MARRIED TO THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

THE MAN IN CABIN 306 The first rule of an invitation-only yacht party was simple: never let anyone know you were bored. Avery Bennett had broken that rule forty minutes ago. She was sprawled across a velvet sofa in a guest suite on the third deck of the Silver Swan, watching the Manhattan skyline glitter beyond the windows. Downstairs, the kind of people who described their yachts as “small” were drinking champagne beneath a chandelier that probably cost more than her final year of tuition. Her best friend had promised to be back in ten minutes. That had been almost an hour ago. Avery checked her phone. Still nothing from Mia. “Next time,” she muttered, “I’m bringing a book.” She was twenty-three, almost finished with her jewelry-design program, and spectacularly uninterested in making small talk with hedge-fund managers. Mia had called the party a chance to meet interesting people. So far Avery had met a man who owned three helicopters and a woman who had asked whether Bennett was the family that had recently been “having difficulties.” Apparently bankruptcy, even the rumored kind, was excellent entertainment. Her screen lit up at last. MIA: Sorry! Stuck with someone. Two more minutes. Promise. AVERY: That's what you said forty-seven minutes ago. She set the phone down beside a glass of untouched champagne. The door clicked. “If you make me sit through one more conversation about private equity, I swear—” She stopped. The figure in the doorway was not Mia. A man stepped into the dim room, tall enough to nearly fill the frame. His dark suit jacket hung open, and one hand gripped the door as though the floor had moved under him. For a moment he said nothing. Avery rose from the sofa. “This suite is occupied.” His head turned toward her. “Who sent you?” The words were low and clipped. His voice might have been attractive under other circumstances. Right now it sounded dangerous. “No one. I’m waiting for my friend.” He laughed once, without humor. “That’s a new one.” He came farther into the room. Avery took a step back and smelled expensive cologne beneath the sharp trace of whiskey. His movements were unsteady, but there was nothing uncertain about the way he watched her. “Look,” she said, reaching for her phone, “I think you have the wrong room.” He caught her wrist. Avery's stomach dropped. “Let go.” “Tell me who paid you to be here.” “No one paid me. Let. Go.” His grip loosened for half a second, then tightened as he braced himself against the sofa. He looked sick. His eyes struggled to focus. Avery didn't wait to figure out why. She seized the glass decanter from the side table and brought it down against the wood beside his hand. Glass shattered. He recoiled, swearing, and released her. She ran. Her shoulder struck the doorframe. Somewhere behind her, the man stumbled into a chair, but he did not follow. Avery flew down the corridor and nearly collided with a steward carrying fresh towels. “Miss? Is everything all right?” “There’s a man in Cabin 306,” she said, breathless. “He grabbed me. Call security.” The steward's expression changed immediately. He reached for his radio. Avery kept moving until she reached the public deck, where music and laughter rolled through the warm night air. Only then did she look at her shaking hands. The clasp of the necklace she'd borrowed was broken. The pendant was gone. Of course it was. It had been the one thing she absolutely could not afford to lose. Her phone vibrated again. MIA: Where are you??? Avery typed with trembling fingers. AVERY: Going home. I'll explain tomorrow. She stared at the message before pressing send. She wasn't going to explain tomorrow, not really. She didn't even understand what had happened. An attendant helped her into a tender headed toward shore. As the Silver Swan receded into the black water, Avery hugged her arms around herself. One thing she knew for certain: she never wanted to see that man again. * * * Adrian Blackwood woke to the taste of metal and the beginning of a vicious headache. The first thing he noticed was the overturned chair. The second was the broken glass scattered across the carpet. The third was a small gold pendant lying beneath the sofa. He picked it up carefully. A single letter was engraved on the back. Y. He closed his fist around it. The woman from the room had been real, then. And he remembered something else: his first drink had tasted wrong. Adrian reached for his phone. “Cole,” he said when his head of security answered. “I want the camera footage from the third deck. And find out who handled my champagne.” “Is there a problem, sir?” Adrian looked again at the broken glass. “There will be.”