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“If it’ll get my question answered quickly, sure, why not? Whaton earthare you doing on this boat, Benedict Mason Sinclair the Third?” I ask in fake upper-crust tones and wide-eyed pseudo innocence. Then I immediately cringe inside because I’ve let slip that I know more about him than he’s revealed so far.

His smile tells me he’s noted the slip, and I take a hasty sip of champagne and wait for the inevitable smug comeback. “I’m setting up the entertainment lounges for Zach.”

My champagne threatens to go down the wrong way. I hastily clear my throat. “You’rethe designer I’m meeting?” Nothing in his online profile mentioned he was a designer. Then again, it hadn’t said anything specific about what Mason does for a living.

“I am. And bravo,” he murmurs, watching my lips as I frown.

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“You just expressed yourself succinctly without swearing.”

Jesus effing Christ. “Okay, fine, cool your jets, mister. I can actually speak without swearing.”

“Then why do you choose not to with me?”

“Because…” I stop, then kick myself for floundering. No way am I going to tell him he brings out the flustered, awkward teenager I used to be. Or that I secretly hate that he’s seen me at my lowest. So I shrug. “I don’t know. You seem to bring out the worst in me.”

That twitch at the corner of his mouth again, the one that makes me even more irritated, and even more attracted to him. We watch the sun heading for the blue horizon for a few minutes, until the silence becomes too uncomfortable for me.

“So, your first name is Benedict?”

His gaze slides to mine, but again he doesn’t respond, only tilts his glass to his lips and takes a long swallow.

“Do you prefer Ben, Ned or just Dick?” I ask, my tongue firmly in my cheek.

His jaw flexes. “I told you what I prefer two weeks ago. For an intelligent woman, your continued need to aggravate strikes me as quite reckless. Or perhaps it’s something else entirely?” he speculates, his voice a low, rough rumble that reminds me of all the time I’ve wasted trying to forget that voice, that face.

“What, it’s suddenly reckless to make conversation?”

“You’re not making conversation. You’re goading. The question is why. Are you hoping I’ll punish you again like I did out in Montauk, Keely?”

Suddenly, I’m hot. My breath strangles somewhere in my lumbar region, and I can’t quite meet his gaze. If what he did to me on the hood of that car was punishment, then I shudder to think what his brand of pleasure will feel like.

“Get over yourself, my buttons aren’t that easy to push,” I lie.

“Really?” He turns toward me and cocks his hip against the railing. That stance should make him seem relaxed, cordial. It should makemerelax, but it does the opposite and brings to mind an image of a cobra drawing back before it strikes, sinking its deadly venom into unsuspecting prey. “So far the evidence points to the contrary,” he says, his eyes staying on mine with a ferocious intensity that makes me aware of every single vulnerable pore in my body.

I can’t seem to move, or respond. He conducts another survey down my body, this time deliberately lingering on the pulse hammering at my throat and the shadowed area between my breasts, then dropping to my hips and legs, before climbing back up again.

Every inch of me tingles. I want to shut off the sensations this man seems to pull so effortlessly from me, but I can’t. My usual ability to flirt and discard at will has deserted me, and all I can do is watch him watch me.

“Perhaps we should explore that,” he invites with a dark undertone.

I desperately pull myself together. “Or perhaps we should get back on point and you should give me a tour of the boat, seeing as that is the purpose of this meeting?”

He blinks disgustingly long lashes, and frustration hums from his body. I recall his condemnation of basic social graces in his kitchen two weeks ago, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing in this place if mingling with society is so abhorrent to him.

Of all the places on earth, Monte Carlo is the very fleshpot of decadence and flashy luxury, a place where people specifically come to see and be seen. So far, Mason Sinclair has struck me as the very antithesis of that lifestyle.

He remains silent for the time he takes to finish his drink, and I realize another thing about him. He’s not a man who feels inclined to fill silences with conversation.

Whereas I’m the opposite. Silences terrify me. I can’t help but wonder what another person sees and thinks of me when they’re not talking to me.

The moment he sets his glass down, I turn away from the breathtaking view. “Shall we?”

“In good time.” He folds muscle-roped arms across his broad chest and my attention is reluctantly drawn to his shoulders. “You want to tell me something about yourself?” he asks lazily.

I bristle at his indifferent tone. “Why would I want to do that?”