“Mr. Cavall?—”
I stop him with a firm hand to the chest. “Where’s Cross?”
His eyes go wide. “The, uh, the deckhands are placing him on the tender now, sir. We only just throttled back and went to holding position.”
Fuck.
I drop my hand and continue my warpath through the salon, past the doors to the pool area, and down the external stairs to the lower deck. I pass the gym, then smack my hands against the glass doors leading into the lounge space near the stern.
It’s empty, the teak floors gleaming under recessed lights, the air thick with salt and the lingering sent of gasoline. A lonecrew member coils a rope beside the open tender garage. But the fucking tender is gone, its low hum already fading in the distance beneath theRequiem’s idling engines.
“Are you after the tender, Mr. Cavallo?” the guy asks. “I can radio them to return if necessary.”
I swipe a hand across my mouth to hold in a curse. “No.” Then I dig my phone from my pocket and hit Philip’s name.
He’ll have signal now that he’s off the yacht, and the jammer I installed doesn’t interfere with my devices or the crew’s. The only people barred from contact with the outside world are those prone to making impulsive decisions.
He answers on the second ring.
“You didn’t fucking tell her?” I snarl.
“I’m sorry, Raffael. I couldn’t… I can’t.”
I square my shoulders against his gutlessness and step onto the swim platform, catching sight of the tender headed back toward the marina. “She doesn’t even realize you’ve abandoned her.”
He falls silent while the deckhand finishes his coil, quietly stows the rope on a wall hook, and disappears into the garage.
Volatility bleeds into my veins. “You’re a fucking coward, Cross.”
There’s more silence. A thick, antagonizing beat before he admits, “I know.”
I grit my teeth, and squeeze the cell in my hand. “Then I guess I’m left to do as I see fit.”
“But we agreed?—”
I end the call and shove the phone back into my pocket. Another call vibrates against my thigh but I ignore it.
Breathe.
I pace a step. Force air into my lungs. Swallow the surge of aggression that would have my hands wrapped around Philip’s neck if he were within reach.
I need a plan. A controlled response. Something smarter than brute force.
The wildcard is the woman sitting in my study, her spine stiff with defiance, and her retaliation streak sharp enough to rival mine.
She won’t see sense. Won’t pause long enough to understand her reality. And I don’t have the patience, or the luxury, to keep indulging her chaos.
Thanks to Philip, I’m left to handle a mess he doesn’t have the balls to face.
I breathe deep, holding the salt-laced air tight in my lungs long enough to mute the fury. Long enough to remind myself who the fuck I am.
Then I turn and head back toward the main deck, toward the woman hell-bent on detonating everything I’ve tried to contain.
I open the door to the study and find Isla seated at my desk, the laptop usually stowed in my top drawer now open in front of her.
That volatility returns.
Tenfold.
