs and reluctantly tore her attention away from the tale of murder most foul she was reading. She cast a sidelong glance at her companion.

'Oh, please, Pat--not another Greek god stepped down from Olympus. He must be about the hundredth you have spotted in the past week.' She grinned. 'And you a married lady.'

'Believe me, this one is exceptional. Unless he has rolled-up socks stuck down his shorts, he has to be the best-looking, most rampantly virile male I have ever seen. Unfortunately he's focused on you.' Pat sighed ruefully. 'Still, I bet he's great in bed.'

'You are disgraceful.' Sara shook her head and returned to her book.

'And you, girl, are wasting your life. You're on a yacht with six single men and only two female guests. It's perfectly obvious Peter Wells has the hots for you, and do you encourage him? No. When you're not cooking you spend most of your free time with your head buried in a book. Where is your spirit of adventure? If I were you I would be straight over there and trying to find out who that beautiful man is. In fact, I think I will anyway. I'll invite him to our farewell party tonight. Dave won't mind if I tell him he's for you.'

'No.' Sara spun over and sat up. 'Don't you dare.' But she was talking to her friend's back. The trouble was Pat did dare . . . anything. And Dave, her husband, was just as bad . . . Initially, as their sometime accountant and friend, Sara had tried to teach them the benefit of restraint. But the word was not in their vocabulary.

So Sara had answered Pat's frantic telephone call to ditch her own holiday, get down to Marseilles and join their cruise as the cook. The one they had hired had failed to turn up and they'd been desperate. Having shared her apartment with Pat when she'd first started work with an international accountancy firm in London, Sara knew how useless Pat was in the kitchen. Sara knew without conceit that she was an excellent cook. She also knew just how perilous their financial situation was.

On their marriage three years ago they had both given up their jobs and sunk all their money, and some more besides, into this yacht--the idea being to make a living from running cruises with an element of training people to sail when they were not sailing off somewhere themselves. It had sounded good on paper, but with Pat now pregnant they would shortly need somewhere to live--preferably back in England. Dave confidently expected to keep the yacht, and rent a place in London until the baby was born and able to sail with them. But Sara had seen the figures, and knew how horrendously expensive it was simply to own the yacht.

The trouble was, although it was a decent size with four guest cabins, the ship was quite old. A stunning timber-built sailing cruiser, it was very romantic to see in full sail, but very expensive to maintain and run. Even with Dave as instructor and certified captain and Pat as crew, the bare minimum they could sail with was three qualified sailors plus a cook and a cabin boy--and their wages had to be paid. As for the insurance, it was colossal to cover the yacht and the paying guests. Sara knew because she had arranged the policy for them.

The charters tended to be groups of young people who had experience of sailing and liked the idea of learning more. But they were on an expensive holiday, and if the wind dropped and it looked as if they might miss a single port of call they expected the engine to be utilised. Given the astronomical rise in the cost of fuel over the last two years, calm seas could virtually wipe out any profit on a charter. Plus, simply keeping it berthed in the Mediterranean accrued very hefty fees-- which was why Sara had given up the second week of the Cordon Bleu cookery course she had been attending in the South of France to help them out.

Sara glanced up idly at the much bigger vessel opposite. Good Lord, it actually had a helicopter on the top deck. Heaven knew what kind of money it took to run a ship like that . . . millions, probably, she thought, her gaze skimming down.

Then she saw the object of Pat's enthusiasm--or at least the rear view of him. He was tall, with black hair, wide shoulders and a broad back tapering to a lean waist and hips and long, muscular legs, and he was about to enter the wheel-house. Great body, she thought, and then inexplicably she shuddered. Someone walking over her grave. She shrugged and, rolling over on her stomach, was soon lost in the intricacies of a very bloody murder case.

#

Previous