Dirty Damage: Chapter 8

“Let me give you a tour.”

His leather shoes pound against the shiny wood of the deck. “Lounge,” he announces, flicking a hand out of his pocket long enough to gesture to the leather couches, fully-stocked, mahogany bar, and massive TV.

Each room we see gets a couple words—engine room, salon, captain’s quarters. Any other day, I’d want to know absolutely everything about who made the yacht and who shuffled through whichever home good stores billionaires shop at, looking for gold sconces and rugs plush enough to double as beds.

I picture Oleg with a Pinterest board titled Yacht Goals and have to stifle a delirious laugh.

It’s posh, obnoxious luxury in every direction, but he doesn’t stop long enough for me to admire things.

Not that I could, anyway. I’m on my own tour—a mental journey through every mistake that has paved the way to this moment.

Over here is the family cycle of impulsive choices you can’t seem to break.

And—you’ll love this—the inability to stay away from attractive, dangerous men has been remodeled to now include ex-bosses.

I’m too busy mapping out the breadth of his shoulders and the way his body moves under his tight dress shirt to notice the staircase descending below deck until he turns to face me.

My eyes ping from the bronzed skin I can see beneath the collar of his shirt to the stretch of wool pants over his thighs and finally, to his face.

To the gold eyes slipping down to my cleavage, lingering like a caress.

I cross my arms, wishing I’d worn a turtleneck.

Or a hazmat suit, maybe.

But no, standing in front of my mirror at home, I had to get all empowered. I told myself I wouldn’t let shame force me into hiding.

Now, I’d very much like to disappear, please.

The engine kicks on, as soft as the purr of a cat, but I startle anyway. I whip my head back towards shore, panic squeaking out of me as I see how far away land is.

“Have you ever been on a luxury yacht before?”

The rumble of his voice draws me back, focuses me in a way that is alarming. I hardly know him, but I clock the twitch of his lip that I’m starting to recognize as amusement—at my expense.

“Sure. I take my own personal yacht out every Friday. Sometimes, I race Jeff Bezos.”

The scars on his face catch the dying sunlight, making them look molten. Based on his stony expression, he takes my reply for the “obviously fucking not, asshole” that it was meant to be and turns back to the staircase.

He starts walking, expecting me to follow like a good little lamb. The rational part of my brain—the part that survived years of foster care and Sydney’s questionable life choices—screams at me to stay put.

Rich. Powerful. Dangerous.

Three excellent reasons to keep my distance.

But when he glances back, something in those amber eyes hooks into me and pulls.

“Are you coming?”

God help me, I am.

As we descend deeper into the yacht, my senses focus. I may be easily distracted by muscular biceps, but I’m also smart enough to map my exits.

The yacht’s interior is a study in masculine elegance—all dark wood and gleaming brass, leather worn to buttery softness. It whispers of old money and older sins.

Every surface screams, “Touch me” in a way that makes my fingers itch.

Or maybe that’s just the effect of watching Oleg move through his domain like a predator giving a tour of his hunting grounds. His two-word descriptions from above deck continue as we pass room after room, his stride never breaking, never slowing.

One thing is clear: This isn’t a pleasure cruise. The cheapest yacht Pavlov Industries sells costs more than I’ll make in three lifetimes.

I’m not a client.

So what am I?

“This is the second salon.”

He stops outside of a door at the end of a narrow hallway, gesturing for me to go in ahead of him.

The room is a circle of dark greens and gleaming brass. Oval windows are spaced evenly around the room, giving a sea-level view of how far we are from shore. How alone we are.

“My den,” he tacks on like it’s an afterthought.

Of course it is.

As I take a second pass over the room, I see the framed pictures between the windows. Women in various states of undress—tasteful enough to be called art, explicit enough to make my cheeks burn.

No need to ask what he gets up to in “his den.”

I tear my gaze away, latching onto the marble chess set in the corner. No one can make chess sexy. I tip my head towards it. “You play?”

“Would I have a set if I didn’t?”

I meet his eyes, refusing to be ruffled. “Probably. Rich people have a lot of things they don’t use. They just like to possess them.”

His eyebrow lifts, and suddenly, those scars seem a lot more threatening. They transform his face from merely intimidating to downright dangerous.

Reality crashes in.

I’m trapped on water with a stranger who could easily buy his way out of murder charges.

I need to watch my mouth.

“How long are we going to be out here?” I blurt through a nervous laugh. “I have plans. Dinner plans. With… a man.”

His pause before responding tells me he sees right through my lie. “Not long. Don’t worry, I’ll get you back in time for dinner with… ‘a man.’”

Shame flares bright and hot inside of me again, so I decide to cut to the chase. “Do you really have a job to offer me, or is this some twisted joke?”

“No joke. I’m serious about the job.”

“Then why are we having this interview in the middle of the ocean?”

“I wanted privacy.”

Heat floods my face as realization dawns. Play stupid games, like showing your tits to your boss, and you win stupid prizes, like him thinking you’re a sure thing.

The erotic art suddenly feels less artistic and more like a warning sign.

This isn’t a den.

It’s a seduction chamber.

“Privacy only requires a closed door at the office.”

A sharp smile cuts across his face. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to show your face there so soon after your exhibitionist little stunt.”

Ouch. I walked right into that one.

But I refuse to let him shame me into his bed.

Even if a traitorous part of me wouldn’t mind recreating a few positions from the pictures on the walls.

The damaged part of me whispers: What’s the harm? It’s just sex. No one has to know. Not Mara. Not Sydney. Just another secret to bury.

But I would know. I’d know I’m no better than my mother—another Palmer woman trying to fix bad choices with worse ones.

“Whatever the job is, I’m not interested. Take me back.”

He doesn’t even blink. “You haven’t heard my offer yet.”

“I don’t need to hear it. I’m not interested in… what you’re interested in.”

“I’m willing to bet we’re interested in many of the same things, Sutton.”

He steps closer, and I stumble backward—both from his proximity and the sound of my name on his lips, echoing in the air around us.

His brow arches. “You seem on edge.”

“Only because I have a habit of getting myself into sticky situations.”

“Yes, I’m aware. I saw just how ‘sticky’ your situation was the other day.”

I fight the blush threatening to explode across my face. “Listen, about that… It was a series of unfortunate events. I had an accident while Chloe and I were playing, and there aren’t any showers in the daycare center, and I figured using the locker room wouldn’t hurt, but that was a big mistake. Clearly. I mean, the trespassing and the stuck zipper and the⁠—”

His eyes darken dangerously, the same way they did after he’d freed me from the dress.

I bite my lip to stop myself from talking, and his gaze flicks to my mouth.

This is what I get for spending the last few months with toddlers and Mara. I’ve lost my ability to blend in with the normal people—if Oleg Pavlov can be considered “normal.”

“I’m not trying to justify anything,” I ramble on, no sign of this runaway train of thought slowing down. “Just explaining that I’m usually more⁠—”

“Professional?” he interrupts. “I hope so. It’s why I chose you.”

The words wash over me like ice water. “You chose me? For what?”

He gestures to the bar, pointing at a green suede stool. “Take a seat.”

I eye the erotic art one last time before deciding that, since I’m already in hell, I might as well enjoy the view.

He slides a glass over to me, but I shake my head. “Drinks and interviews don’t mix.”

Drinks and a body like his don’t mix, either. A couple shots is all it would take to crumble the walls of my self-respect.

“This isn’t your usual interview,” he says, confirming my worst fears with a smirk.

“If this is about the photos I accidentally sent⁠—”

“Was that an accident?” The tilt of his eyebrows mocks me.

“Yes,” I grit out. “And I think they’ve given you the wrong impression. I’m not⁠—”

“Actually—” He pours me a second glass; this time, it’s water from a sealed bottle. “They left a great impression. It’s why you’re here.”

Oh, God.

He passes me the water along with a stack of papers. “I took the liberty of drawing up a contract.”

I gape at him. There’s confidence and then there’s… this. “You already drew up a contract? I don’t even know what the job is yet.”

“No, but I do. And when I know what I want, I don’t waste time.” He nods to the contract. “Read it. I wouldn’t want you to sign blindly.”

I open to the first page and stare at the header.

Then my eyes snap to his. They’re pure, molten gold up close. Lethal.

“This contract isn’t for Pavlov Industries.”

“Very astute. This is personal—between you and me.”

My heart threatens to crack my ribs. I turn the page and freeze.

“Wait… there’s been a mistake.” This has to be a mistake. “This is a prenuptial agreement.”

Instead of yanking the papers away in a panic and sliding me a new contract—the correct contract—Oleg nods.

“You’ll find there’s an NDA, as well.”

I take a sip of water, but my throat is sandpaper. I keep my eyes on the contract, too nervous to look anywhere else. I read, understanding less and less with each word.

“But it’s— Whoever signs this has to marry you,” I choke out, reading and rereading the next condition to make sure I haven’t lost my mind. “A-and… have your baby.”

Oleg smiles. Not a smirk. Not a small hint of amusement in the twitch of his brows. A real smile.

“Precisely.”