I laughed. “That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”
He rolled his eyes at me but didn’t comment.
Once upon a time, racing boats had been danger and rebellion. There’d been years when it had been the worst of me instead of the best of me. But now…now I’d grown it into a livelihood. A damn good one.
The shiny black-and-red jet boat we’d used for this race was one of five boats we used on a regular basis. All different lengths, engine sizes, and fuel capacities that we could tailor to the race at hand. Our newest design was on its way to America in a container ship while we waited to hear about the race of a lifetime that would start in New York.
We tied off the boat and jumped onto the pier.
The warm sun glimmered over the crowd gathered on the dock, covering them in a hazy shimmer. Their expensive clothes and even more expensive jewelry were a statement to exactly where we were—a private yacht club in Tarifa, Spain. One whose annual membership fees cost more than the average American made in a year.
The murmur on the dock was a mass of varied emotions. Some congratulatory, some growling with displeasure, but all poised and groomed enough to keep it together and not throw punches. The wagers on the race had been bigger than the prize itself, and Demario had just lost his followers a boatload. Even if they could afford to lose the cash, it still stung to watch it wash away with the tide. It would make Demario even hungrier to agree to the terms of the next contest.
Demario docked in the slip next to us. His dark, Italian face was broody as hell, and Angelica was still scowling. If she’d been at the helm, I might not have been able to pull off the win. She put my skills to the test every single time we went up against each other.
This adventure from Tarifa, across the Strait of Gibraltar, to the tip of Morocco and back had been her idea. She’d raced it in their boat more times than I had. Hell, she’d practically grown up racing it.
Amen from the Spanish Yacht Club was one big grin as he approached. More good news. We needed him onboard if we wanted a chance at the Conquistar de la Atlántica cup.
“Quite the flashy ending,” he commented. His English was better than mine. Just like Dax’s. They’d both been raised in Europe, educated at the most exclusive boarding schools and universities, and taught an English that was full of proper vowels and full syllables.
My English was California hick town. Soft a’s and slurred s’s. But it gave me an advantage in this world I’d been living in for five years. They always underestimated me. I was always the blue-collar American who surprised them—even after all the wins Dax and I had under our belts.
We moved from the pier into the exclusive club full of eighteenth-century gold-gilded charm. At the antique bar, I ordered a round for the four of us.
“To Angelica and Demario for their fabulous attempt to displace Dax and me in the charts,” I said, raising my glass to them.
“It’s not over, Langley,” Demario grunted out.
“You’re in then?” Dax spoke before I could. “You’ll join Enzo and us in an attempt to win the cup?”
Demario glanced at Angelica. She gave a curt nod.
“Another round to celebrate,” Dax called.
I was never quite sure what Demario and Angelica’s relationship was. They didn’t seem friends or lovers. It seemed like they tolerated each other for the sake of the race. Whereas Dax and I were friends. Best friends.
Our relationship might have started off extremely unbalanced when he’d found me working as a mechanic at the marina in New London. But every time I’d passed up my winnings to put them back into the racing company we’d built, the scales had drawn a bit closer.
“I hate the idea of giving you more money,” Demario griped. “Can’t I use my own goddamn boat instead of the behemoth you’ve built?”
Dax bristled. Our yachts weren’t behemoths. They were goddamn pieces of art. A slick combination of a jet boat, cigarette boat, and day cruiser. Perfect for long-distance racing but also a design we could sell to the socialites in Dax’s inner circle who would use them as a statement to the world.
I’d designed the structure and the motor. Dax had designed the aesthetics. The Italian shipbuilder we were working with had thrown a hand in once they’d realized just what we’d envisioned. We had three finished and on their way to New York with ten more in the works.
“Quit griping, Demario. We’re practically giving you the boat,” I said, slapping him on the back. “They’ll be worth a nice little chunk of change when we win the Conquistar in them.”
Movement out of the corner of my eye brought Jada into focus. She was dressed in a bikini glittering with gems that was supposed to be hidden under a coverup, but the bright-blue material was practically sheer. Her silky black hair was tied back in a low ponytail and hidden beneath a floppy sunhat that would have given Audrey Hepburn a run for her money.
Beside me, Dax stiffened as he took her in. She was tiny with slim curves and sharp edges. Her light skin was tinted soft pink from the sunshine she’d just retreated from. She hadn’t removed her oversized, dark sunglasses even though we were inside, but I could almost guarantee her dark brown eyes had squinted in my friend’s direction before landing on me.
She put her arm through mine. “Congratulations are in order, I see.”
“You didn’t watch?” I asked with a grin.
She shook her head. “No.”
Jada Mori rarely apologized for anything. She didn’t need to. She was the star in the middle of a social circle full of elites. She led the pack, and they all scrambled after her. Except Dax.
It may have been Dax who’d brought me into the group of the world’s richest twenty-somethings, but it was Jada who’d made sure I fit. It was Jada who’d taken me shopping to buy the clothes I needed to blend in. It had been Jada who’d invited me to travel with her and stay at her family’s chateaus and mansions scattered around the globe. Dax had made me in the boating world. Jada had made me with the world’s high society.
The reason she’d done it was a splash of cold water along my back.
My joy from the water and the win slipped away.
I eyed her again. The sunglasses were for more than show.
I pulled her away from the crowd, down the bar. “What’s up?” I asked quietly.
“Ken’Ichi arrived this morning,” she said, flipping her diamond-studded phone case over and over and over on the bar.
I frowned at her nervous habit but gave a curt nod. We’d known he was showing up. I had business to discuss with him. Ken’Ichi was Tsuyoshi Mori’s first lieutenant―his Wakagashira. I’d been working for almost four years to get to this point. To have this exact meeting become a reality.
“Otōsan called at the same time. It seems my philandering ways have embarrassed the family for the last time. I am to be married off in hopes that my husband―or motherhood―will tame me,” she said.
“Were those his exact words?” I asked, concern flowing through me. Last week, the paparazzi had sneaked onto the villa’s grounds and taken a picture of her and a male companion on the balcony with more skin than clothes showing. I was the reason she’d been out there to begin with. I’d asked her to cause a distraction. I hadn’t asked her to have sex to do it, but with Jada, I should have known she’d use the one power she so deftly wielded.