Page 3 of Modern Romance January 2025 5-8
Waste your time if you wish. Don’t come crying to me when you find nothing there.
Those words had reverberated all the way from Orange County to Mexico, but so, too, had the naked dread overlaying his tone.
That dread had knotted fear in her gut. Hinted that she was potentially on her way to discovering something that would irretrievably shatter her relationship with her father.
Still. She needed to know.
So at five to two, she presented herself at the gangway leading to the super-yacht and the man who held possibly unpalatable answers.
The two guards on duty eyed her, the shorter one raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re the new hire?’
Her fingers tightened on her case, glancing over his shoulder at the large vessel that looked even more awe-inspiring and completely intimidating, its bold, commanding and utterly magnificent presence dwarfing everything in sight.
With every bone in her body she wanted to sayno, my mistake. Turn and walk away. But she held fast.
And nodded.
Ten minutes later she was ensconced in a leather chair in a posh little salon, an immaculately dressed woman who introduced herself as Greta, the head stylist, reeling off a list of the staff’s dress code requirements. Willow had barely nodded her agreement to have her hair washed and trimmed before a hairdresser was snipping away.
A little stunned at the brusque efficiency but secretly thankful she would at least look the part, she was released ninety minutes later, armed with a small silver case of make-up and a hanger holding two new uniforms complete with name tag and sensible heels.
‘Ah, here’s Ripley now. See you around, Willow.’
Greta walked away and Willow turned to see a tall, thin man in a three-piece suit. His expression wasn’t unkind but Willow was thankful for the mini-makeover at his piercing, assessing gaze. Scrutiny over, he nodded, satisfied. She stifled the urge to roll her eyes as he stepped forward.
‘Welcome toLa Venganza. Come with me. I’ll show you to your quarters. Get you settled in.’
The realisation that she wouldn’t be meeting Jario Tagarro immediately struck a discordant note within her.
As if reading her mind, he added, ‘Mr Tagarro is entertaining his guests on the upper deck. You’ll meet him later.’
She nodded, then asked the question that had loomed in her mind since she’d overheard the conversation in the café. ‘I understand we’re sailing for Bali tomorrow. How long will the journey take?’
‘Without unscheduled stops, about a week. Nine days to be flexible.’
A maximum of nine days to find the answers she desperately needed. Of course, there was the stark unknown of how Jario Tagarro would react when she revealed her purpose on board his yacht, but she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
Alone in the room she was to share with another female crew member, currently on duty on one of the decks, Willow stood stock-still, heart thumping. She was no stranger to the wild turns of fate.
She’d watched her mother pack her bags and leave with head-spinning efficiency ten years ago, leaving a shocked, distraught daughter and a husband deeply mired in a depressed fog.
She vividly recalled her mother’s pitying gaze skidding over a trembling Willow, sobbing in the doorway of their home as her mother walked to the limo holding the new, richer man she was leaving her husband for. ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart. You can come visit me soon. I promise.’
More lies. More promises broken.
Bitterness surged like bile as she recalled the number of times she’d called her mother. The transition from broken promises to frosty rebukes to stop being so needy, and then to total estrangement.
Yes, Willow knew how quickly one’s life could turn. Knew the damage lies and indifference could cause.
And as she swallowed the building dread, she could only hope that whatever secrets her father had kept from her didn’t completely destroy her.
Some nights Jario Tagarro wondered why he even bothered going to bed at all when the effort was so laughably futile.
He was averaging forty-five minutes at best. Fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, despairing or staring at the ceiling, quietly fuming when the demons were being especially prolific.
Tonight he was thoroughly bored with both. He’d dive face first into a liquor bottle if he didn’t despise not having complete clarity at all times. Yes, he drank the odd cognac or glass of vintage champagne when the urge took him, but drinking to drown out the hell that unfolded in his sleep was a thing of the past. These days, he preferred to face his demons head-on.
Rising, he planted his feet on the hardwood floors in his stateroom. He’d forbidden the interior decorator from putting carpet in his rooms, preferring to feel the very subtle motions of his vessel beneath his bare feet.