A deep frown spreads over Sean's face and his golden eyes saturate with pain and anger as soon as I emerge from the cabin area swimming in a pair of drawstring cotton pants belonging to Carlos and an oversized t-shirt belonging to Dorian, the only things small enough on this boat that fit me. For a few long seconds, I stand stock still, pleading with my eyes, unable to move under his predatory gaze.
"Mine is a Cordon Bleu chef," Carlos says into the awkward silence as Dorian turns his back and pours himself another drink but remains deliberately close with his senses alert. "He doesn't speak a lick of English, but outside France, you won't find a better pastry chef. Shall I have him serve us here? Or would you prefer to retire inside?"
