Page 1 of The Billionaire’s Siren (S.E. Smith Signature Romance: Heart & Soul #1)

One

“Son of a hairy ant’s belly.”

Dani Collins’s curse was muffled by the pad of her thumb as she sucked on her bleeding finger.

The sharp sting bit deeper than her pride, but only just. She glared down at the broken nail file in her lap—an outdated, half-rusted relic she’d fished from the back of the vanity drawer.

It wasn’t much, but in the war of lock versus mechanic, it had been her only weapon.

Around her, the cabin oozed obscene elegance, like someone had taken a five-star hotel and smooshed it into a floating palace.

The floor beneath her bare feet was a swirling expanse of creamy travertine marble, cool and polished to a mirror-like sheen.

A plush, navy-blue area rug—likely silk—spread across the center like a velvet sea, its intricate Greek key pattern gleaming with faint threads of gold.

To her left, a wall of smoked glass held back a gleaming mini-bar stocked with crystal decanters and top-shelf liquor, all perfectly backlit like museum pieces.

Above it, recessed lighting glowed from a coffered ceiling painted in soft ivory, throwing golden halos across the crown molding.

Even the air smelled expensive—like sea salt and leather with a hint of overpriced cologne.

The bed behind her was an oversized monstrosity wrapped in cream Egyptian cotton sheets and more throw pillows than any human could ever justify.

A hand-carved headboard loomed behind it, made of the same high-gloss mahogany as the curved wall panels and the door she now stared at with a mix of hope and fury.

Through that very door—solid, thick, and smug with its gleaming brass hardware—she could hear music thumping louder now.

Jazz mixed with something electronic. A saxophone wailing like it had drunk too much champagne.

Laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional squeal of drunken delight floated toward her, accompanied by the sweet, sour scent of hors d’oeuvres and perfume.

She tilted her head, listening. Yep. The party was in full swing. Vito Marino’s ego-fest had officially launched.

“I hope that little prick has a miserable time,” she muttered, adjusting her sore shoulder with a wince.

“ Come, let me show you around ,” she added in a mocking singsong, mimicking Vito’s greasy charm.

“I should never have fixed his blasted engine. That’s another thing I’ll take care of when I get out of here.

I’m going to tear it apart and dump the pieces all over his pretty little yacht in places he’ll never find. ”

She leaned back on her calves and exhaled slowly. Between the dazzling light fixtures that looked like inverted crystal fountains and the silent hum of wealth around her, it was easy to feel out of place—even if she hadn’t been locked in a glorified jewelry box.

“Who puts an electronic lock on a boat door?” she hissed. “What if the damn boat sinks? Rich idiots. That’s what they are. Designer-suited, over-sprayed tans, selfie-snapping?—”

Snap.

The nail file broke again, this time into a piece too small to salvage, with a pitiful ting . The jagged end clattered to the marble floor like a dropped sword in the final round.

Dani stared at the shard, her eye twitching. “Unbelievable.”

She dropped her head against the heavy mahogany door with a soft thud, letting the chill of the polished wood seep into her forehead. Her breath came in shallow spurts now, a mix of frustration, adrenaline, and the creeping edge of panic she’d been fighting to ignore for the last hour and a half.

“Stupid… potato heads,” she muttered, her voice muffled against the door. “You don’t lock a door on a boat. You don’t lock a door on a boat. What if it sinks? What if there’s a fire? What if?—?”

Her mind raced with increasingly dramatic scenarios, none of them helpful. Trapped in a glorified shoebox, on a yacht owned by a man with all the integrity of a used car commercial, with nothing but a broken nail file and a questionable pillow for defense.

She was going to die in here. Dressed like a sparkly tomato, smelling like champagne, and with glitter stuck to parts of her body that she didn’t even want to think about.

Her groan was stifled when a faint sound pierced through the bubble of her despair—footsteps.

Soft. Confident. Approaching.

Dani’s head jerked up. Her heart leapt to life like a car engine catching after the third crank. Hope rocketed through her chest.

She leaned forward, pressing her ear to the door. Yes, those were definitely footsteps. Raising her hands, she pounded with both hands, her palms slapping against the wood in a frantic rhythm.

“Help! Hey—HEY! I’m in here! Open the door! Please!”

She drove her shoulder against it, more to make noise than anything. Her voice cracked with rising desperation.

“Oh, for the love of—will someone please open this dang?—”

The footsteps paused. Dani pressed her ear to the door again, holding her breath. Suddenly, the electronic lock made a beeping sound before the door slid open.

Dani blinked. Air sucked into her lungs. She was still on her knees. All she could see was the expensive sheen of tailored black slacks and the sculpted knees beneath.

“Ti sto THEE-a-o-lo?—?” What the hell?!

Oh, thank God. Oh, crap. What if it’s Vito?

Without thinking, without looking, Dani snapped into survival mode .

Her fist shot out like a piston, a perfect uppercut to the unprotected terrain of the man’s groin.

A strangled sound erupted above her—a hiss, followed by a breathless groan that might’ve made her wince… if she hadn’t already launched herself up like a rocket.

She bolted, clutching her boots in one hand, red gown flaring around her legs like a cape as she rammed her shoulder into her poor, unfortunate rescuer.

The man staggered back against the gleaming mahogany wall with a solid thud. “Ah, gamoto —!” he grunted, his voice hoarse and guttural.

Not waiting for a second round, Dani took off down the corridor.

Run, Dani, run!

The hilarious comedic line flashed through her mind as she ran, causing her to stumble as an adrenaline-fueled snort of giggles slipped from her.

Plush carpet silenced her bare feet as she sprinted past antique brass sconces and decorative alcoves filled with sculptures that cost way more than her Vespa. The corridor felt endless—curved walls and soft lighting designed to lull the wealthy into a champagne-fueled haze.

But she wasn’t sipping bubbly. She was making a mad dash for freedom.

Behind her, a furious volley of curses and shouts, demanding she halt, filled the air. The curses were in Greek. The orders to halt were in a mix of Greek, English, and Italian. She had to admit she was impressed with his range of knowledge of multiple languages. None of them were easy to learn.

She also noted that none of the curses were flattering, and all of them were terse with anger.

A glance over her shoulder showed the man wasn’t giving up.

She swerved, dodged a steward with a tray of shrimp cocktail, and hit the staircase two steps at a time, praying her legs didn’t give out before she reached open air.

Freedom. She just needed to reach the deck.

“Ms. Collins! Dani! ”

Dani winced at the sound of her name slicing through the music—and not in a good way, like a smooth DJ transition. No, this was more like a needle-skipping-across-vinyl moment, and it was aimed squarely at her.

She burst through the arched, gold-inlaid doorway and onto the upper deck like a cannonball of chaos hurled at a royal gala.

Instant silence rippled outward from her entrance. Conversations halted. Champagne glasses froze mid-air. One woman with a diamond choker large enough to fund a small nation blinked, uncertain if she was witnessing a mental breakdown, a social experiment, or both.

Dani didn’t care. She had bigger problems. Namely, the huge guy charging behind her.

From the crash of metal and the loud expletives, he hadn’t been as nimble as her.

Her sympathies went to the poor bloke who would be picking pieces of shrimp out of the carpet.

The smell would be a bear to get rid of, not to mention the stains.

“He can afford it. No sympathies, Dani,” she muttered, veering in the opposite direction of Vito’s voice.

She could imagine just what her entrance into the posh occasion must look like.

Her sequined red gown was barely clinging to her body.

She hadn’t zipped it. The spaghetti-string straps holding the bodice drooped dangerously low, held up only by sheer willpower, desperation, and the help of her black, cotton sports bra.

Her hair—previously doused in champagne and cleaned with a quick shampoo in the shower before she realized Vito’s amorous intentions—had dried into a medusa-like halo of curls that swayed with each furious step she took.

Her bare feet padded across the plush carpeted salon.

She clutched her grimy, steel-toe work boots like twin weapons of mechanical justice.

A steward blinked as she stomped past him, gently rotating his silver tray so the foie gras didn’t slide off. The waitstaff exchanged sidelong glances of bemused alarm, but none stepped in. Clearly, this wasn’t their first yacht drama.

Dani frantically scanned the crowd as she walked—no, stormed— across the inner salon, her expression a mixture of righteous fury and ‘I’m two seconds away from lighting this whole damn boat on fire.’

“Dani!” Vito’s voice, syrupy and panicked, slithered over the crowd.

Her eyes locked on him—tan, oily, and far too smug for a man who had locked her in a glorified dressing room. He stood near a group of glamorous guests beside the piano, holding a flute of Dom Pérignon like it was an Oscar. His cologne reached her before he did.

“I can explain,” he said, flashing a sheepish grin that probably worked on drunken heiresses but only made Dani want to throw a shoe.

“Yeah?” she snapped, holding up one boot. “How about I explain my feelings… with a steel-toe demonstration?”