Voyage with the Reclusive Billionaire

  A Whispers of Fate Romance

  Alexa Ashe

  VOYAGE WITH THE RECLUSIVE BILLIONAIRE

  Copyright © 2024 by Alexa Ashe

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission from the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, real or fictional, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Eliza

  2. Corvan

  3. Eliza

  4. Corvan

  5. Eliza

  6. Corvan

  7. Eliza

  8. Corvan

  9. Eliza

  10. Corvan

  11. Eliza

  12. Eliza

  13. Corvan

  14. Eliza

  15. Corvan

  Epilogue

  About Author

  Also by

  Prologue

  Nola

  Getting them to come to me was not an option this time.

  There was too much distance to overcome, and too many obstacles in the way. She’s not the type of girl to disappear to a bed-and-breakfast in the middle of the woods—too much paranoia. And he has spent enough time secluded and amongst the woods. He wants something else. So instead we orchestrate something else—another controlled environment, another place for them to find themselves drawn together by invisible strings.

  The girl is prone to flightiness—something she surely has in common with him, yes, though in a much different sense. I just have to ensure that there’s no place for her to go should she decide she needs to get away.

  Being on a vessel surrounded by nothing but sky and ocean and each other is as good an option as any.

  This could work. Of course, without the help of the house, it does leave more variables left unanswered. I’m not sure how easily I’ll be able to influence them once they’re both on the ship—and especially when the ship docks and they’re left to their own devices for those few hours before they get back on.

  But I do enjoy a challenge—nearly as much as I hate to lose.

  Chapter one

  Eliza

  The smell of salt wraps around me as I make my way up to the Mystic Cruises ship. With one hand, I pull my luggage along behind me. In the other I hold my ticket.

  I need this. For so many reasons, I need this. This cruise-turned-expedition is the only chance I have to get away from my life for a little while. I’ll be back to work just about the second I return home—and back to avoiding my ex-fiance at every turn.

  Literally. Unless, of course, he transfers to another lab while I’m away. But I doubt that. Adam has never run from me, not even after we broke up. I doubt he’ll suddenly start. Even if it would make my life just that much more pleasant.

  That’s why I signed up for this cruise. Adam might not run from things, but I do.

  But at least I ran to a luxury cruise ship.

  Although I still can't figure out how I got such an amazing deal on it. It's not like I usually have the budget for champagne wishes and caviar dreams, but I'm not going to question it and just enjoy this opportunity.

  On a day like this, with the sun shining brightly and the warmth of the breeze wrapping around me, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

  At least that’s how I feel until I don’t quite clear the edge of the gangway as I finish the climb up to the deck, and then promptly stumble when I try to step aboard.

  One minute I was in the air and the next I’m on the ground, slammed against the wood, cheeks flushed and knees throbbing along with the stubbed toe that led to this humiliating moment in time. I’m thankful I caught myself with my hands only a tiny fraction of an inch away from hitting my head on the deck too before I snapped it back up, but I’m sure I look ridiculous as I try to catch my breath.

  Black shoes come into my field of vision, along with the smell of amber and mint. An odd combination, but… it works. A firm hand on my shoulder, and another juts out in front of me. “You need to get back up.” The voice is gravelly and masculine and maybe a little annoyed, but I take the hand anyway because I don’t trust that my knees, which shake with my mortification, could hold me up without something to stabilize me.

  I mean to only glance at his face, but my eyes latch onto his and I can’t bring myself to look away as I absorb every detail of his features. The jet black hair that parts in the middle and brushes across his equally black brows. The perfectly straight nose, the full lips, the tanned complexion. Even his eyes, which are so brown they’re closer to black, draw me in.

  He’s beautiful. The man, presumably in his early-to-mid-thirties, crooks an eyebrow, then bends down and grabs my suitcase for me. My eyes shift momentarily to the black ink I can see peeking out from the collar of his shirt. It’s not enough to tell what it is, but something is there.

  Adam didn’t have tattoos. I didn’t think I liked them.

  But the warm flush I feel no longer has anything to do with the temperature and everything to do with the man in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice weak and shaky.

  His brows furrow. “Are you well?” he asks. “Did you hit your head? It looked like you might have.”

  I’m about to tell him no, but I appreciate him humbling me by thinking I’m brain damaged, but he drags me over to the side and away from the throng of people I’d been blocking from getting on the boat, tugging my luggage and his own along beside us.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, trying to fight off yet another rush of embarrassment as he assesses every inch of my face, and not in the admiring way I’d been looking at him earlier, either.

  “You hit the ground pretty hard,” he insists. “I was halfway across the boat and I heard it.”

  “You’re not helping,” I snap at him.

  He frowns, but nods. “Right.” He pauses and looks around, then sighs. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? You know your name and can see how many fingers I’m holding up?” He takes a step back and lifts four fingers.

  “Four,” I say. “And Eliza.”

  “Your name is four and I’m holding Eliza fingers?”

  I give him a look. “Funny.”

  He shrugs. “At least let me walk you to your room. So I can make sure you get there okay.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “No.”

  This seems to surprise him. The word itself looks like it’s a shock to his system. I take in his attire, the expensive quality his clothes seem to have. The Louis Vuitton suitcase. Clearly, the man has money. He’s probably not used to being told no. “What?”

  “No, I’m not going to let a strange man I just met lead me to my room when he thinks I have brain damage. How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Technically, you’d be leading. And I don’t think you’re brain damaged. I just think you might have a concussion.

  “That’s brain damage.”

  He frowns again. “I know that. I just meant—nevermind.” He blows out a breath. “Just—are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m not a medical doctor, but I do have a PhD. I think I’m capable of determining whether or not I’m fine.”

  He still seems unsure. Or maybe this is all a part of his game. Luring girls in by pretending he cares and then getting them alone.

  That theory is quickly tossed out the window when he says, “Fine. I won’t follow you to your room if you promise me something.”

  “You mean if I promise not to call the cops?”

  “Cruise security,” he corrects. “But no. Just… promise you’ll meet me at the bar in a few hours. So I know you’re not passed out in your room with head trauma.” He gestures around the boat, bustling with people. “It’ll give you enough time to settle in and enough time for other people to start drinking exuberant amounts of alcohol. Just meet me there, prove to me you’re okay in a public place, and I’ll leave you alone.”

  I stare at him for a long moment. I know I should just agree and walk away, that I should be grateful there’s someone here who cares, even a little, if I live or die, but all I can think is—

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why does it matter to you?”

  He stares at me for a long moment, as if he hadn’t really thought about that. As if he doesn’t even know. But then he says, “I turned around when you fell. I helped you up. You’re my responsibility now.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I defend.

  The man says, “The bar? Seven o’clock?”

  I stare for a long moment, debating, before giving in and nodding. Fine. I’d probably wind up wanting to be drunk later tonight when the reality of my ringless finger settles in for the day. “Okay. Seven.”

  “See you then,” he says. Then he grabs his luggage and walks away, not offering me a single backwards glance.

>
  It’s only when he’s disappeared entirely into the crowd that I realize that he never gave me his name.

  Chapter two

  Corvan

  It was shockingly hard to walk away from her earlier.

  I still don’t know why. I don’t know if it’s because, for the first time in a year, I finally had the chance to talk to someone who didn’t know who I was. Someone new. Someone who didn’t look at me with suspicion. I don’t know if it’s because she was so elegantly beautiful, in a way that took me off guard and made it hard to keep a distance. I don’t know if it’s because of the instant, world-shattering connection I felt the moment her eyes met mine.

  I do, however, know that I’ve been sitting at the bar for the past thirty minutes and there’s still fifteen more to go before Eliza should be here.

  The way she looked at me, the cool tone she used when she spoke, was intoxicating. Easy to get addicted to for someone like me. Yes, it was clear she had no idea who I am. How that’s possible anymore, I don’t know. After everything that happened in the past few years, I didn’t think there was a person alive who knew how to look at me without even the slightest bit of fear guarding their expressions. I especially didn’t think it was possible for someone to say no to me. Even for something as simple as an offer to walk them to their room.

  She’d been smart to say no. Not that I planned to do anything to her—that I would ever touch a single hair on her or any woman’s head without consent—but I probably would have found myself unable to keep from stopping by. Even just to be rejected by her.

  Something in the air shifts. A charge that feels just as familiar as it does new. Then I smell her perfume and that strange, almost herbal scent that hides beneath it, that is hers and hers alone. She pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. “You’re early,” she comments, her voice stronger than it had been before.

  I fight the urge to look over at her and instead assess the bar around me. Themed after the ocean, of course, but with a nod to the Greek god of the sea, Poseidon. Cool blues and tinted whites color the walls, and under the soft gold starburst chandeliers, comfy, curved blue chairs are arranged around white cocktail tables. A focal point along the far wall is a statue of Poseidon holding a trident and adorned with large chunks of blue quartz crystals. "So are you,” I reply.

  “I was hoping to down a few drinks before you got here.”

  “Well,” I say, finally casting her a glance as I give her the barest of smiles, “Then you’re late.”

  She levels me with a flat look. “Ha.” Eliza examines the bar in front of us before sliding my untouched drink toward herself and taking a sip, wincing slightly.

  “Is my drink not to your taste?”

  “It’s disgusting, actually, thanks for asking. And anyway, I figured the least you could do is buy me one, considering I wouldn’t even be here right now if you hadn’t begged on your knees for me to come.”

  “I don’t recall begging. Or being on my knees.” I’m fighting a true smile now, unable to help but respond to her personal brand of humor.

  “Really?” She asks, then shrugs. “I recall both.”

  “Maybe you did hit your head after all,” I grin. She just just gives me another look, and we have an awkward moment of silence. “I would have bought you a drink, you know. Whatever you wanted.”

  “Not too late for that.” Her fingertips trace the rim of the glass. “Something with more sugar than alcohol.”

  “Fruity?” I ask.

  Another shrug from her. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  I take in the information, file away the questions that arise at that—like why is she starting now? when she’s already going to be on a rocking boat in the middle of the ocean—and instead call the bartender over, order her something with a low alcohol content to keep her from getting wasted in case she’s a lightweight, and steal my drink back from her. I take a sip of it slowly, remembering the way her mouth looked pressed against the glass, before setting it back down and licking my lips.

  When he brings her drink, she cradles the curved cocktail glass between her hands and asks, “Are you going to start interrogating me yet? To make sure I’m not one nap away from a funeral?”

  I watch as she takes a careful sip, decides she likes it, and takes a slightly longer one. Then I say, “I figured maybe we could just have a conversation.”

  “For the love of—are you kidding? Please tell me this wasn’t an elaborate ruse for you to get me to go on some sort of one-sided date with you.”

  My brows furrow. “Of course not. I just figured if you could hold a conversation without slurring or getting confused or passing out, I could consider you non-concussed.”

  She eyes me up and down suspiciously, but nods. “Okay, fine. Let’s… converse.”

  “What an organic way to start.”

  “Fine,” she barks, glaring at me. “I don’t kn—oh—I don’t know your name.”

  I try to keep from wincing. Not exactly what I was hoping for, even if I’m not surprised. If anything, the shock is that it took us this long to circle around to that. But it’s not the kind of thing I’m eager to hand out these days. I don’t want it to suddenly trigger a memory of who I am. Especially not when her company, while aggressive, is not unpleasant.

  So I give her my nickname instead. “Corey.”

  Eliza takes this in, nodding. “Corey.” It’s like she’s tasting the word. The way she says it is almost intimate, almost curious. Then she gives a single shake of her head. “No. I don’t like it.”

  I almost choke. “What?”

  “I mean, it’s fine. It just doesn’t suit you.” She takes a nonchalant drink.

  “Oh yeah? And what would suit me, Eliza?”

  She laughs and shrugs. I can see the flush of alcohol in her cheeks. She’s already buzzed—probably more because of the large swallow she had of my drink than the few sips of hers. “I don’t know. Something that doesn’t sound like it belongs to a frat boy.”

  I’m smiling before I can stop myself, watching as amusement at her own words lights her face. “I was a frat boy, you know.”

  She laughs and mixes her drink with the red straw stuck in the glass. “Of course you were. Your parents gave you no other choice when they signed your birth certificate. It’s not like you could have been a poet or a tech genius with a name like—”

  “ —I’m that, too, you know.”

  “A poet?”

  Another smile slips out before I can smother it. God, when was the last time I smiled this much? When was the last time I smiled even once? “No. The other one.”

  “Tech genius?” She affirms, and I nod. Eliza eyes me up and down again. “Nope, I don’t see that for you either.”

  “What do you see for me, then?” I ask. “Clearly, who I am is not good enough for you.”

  She manages to make her smile look almost ashamed. “It’s not that you’re not good enough,” she says slowly. “It’s just that you don’t look at all like who you are.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I can’t say I imagined you had a doctorate when I first saw you, either.”

  Eliza gives me a dubious look. “That probably had something to do with me being sprawled across the deck.”

  I shrug. “Humor me anyway. Who did you think I was? What would you guess?”

  She studies me like I’m an unsolvable equation for a long moment, still aimlessly stirring her drink.

  “Well,” she says, “I’d probably guess that your name was something like Kade or Atlas or something else that’s mildly uncommon. And after seeing your suitcase, I’d probably assume you were… a lawyer, maybe? Something pretentious where you have your own office on the top floor with at least one wall that is just floor-to-ceiling windows. You probably spend most of your time at work, but still live in one of the most breathtaking penthouses that exist in the universe. It’s probably sparsely decorated and you call it minimalistic, but it’s just because you don’t know how to shop for decor and you’re afraid of clutter. Your bed is probably a California King and your bedding is probably various shades of black, white, or beige, and you stay as far away from blue as possible because you know it’s a man’s basic choice and you want to stand out when women remember their nights in bed with you.”

 

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