Power and Possession

  Power and Possession

  By C.C. Gibbs

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  Chapter 1

  Monte Carlo, Monaco, August 1

  Nicole Parrish squinted against the sun pouring in through the bedroom windows, her uncle’s penthouse apartment curtainless for some ungodly reason. Or more practically because it was forty stories above the ground. “I’m up, I’m up, okay. I heard you.” Her friend, Fiona, was standing at the end of the bed, looking fresh and bright, every golden hair in place. “Seriously, you’re sure it’s not a problem?”

  “God, no. It’s a mega yacht. I Googled it. Two hundred fifty feet, six decks, helipad, swimming pool, hot tub, gym, spa, crew of thirty-three, built two years ago of aluminum for speed and fuel economy—how’s that for an oxymoron. And the guest list is always huge, the invitations allow for escorts, partners, friends—whatever. So it’s not a problem.”

  “Still.” Nicole pursed her lips. “It feels like party crashing.”

  “You’re too sober. That’s your problem. My cousin says this is a not-to-be-missed party.” Fiona Kelly, dressed in a green shimmering bikini that matched her eyes, lifted her mimosa. “Want some of my breakfast? Your uncle has one kick-ass champagne selection.”

  Almost lost in the huge bed, Nicole lazily stretched. “It was a late night—actually morning, by the time I got home. I need food.”

  “The buffet is set up in the dining room as usual thanks to the food fairies.” Nicole liked her privacy so Dominic Knight, her uncle, had given his staff orders to be discreet.

  “Any breakfast tortillas?”

  “Of course. Your uncle runs a tight ship. Or maybe you’re his favorite niece.”

  “He’s good to all of us. Did Mom call?” While her uncle was laissez-faire in his oversight, her mother wasn’t.

  “Only three times.” Fiona grinned. “She must get up at dawn.”

  “Yoga at sunrise,” Nicole muttered. “I didn’t inherit those genes.”

  “Don’t I know it, Miss Night Owl. Anyway, I didn’t tell your mom you rolled in at seven. I told her you were busy Skyping with your new grad counselor at Columbia. A mix-up with your fall class schedule.”

  “Which isn’t entirely untrue.”

  A lift of perfectly sculpted brows thanks to the spa at the Hôtel de Paris. “Only because you haven’t actually registered yet.”

  Nicole groaned. “We’re not all programmed for a career path from birth,” she grumbled. “Some of us—”

  “Want to be a screenwriter with a chem degree. Or work with that gorgeous Yash on his happiness research in Singapore. Which has more to do with your happiness than research.”

  “Hey—I’m trying not to think about any of that this summer.”

  Undeterred, Fiona said, “The summer won’t last forever and you’re going to have to deal with it. Just saying.”

  A mocking glance. “Thanks, Mom. Now be nice,” Nicole murmured, still not fully awake. “Or you’ll go mega-yachting alone.”

  “You be nice or I won’t tell you what that lovely boy you were with last night sent in the way of a thank you for”—Fiona flashed a wide smile—“your charming company.”

  “I already know. I smell the roses. And he was lovely.” A hint of pleasure echoed softly in her voice. “Andre right?”

  “With a whole lot of other names after that—don’t forget.”

  “You’re the one who likes titles. I just like to have fun.”

  “I try to combine the two since we’re in Europe. So how was darling Andre? Scale of one to ten.” The proverbial female question the morning after.

  Nicole thought for a moment. “An eight. He was a little too sweet. Not my favorite thing. We went clubbing, dancing, had a last drink at some little bistro on the beach. He wasn’t trying to score right out of the blocks. I liked that.”

  “Sometimes you like that.” Fiona and Nicole had been talking boys since grade school. Nothing was sacred. “And sometimes you don’t—a few occasions, one in a bar bathroom—come to mind.”

  “So?” Another lazy stretch.

  “So nothing.” Fiona drained the flute, set the glass on the dresser, and strolled to the windows overlooking the Mediterranean. “Wow. This isn’t Kansas, Dorothy. Even more yachts in port than yesterday.” She spun around, her long blond hair swinging in a silken arc, and threw her arms open wide. “Come on—it’s almost one. Get up or the party’s going to start without us.”

  Nicole glanced at the bedside clock and made a grumbly noise.

  “Look, we have only a month left of summer break. That’s thirty more days to rub shoulders and other more interesting body parts with the rich and famous before we’re back to the academic grind. Or at least, I’ll go back to the grind. Slackers like you, who knows?” Fiona walked to the bed and pulled the covers back. “Go take a shower. Vite. Vite. I’ll pick out a bikini for you.”

  “And a cover-up,” Nicole said, swinging her legs out of bed. “As a sop to my mom’s sense of decorum.”

  “None of which rubbed off on you. You’re lucky your uncle always bails you out of trouble without telling your mom or dad.”

  “Dominic understands craziness. What can I say?” Nicole smiled as she came to her feet. “And you should talk. You were with me most of those times.” She sniffed the air. “God, I love roses. I must have told him that last night.”

  Chapter 2

  Nicole was lost.

  Even after two crew members had pointed her in this direction, every corridor looked the same on the huge yacht. She was facing miles of burled tulipwood and polished brass with every cabin door identical—none with identifying signs, which meant she was probably in the private quarters of her host.

  Damn. She’d probably had one drink too many. But the well-trained waitstaff was always passing around another tray of yummy summer drinks, the Mediterranean sun was hotter than hell, and Fiona kept saying, “It’s a party. What are you waiting for?”

  So here she was in another posh corridor, looking for a bathroom and facing nothing but closed doors.

  What now? Just start opening doors until she got lucky?

  Oops.

  She skidded to a stop on the threshold of a large stateroom, the couple on the sofa went still, and she met the hooded, amber-eyed gaze of her host.

  “Oh—God, sorry… wrong room,” she stammered, feeling like a deer in the headlights under that hard, assessing stare, as well as seriously underdressed, although every other woman at the party was in a bikini too. “I was… just… looking for the loo.” She started backing up.

  “Wait.” Tossing a feathered sex toy behind the sofa, the gorgeous man on the couch quickly rolled off the woman beneath him and, coming to his feet, zipped up his khaki shorts. “Use this one.” He motioned to a frosted glass door across the large stateroom.

  Having come to a stop, Nicole recognized Rafe Contini and tried not to stare at his broad shoulders and ripped torso, not to mention the semi-nude blonde casually lounging on the sofa, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world for people to watch her. “Really, I couldn’t,” Nicole murmured, focusing instead on a striking
Picasso painting over the sofa. “I’m intruding.”

  “Not at all.” Responding to her unease, Rafe grabbed his polo shirt from the carpet. “Silvie has to leave soon anyway.”

  “I do not!” The tawny-haired blonde punched Rafe’s leg.

  His head and arms slid out of his white polo shirt and the fabric dropped over his hard abs. “I just meant Emilio will be looking for you. Aren’t you dining with Shokov?” Rafe said smoothly, ignoring Silvie’s pouty scowl. “But stay as long as you wish. I’ll open a bottle of that wine from Georgia you like.” Bending down, he pulled a black lace top over her large breasts, slid the straps over her shoulders, and stood upright. “Please”—he glanced at Nicole—“go on in.” He jabbed a finger toward the door, then raked his fingers through his long hair and flipped it behind his ears with a pivot of his wrists. “I’ll get us drinks. Any preferences?”

  A flicker of a smile drifted over her mouth. “I’ve probably had enough if I want to find my way back up to the main deck.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His voice dropped slightly, his golden gaze turned warm. “I know the way.”

  His low, husky voice vibrated softly through her senses. Gently, without urgency, almost weightless—and she found herself saying, “Okay. Any drink is fine. Surprise me.” Stepping into the room, she shut the door and moved toward the bathroom. Surprise me. Now there’s a plan. And he watched her walk across the broad expanse of pale carpet with a breath-held wonder even he recognized as bizarre.

  He didn’t remember her, Nicole thought. Two years ago, Rafail Contini, head of R&D for his father’s Swiss firm, Contini Pharmaceuticals, had been presenting a paper on the future of targeted chemotherapy at a conference in San Francisco. She, along with a group of chemistry undergrads, had been introduced to him by their professor. He was as gorgeous then as now: tall, superbuff, and starkly handsome, with long, dark hair and intense amber eyes. Magnetic, jungle-cat eyes.

  The kind of man who brought a hush to a room when he walked in.

  Serious centerfold eye candy.

  Jesus, enough! Get a grip. He was probably just being gracious by offering her a drink.

  And it was clear that Silvia Fermetti—trophy wife of the Italian ambassador to France, darling of all the gossip rags for her wild ways—had no intention of leaving.

  In fact, when Nicole exited the bathroom a short time later, the same voluptuous blonde seated beside Rafe at a small table gave her a if-looks-could-kill glare as though to emphasize that point. Caught in the crosshairs of the murderous look, Nicole had a moment of doubt. Did she really want to be in the middle of a possible battle royal? Should she refuse the drink and get the hell out? But before she’d taken more than a few steps, Rafe was walking toward her, holding a martini glass.

  “See if you like this Novatini,” he said a moment later, handing her the drink. “Hendrick’s Gin, white cranberry juice, half a lime, squeezed. Come, sit. You’re an American aren’t you?”

  “Yes. San Francisco.” Nicole took the offered glass.

  “I know the city,” he said as they moved to the table. “I spent a couple years at Stanford.” He pulled out a chair for her.

  Nicole glanced up as she sat. “Small world. I just graduated from Stanford.”

  He grinned. “It must be karma.”

  Conscious of Silvie’s glowering expression, Nicole murmured noncommittally, “If you say so.”

  “No doubt in my mind,” he said very softly, even though he’d never actually believed in karma. Nor in the word mesmerized, which described his reaction to this lithe lush beauty. Sitting down, he nodded. “You’ve been swimming.” Nicole’s long dark hair fell in damp ringlets.

  “The swimming platform was inviting.”

  He smiled. “No one ever actually swims around here.”

  “I do.”

  “Often?”

  “Every day.”

  He leaned forward. “Where are you staying?”

  “Goddamn it, you shit! I’m right here!” Silvie spat, making a scene as natural as breathing to her.

  “Relax, Silvie,” Rafe said. “I’m just making conversation.”

  “I want her to leave!”

  “Really, I probably should go,” Nicole said, setting her glass down.

  “Nonsense.” Turning to Silvie, he said, very softly, “Behave.”

  Grabbing her wineglass, she was about to fling its contents at Rafe, as if she were once again playing the Italian soap opera role that had brought her to prominence, when the stateroom door abruptly opened.

  Emilio Fermetti paused in the doorway. “Ah, there you are, Silvie.” Well dressed in a custom-tailored fawn linen suit, the tall, white-haired patrician was fully capable of artifice after thirty years in the diplomatic service. “I thought I might find you here,” he said with a bland smile.

  His wife dropped her glass on the table. “The sun was too hot on deck,” she said with a defiant little shrug.

  “Of course. And you with such fair skin,” he said gently. “But we do have to leave now, darling. Dinner with Shokov.” He dipped his head to Rafe. “Thank you for your hospitality, Rafail. If you’ll excuse us.”

  “Certainly. A pleasure to see you again, Emilio. Make sure you let me know what you need for your Sudan aid mission. I’ll see that the drugs get there.”

  “I’ll send over an inventory list. To you or to the Contini Foundation?” The ambassador smiled faintly. “Is Isabelle still in charge of your charities?”

  “She is. Would you like her to call you for the list?” Isabelle was young, beautiful, and unmarried, not that marital status mattered to a lecher like Emilio. But Isabelle could take care of herself.

  “I would, thank you. And thank you too for your continuing philanthropy. I can always count on the generosity of Contini Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Our pleasure. We like to help. Do you need any more of those three-D printers we sent you?” A new, inexpensive robotic hand was one of Rafe’s personal projects.

  “Absolutely. We were able to fit forty people, mostly children, with artificial hands last quarter.”

  “Must you always talk business, Emilio?” Silvie said, with a pettish little sniff, preferring to be the center of attention. “You know I dislike it.”

  Her husband didn’t respond other than to cock one eyebrow. “But a necessary annoyance when it comes to charity, my dear.” He turned to Rafe. “If I wouldn’t be imposing, Rafail, another twenty printers would be useful.”

  “I’ll see that Isabelle’s notified. And if there’s anything else we can help with, don’t hesitate to—”

  “I’m leaving if you aren’t!” Rising from her chair in a petulant huff, her boobs thrust out in an unsubtle ploy for attention, Silvie spun away, marched to the door, and slammed it behind her.

  Emilio dipped his head, giving Rafe a rare smile of sincerity. “You’re not your father’s son, Rafail. Your benevolence is commendable.”

  Rafe recognized the double entendre and grinned. “Thanks. I’ve tried very hard not to be my father.”

  The ambassador sighed. “At times I envy you your youth. Not often though.” His diplomatic smile appeared. “I find the drama enervating.”

  “Come now. I’ve heard all the stories.” Emilio always reminded Rafe of an eighteenth-century courtier. Worldly, rational to a fault, morally ambivalent.

  Emilio shrugged. “Shokov will put her in a better mood. He’s young and aggressive.”

  “And is thinking of running an oil pipeline under the Adriatic to Italy.”

  “Exactly. It’s the only reason I eat his very bad food. Did you know his chef was a chemist first?”

  Rafe groaned.

  “You see my dilemma.” Emilio raised his hand slightly in adieu, and a moment later followed his third wife from the room.

  As the door closed on the ambassador, Nicole raised her brows slightly. “He seems to like you, and you like him. I’m confused. Is she your girlfriend?”

  “You c
an’t be serious,” Rafe said.

  “Ah.”

  He didn’t respond to her insinuation, nor to her arched look. Instead, he slid down in his chair, lifted his gin and tonic to his mouth, and surveyed her over the rim of his glass for a moment before he drained the drink. Fishing an ice cube out of the glass, he held it up. “See this?” When she didn’t answer he said, “The length of time it takes for this to melt is about the extent of my interest in a woman.”

  She grinned. “Your numerous charities aside, you really can be an unmitigated shit.”

  “Somehow, I’m finding you the exception to my rule,” he drawled, dropping the ice cube back in the glass. “If I believed in the idea that a mysterious stranger could enter my life and change it in a split second I’d say it was when you walked in the door.” His mouth twitched slightly in amusement. “Since I don’t, I’m going with instant lust.”

  “Fine with me.” A novel concept in her life, unique to this man; although she liked the equally mysterious notion of second chances. “I’ve met you before, you know.”

  He quickly sat up. “Fuck if you did.” He set his glass down. “I would have remembered.”

  “You were with a woman.”

  He didn’t want to say that was too common to jog his memory. “Tell me where?”

  “San Francisco. Two years ago. You spoke on the targeted chemotherapy Contini Pharmaceuticals was developing.”

  “And I met you?” He smiled. “Were you in disguise?”

  “I was with my chem class; our professor introduced us as a group.” She didn’t say that the beautiful blond doctor on his arm had been whispering in his ear at the time, which may have distracted him. Nor that, afterward, she and a classmate had discussed the probable size of his dick, his scorching good looks, and the fact that if he’d even crooked a finger in their direction, they would have jumped into bed with him, alone or together.

  “Forgive me for not remembering you.” He suddenly grinned. “But there, you see, it’s an example of awesome fate and opportunistic probability that we met again.”