Page 8 of The Billionaire’s Siren (S.E. Smith Signature Romance: Heart & Soul #1)

Four

He woke with a smile on his lips.

It had been years—years—since Alexandros Kallistratos had felt this brand of anticipation humming in his veins before his feet even hit the floor. A slow, lazy ache stretched through his muscles, and the image of tousled curls and flashing green eyes danced at the edges of his memory like smoke.

Dani.

The name curled in his mind with the same enigmatic sensuality that had haunted his dreams all night.

Dreams that had been… vivid, to say the least. One minute she was dripping wet and defiant on his yacht, clutching her boots like a lifeline.

Next, she was laughing—naked except for grease-smeared cargo pants—wielding a wrench like a weapon and daring him to get closer.

And he had. In the dream, he had gotten much closer.

He chuckled under his breath as he stepped out onto the shaded upper deck where breakfast awaited.

The Aegean morning breeze skimmed across his bare arms, warm and salty, tousling his still-damp hair as he took his seat at the table set beneath the linen awning.

His steward, Haralambos, approached with practiced grace and set down his breakfast—poached eggs on grilled bread with ripe fruit and a glass of fresh orange juice.

He barely had time to unfold his napkin before Demetrius appeared, folder in hand and an amused smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning, Alexandros,” Demetrius greeted, his tone just this side of innocent. “Did you sleep well?”

Alexandros gave him a lazy, knowing glance and nodded to the steward. “Join me.”

Demetrius sat as Haralambos brought a second setting. He ordered espresso and yogurt with honey, and they waited in companionable silence until the steward disappeared again, leaving only the whisper of the sea and the soft clink of silverware.

Alexandros leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table as he reached for the folder.

“Is this her?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Demetrius nodded. “Initial file. Took some digging.”

Alexandros opened the folder and blinked.

One page.

One. Single. Page.

And not even filled with double-spaced typing.

He lifted the sheet and turned it over as if a fuller dossier might be hiding on the back. But the reverse was blank, as stark as the amused glint in Demetrius’s eyes.

He read aloud, voice low with disbelief.

“Danika Rae Collins. Age twenty-one. American. Lives aboard a trawler at Pier Five named… The Gentle Breeze. ”

He dropped the page and leaned back in his chair, brows rising as he shot Demetrius a look of dry inquiry. “That’s it?”

Demetrius offered a grateful nod to the steward who returned with his coffee. He chuckled at Alexandros disgruntled expression.

“That’s it. I ran the usual searches. Social media, digital trail, records—nothing. She might as well be a ghost.”

Alexandros exhaled a long, slow breath and stared down at his eggs as if they might offer insight. “Incredible,” he murmured. “In this world of influencers and over-sharers… I find the one woman who’s completely offline.”

Demetrius took a sip of his espresso, savoring it with a sigh. “She has an email address linked to an engine repair site she’s never updated. No Instagram. No Twitter. No Facebook. No TikTok. She’s a unicorn.”

“A unicorn who punches like a prizefighter and tosses caviar into billionaires’ faces,” Alexandros dryly commented, his lips quirking at the memory of her pointing out where she had hit him.

That earned him a choked laugh from Demetrius.

“She was magnificent,” Alexandros continued, voice lower now.

“Hair soaked, that dress hanging off her like it was floating—bare feet, clutching those ridiculous boots like they were diamonds.” He paused, eyes narrowing with interest. “Despite that, she carried herself like a queen storming a palace.”

Demetrius raised a brow. “She also stole your shirt.”

“Technically, I gave it to her,” Alexandros corrected, though his smile had gone wistful. “Not that she cared for my act of chivalry. Or showed even the faintest flicker of being impressed.”

He swirled his orange juice, watching the pulp catch the morning light.

“She wanted nothing from me, Demetrius. She didn’t want my money. Didn’t care about my name. She just wanted her tools.”

“Alexandros, as your friend, I think this is one you should leave well enough alone. As your head of security, I ask that you at least give me time to find out more about her if you won’t.”

“I appreciate your concern, my friend, but this is one that has me truly intrigued. Something that hasn’t happened in a long, long time,” he said, lifting his fork and spearing a piece of toast with egg on it. “I don’t want her to escape.”

Demetrius leaned back in his chair, studying his employer like one might study a volcano that had grumbled after years of silence.

“So what now?” he asked.

Alexandros smiled over his coffee cup, his eyes dark with amusement and something else—something deeper .

“Now,” he said, “I do things the old-fashioned way. I’ll start by returning her precious tool bag. I’m sure that should earn me some credit. By tonight, she will be eating out of my hand.”

Demetrius groaned. “I’m not sure who I should be feeling sorrier for—you or the woman.”

“Sorrier for—me? Why would I need your sympathy?”

“When she hands you your balls on a platter like she nearly did last night, I’ll explain,” Demetrius dryly replied.

Alexandros tilted his head back and laughed. “Since when has a woman ever turned me down?” He raised his hand when Demetrius started to point out the obvious. “Last night does not count. She was upset with Vito. Who, by the way, is no longer welcome at any of my properties,” he added.

“His sister is not going to be pleased about that,” Demetrius warned, his face bland of any emotion.

“Perhaps it’s time for Allegra to find a new best friend,” he said.

Demetrius lifted his eyes to the heavens and muttered a low, “Thank you, Zeus, for small favors.”

That drew another rich, genuine laugh from Alexandros. One that echoed across the deck and over the sea.

The gravel crunched beneath the tires of the silver Bentley Continental GT, its polished chrome grille glinting like a snarl beneath the sun. Alexandros ignored the stares as he guided the luxury coupe around a rusted flatbed truck and parked just outside the boathouse.

Men looked up from their work, some shading their eyes with grease-streaked hands, others nudging each other with sighs of longing in Greek. He could almost hear the rumors starting to brew: What the hell is a Kallistratos doing here?

Alexandros was, in fact, dressed down—navy slacks, a tailored white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark aviators that hid the wicked amusement glinting in his eyes. He’d traded his power suit for something far more dangerous—a charm offensive.

And he came bearing gifts.

He stepped out, gripping the weighty tool bag in his right hand. The one she had left behind. Sacrificed like a lamb on his yacht during her escape.

Vito reluctantly confessed last night that he'd hidden the well-loved bag behind the bar in the brightly lit salon. The pudgy Italian had been pale and extremely apologetic by the time Alexandros had finished with him and had him escorted ashore.

He reached up and removed his sunglasses as he stepped into the service bay. The scent hit him first: sea salt, hot metal, oil, and a faint undertone of fish. He curled his nose. A place like this would send his private chef into early retirement.

A curious sound floated through the air—music, but not the kind he expected. Somewhere between Ludovico Einaudi and Enya. It wafted from the trawler propped up ahead on blocks like a patient in dry dock, her hull chipped and sun-faded.

He followed the sound.

A metallic clang, a muttered curse, and the unmistakable growl of someone losing an argument with an engine. A voice that sounded an awful lot like it came from his mermaid.

He stepped closer, and there she was.

Danika.

Her name rolled over his tongue like a caress. She would never be just Dani to him. She was too beautiful to have her name shortened. His body hardened at the thought of stroking her, murmuring her name as he tasted her sweet nectar—and heard his name on her lips as she came.

His gaze greedily roamed over her. She was bent at the waist, her hips balanced over the side of the open engine compartment, one leg braced on the edge, the other dangling for balance. She was as different today as she had been last night in the sports bra and red sequined gown.

She hadn’t seen him yet .

In the full light of day, she was… mesmerizing. Her dark auburn hair was twisted up in a messy bun, curls spilling like rebellious vines from pins barely clinging to order. His fingers itched to tug the pins free, just to watch that glorious mane fall around her shoulders.

Her skin was pale but kissed by the sun—more Mediterranean cream than porcelain. There was a smudge of engine grease on her cheek, just below one high cheekbone. It shouldn’t have looked sensual. But on her, it did.

She muttered something he couldn’t hear. With another unladylike growl, she twisted the wrench with a ferocious little grunt of triumph. The sound skittered down his spine like a challenge.

He recognized the instant she realized she wasn’t alone anymore.

She turned, slowly, her eyes lifting and locking with his.

Wide. Green. And stunning.

Eyes that I could spend a lifetime drowning in, he thought with a sense of shock.

A beat of surprise flickered across her face, followed by something else—something that set his pulse kicking: delight. Her entire face lit up, and her mouth curved into a smile a man might kill to earn.

It hit him like a punch to the chest. Heat ricocheted through him, his body responding before his brain caught up. And then?—

Pop! That was the only way to describe the sensual bubble building inside him.

“Oh! My baby!” she gasped, her eyes zeroing in on the tool bag like he was holding a kidnapped kitten instead of twenty pounds of steel.

He blinked. Seriously?

She practically cooed. “You found her! Come here, sweet thing. Mama missed you.”

His lips flattened in disappointment. The sensual storm swirling inside him hiccupped and abruptly turned into annoyance. Not at her. At the damn tool bag.

Women cooed over diamonds. Not over socket sets!

She leaned over the railing and wiggled her fingers at him.

“Perfect timing! I need the 12-millimeter socket for a nut that refuses to admit defeat. ”

He stepped forward, climbed halfway up the ladder, and handed her the bag without a word. The weight transferred from his hand to hers—and in seconds, she had turned and vanished again into the trawler’s belly. Just like in his dream.

Only this time, he wasn’t going to let her slip away so easily.

He stood there, still on the ladder, unsure whether to laugh, groan, or shake her. He had brought her a peace offering. A chance to flirt. To banter. To maybe suggest lunch or wine.

Instead, she kissed her wrench kit with more passion than most of his dates.

“Brilliant,” he muttered.

“Yes, having the right tool for the job really helps,” she responded, completely unaware that she had figuratively pulled a step out from under his feet.

Alexandros Kallistratos—billionaire, shipping magnate, man who had entire cities change traffic routes for him—was now… ignored.

Deliberately.

Utterly.

For a socket and a greasy boat engine.

He eyed the hull of the trawler, noting the chipped paint, rust stains, and general grime. He was going to need new shoes after this. Possibly a tetanus shot.

A stubborn spark, like a tiny ember refusing to be extinguished, ignited in his chest. The unfamiliar terrain didn't deter him; he wasn't one to turn back from a challenge. And Danika Collins was utterly unpredictable, a wild card in the game of life.

He squared his shoulders and climbed the rest of the way up, stepping carefully onto the deck. She was crouched over the engine, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended, her tank top clinging to her back as she twisted another bolt.

“Careful,” he drawled. “You keep ignoring me, I might start thinking you’re not madly in love with me.”

She snorted without turning. “Trust me, Alex—if I ever go mad, you’ll be the first to know. ”

He chuckled despite himself. “Alexandros. No one has ever referred to me as Alex.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. He felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks as she started at his polished shoes, moved up his legs—paused midway—before continuing up to his face. She raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and turned back to focus on the engine.

God help him.

He was in trouble.

And he liked it.