Page 2 of Modern Romance January 2025 5-8
Which was to confront Jario Tagarro, famed recluse and owner ofLa Venganza.
The rumour that the thirty-two-year-old billionaire hadn’t set foot on land inyearshad held up under her research, but Willow accepted that, even with the abundance of information on the internet, there was so much more she didn’t know about the half-American, half-Colombian financial genius.
Chiefly, she remained in the dark as to why her father visibly quailed at the mention of Tagarro’s name but kept an alarming amount of newspaper clippings and magazine articles of the younger man with the face of a fallen angel and the piercing blue eyes of a ruthless predator.
Her suspicions that her father was lying at worst, or severely underplaying Jario’s role, had deepened when he’d insisted the billionaire had nothing to do with the troubles of Chatterton Financial after she’d brought his name up, then watched him dive straight into his favourite bourbon bottle for the better part of a week.
Knowing it wasn’t the first or the last time her father would lie through his teeth hadn’t been a palatable pill to swallow then or any of the times before.
It’d taken weeks of contemplation and heartache before accepting thatshewas at a crossroads with only one final choice to make—to seek out the billionaire and find out the truth for herself.
Plus, her emotional baggage with her father aside, there were several families who depended on Chatterton Financial who didn’t deserve her father’s apathy and obfuscation.
She felt another stab of guilt for connecting the dots far too late. As her father’s assistant, she should’ve acted sooner. It’d taken repeatedly seeing Tagarro’s name among her father’s things in the past few months to remember that the sea change in her parent had arrived after his return from Colombia over a decade and a half ago.
The Paul Chatterton who’d left for that trip had merely been prone to exaggerating his status among his country club peers, and ambitious to a fault. The one who’d returned had become near-obsessed with promoting a lofty image that didn’t exist, drafting his wife and bewildered pre-teenage daughter into his schemes, commencing a fracturing that had only widened over the years, leading to a shattering of their family.
Rebelling against the forced subterfuge had driven a wedge between her and her parents. But it was their actual fall from wealth and prestige, and her mother’s walking out and marrying a far wealthier man within months of Willow’s sixteenth birthday and cutting both her and her father off, that had caused the seismic shock waves that changed the landscape of her family.
Willow pushed away those disturbing thoughts now and concentrated on her present goal. Despite the improvisations in her hastily cobbled-together résumé, her work ethic would remain unquestionable no matter her true reason for boarding the super-yacht.
All she needed was one audience with the billionaire.
And as she’d discovered via her research, there was always someone eager to fill her shoes once she got the answers she needed and left—
‘So you’ll be assisting Ripley, Mr Tagarro’s personal valet until a permanent replacement is found,’ Rebecca said, and Willow’s heart jumped into her throat.
She hadn’t deluded herself that it would be easy, but bluffing her way onto the billionaire’s vessel was one thing. Being thrown into such close proximity was quite another. She nodded nevertheless, knowing to do anything else would raise suspicions she couldn’t afford.
And surely once she got over the nerves eating her alive, she’d see the positive side to this. Like that proximity aiding her in getting her answers quicker so she could deal with this emotional purgatory.
Straightening her posture, she offered a cool smile. ‘So I’ve got the job?’
Rebecca nodded, then glanced at the small travel case at Willow’s feet. ‘If you can start right away, barring final checks and your agreement to a little...sprucing up, yes.’
About to perform an internal fist pump, Willow paused. ‘Sprucing up?’
Rebecca eyed the simple vest top and jeans Willow wore. ‘Mr Tagarro expects a high level of professional decorum from his employees.’
Her five-mile daily running routine kept her in decent shape. But she hadn’t worn make-up besides lip gloss or been to a hairdresser for the better part of a year while juggling her assistant job to a failing company and the gruelling violin practice that had become the one shining, soul-sustaining balm in a desolate landscape.
It was almost surreal that it’d landed her on a shortlist for a job on her dream symphony.
‘We have a professional stylist on board. I hope you won’t be offended if I ask you to swing by for an hour or two to get you properly outfitted?’
Willow shook her head, relieved that the purser didn’t expect her to stump up precious cash to make herself over before hiring her. ‘Not at all.’
‘In that case, welcome aboard. There’ll be the usual probationary period, et cetera.’ She handed a document over, then rose. ‘Read the contract and report to the vessel at two p.m. and I’ll have someone show you the ropes.’
Willow was still in the café, after reading and signing the very detailed contract, when another group of the yacht’s crew trailed in.
‘I can’t wait to get going tomorrow,’ a young, too-tanned crew member, who looked barely out of his teens, gushed. ‘I love Cabo, but I’ve been here, done this, you know? Bali, on the other hand, is going to be epic!’
Trepidation whistled through Willow as the information sank in.
Jario Tagarro was leaving for Indonesia tomorrow. While it’d hopefully be enough time to find out what she needed, did she really want to be stuck on his super-yacht on the open ocean? What if...?
No. There was no room for doubt. Not when her father’s cold indifference to her trip had only convinced her she was on the right track.