Page 72 of The Heart You Kept

Price of Bentley Mulliner Bacalar

An answer pops up.

Starting at three million euros.

What the…?

I stuff my phone back into my purse, that’s quite enough googling for today.

I check my bag for the tenth time today, calendar, pen, pencil, eraser…what else would I possibly need?

Lingerie….

Ha, not funny. I take out the pen and click it open and scribble a little on one of the pages, better check it. A perfect blue line shows up, yep, it works. I put it back into my bag and put it back down onto the seat beside me.

The car drives like a dream, so smooth, and when we pull up at the lights people look at it. I don’t think they can see me though because of the blacked-out windows.

“You have some iced water in the tray, Miss Sorenson,” the man in the front says.

I look down and see a glass of water with ice and lemon in it sitting in the middle.

“Oh….” I frown as I pick it up. “Thanks.” I feel obliged to take a sip and with a shaky hand I put it back down. Water and lemon in a glass in a car, ha, what next?

Thirty minutes later we pull into Monaco and then the car heads down to the marina in Monte Carlo.

I crane my neck as I look around, I’m confused.

“Ahh.” I think out loud. “I thought we were going to Mr. Prescott’s office?”

“Mr. Prescott is working from his yacht today.”

“His yacht?” My eyes widen as the car pulls into the dock. I look out the window at a huge black superyacht, five stories tall.

Shit, shit, shit.

This is supposed to be a work meeting, yachting around Monte Carlo with a man in a relationship is not a good look.

I begin to sweat bullets, Pascal is going to freak, that’s if I survive his princess having me assassinated by one of her bouncers.

Fucking hell.

Oh god, I knew this was a bad idea.

The car door opens and I gingerly climb out, I look up at the yacht and suddenly feel very insignificant. I pull down my black blazer over my pantsuit, which was perfect for an office, but yet ridiculous for a yacht. At least I’m wearing red lipstick, I guess.

I follow the two men up the dock and we walk over the gangplank. “This way,” the man says. I follow him onto the yacht and as I look around my knees nearly buckle out from under me.

What the hell?

Timber parquetry floors and big, plush rugs, the most beautiful couches I have ever seen. A huge bar stocked with more alcohol than an actual bar. Through the glass doors there’s a huge deck and swimming pool.

A fucking swimming pool….

This looks like a mansion of epic proportions, not a fucking boat. A grand staircase is in the center leading up to the next level.

“Would you like to take the stairs or the elevator?” the man asks me.

There’s an elevator?