I drag in a deep breath, straighten my spine, and put my game face on.
I’m about to enter the room to give the performance of my life when Raffael’s hand finds my arm again. Softer this time. A gentle warning instead of an ominous threat.
“You can’t fuck this up,” he murmurs near my ear. “You might not believe me, but the last thing I want is you getting hurt.”
The kindness is an unwanted reminder of the man I thought I knew. Now it only serves to cement his deceit.
I glance over my shoulder, meeting his gaze as he towers over me from the step above. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you started bartering with my freedom behind my back.”
I shuck his hold and step into a room that opens up before me, its side wall folded down to create a platform that extends out over the dark water like a private dock.
A sleek tender floats alongside it, a crewman securing a rope between the two vessels, while another man remains on the smaller boat, his eyes locked on Quinn as she stands in front of him, frowning at her phone.
“Why the hell can I no longer get a signal?” she grumbles.
I approach. The crew member on the tender sees me first, his face lighting with the kind of unguarded relief people usually reserve for miracles. “Ma’am.”
Quinn glares at him. “If youma’amme one more time you’re going to lose an appendage.” She pauses, tracking his attention to me. “Isla?”
I smile despite myself. “Quinn.”
She scrambles to the side of the boat. “Are you okay?”
I continue forward, panic teasing the back of my neck as I step onto the floating platform.
I knew it wouldn’t be hard for Raffael to trigger a flare when he texted her. This woman has intuition that borders on clairvoyance—not that it would’ve been hard with Raffael’s phrasing.
It was what I’d banked on. What I’d planned for.
But that was before the threats gained a lethal edge.
“I was fine… until I heard you were on your way.” I force a thin smile. “Now I feel crappy.”
She studies me, sharp as ever, then fires a look at the guy still on the tender. “Can I at least step onto the platform?”
“No, ma’—”
She cuts him off with a glare.
“Miss,” he corrects. “I’m afraid I can’t allow it.”
“Is it possible to get a moment of privacy?” I eye the guy on board, then the one still securing the tender to the yacht with rope.
They exchange a quick look.
“Sure,” says the guy next to Quinn. “But she can’t come aboard.”
I nod. “Understood.”
He climbs from the boat and jumps onto the platform. “The name’s Mitch. We’ll be in the tender garage just behind that wall.” He gestures to the far side of the room. “Call out when you’re done.”
I give a tight smile in thanks and watch them leave through a movable partition. It isn’t entire privacy though—not given the threat lurking on the stairs—but it’s enough.
“The rules around here are stricter than airport security,” Quinn mutters. “It’s not like I’m capable of hijacking the damn thing.”
“Tell me about it. I had to put my Louboutins in a basket because no shoes are allowed onboard.”
She rolls her eyes. “The one-percenters have a lot to answer for.”