Page 42 of Bastard

I shrug the whys away as I head to the opposite side of the yacht.

The guards’ familiar faces greet me outside his quarters. They murmur compliments for arranging the poker game, and not hyper-focusing on my looks, but fall silent when the door flies open and I’m whisked inside.

“Tomorrow night?” I say over my shoulder. “We play for drinks instead of seashells?”

The tantalizing aroma of food registers first.

Dios mío, he didn’t.

At the bottom of my list, and as a small act of rebellion, I requested all my favorite Mexican foods. A ridiculous joke I never expected he’d take seriously. But as I enter the room, I find what has to be the equivalent of a Mexican street-festival fare in trays set on a long buffet table.

My mind might be appalled but my stomach rumbles with delight.

Hayden pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. An exquisitely decorated, small, round table takes up the center of the room. A bouquet of flowers makes up the centerpiece. Next to it is a crystal decanter of red wine with fruit, sangria—not a part of my list.

“The food was a joke.”

“I know.”

“Then why go to the trouble?” I murmur, my guilt laced with anticipation.

“I’m suddenly in the mood for Mexican.”

The food, Luciana. He means the meal that’s been prepared for us.

“Sit.”

I slip into the chair, and he moves to the seat across from me.

“There’s sangria.” I arch an eyebrow. There’s no explanation for it other than he arranged for my favorite drink to be prepared.

He doesn’t ask, just pours delicious fruity wine into a glass and hands it to me.

A server rushes over. “Sorry, Boss.” He clears his throat.¿Qué desea comer,señora?”

I clap my hands together. “Did he order you to flavor your questions with Spanish?”

The server grins, pleased that I understood him. “Sí, señora.”

“It’s señorita, not señora.” But I appreciate the effort. My attention turns to the man listening intently to our exchange. “Gracias. The Spanish is a nice touch.”

He sits back in his chair, watching me.

Always so observant, isn’t he?

“I’d like the mole poblano and a serving of frijoles.”

“And you, Boss?”

“The same. And a Corona.”

I swallow hard. Our first conversation was over Coronas. I disliked the beer but took an instant liking to him. In reflection, there’s a lesson in that. With Corona, at least you know what you’re getting.

I take a sip of my drink and from beneath my lashes, study the complicated man across from me.

He’s like the wild card that’s found its way back into my poker game. Upending everything. Unnerving all the players. Maneuvering his way into a winning position, a skill I admire as much as detest.

There’s a reason he’s gone through all this trouble. I can’t let my guard down without understanding what it is. “You always get what you want, isn’t that right?”