He couldn't live here.

Padded seating ran around the perimeter of the room, upholstered in cotton of a bright turquoise scattered with yellow lemons and bright red cherries. A well-stocked chrome and glass cocktail bar took up one wall, and hanging proud and central from the ceiling was a large, in no way understated, mirrored disco ball.

A fuck-off glittering silver disco ball. Dylan groaned out loud again. He didn't want a party boat. He cast his eyes around desperately. The door to a small, eye-wateringly lime bathroom stood open to one side, and that was it. Was there even a bedroom?

There were no obvious other doors, and he stepped back into the kitchenette to see if he'd missed it up there. Nope, no doors there either. Frowning, he leaned his back against the kitchen work surface, pushing his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. He really didn't want to sleep on those lurid sofas.

And that was when he spotted the faded, midnight blue hatch set in the wooden floor, its surface covered in faded, swirly silver writing. Dylan hunkered down onto his haunches. The motto “Stairway to heaven” had been artistically scribed on it in antiquated metallic paint, surrounded by silver stars and moons. He fitted his hand into the curved hatch recess and pulled it up, revealing a steep little wooden staircase. Bingo. Maybe there was a bedroom after all.

Getting down there turned out to be interesting. It was a small, rickety stairwell, and at six feet two inches, he wasn't a small man.

Once below, he blinked to adjust his eyes. And blinked again. Where upstairs had been a bright and showy pastiche of fifties glamour, down here was definitely made for after hours lovin’.

He couldn’t live here.

It wasn’t even high enough to stand up in: he had to duck and crawl into the bed space.

This wasn't a bedroom. It was a goddamn sex cave… but holy shit, the bed was comfortable. He sank back onto the warm, opulent silk-padded quilt and surveyed the space.

He could sit up without hitting the ceiling. Just. The curved bed filled the entire lower space and the wall hugging it had been padded in deep, button-studded amethyst velvet. Lying on his back, he studied the low ceiling above him. It was... celestial. Dark inky purple decorated with luminous stars and planets, remarkably detailed and accurate to Dylan's knowledgeable eye. The same artistic, hand-painted lettering from the hatch cover continued down here on a smaller scale, silver calligraphy spelling out the names of the constellations. Orion's Belt. The Milky Way. Ursa Major. They all glittered down at him, and little by little the gentle motion of the boat soothed away his resistance and almost imperceptibly eased his battered and bruised heart and mind.

It was quiet, and it was solitary, and no one in the world knew he was here.

Warm and peaceful for the first time in a long time, Dylan closed his eyes.

Maybe be could live here after all.

Just for a while, at least.

When he made his way back up on deck a little later, he breathed deeply and scanned the serene bay.

He had a new name.

He had a new home.

Now he needed a new job.

Chapter Two

Lucien walked slowly through the closed, empty club, his practised eye taking in every detail of the workmanship to ensure it met with the exacting standards he demanded for his multinational chain of adult clubs. His workmen had all clocked off for the afternoon, leaving him free to conduct a thorough inspection at leisure.

He paused momentarily beside the jacuzzi, his fingers against the cool tiles as he remembered conducting a similar inspection several years before with Sophie at his side. His cock stirred in response, and he pushed the memory aside with difficulty. Sophie wasn't due to arrive on Ibiza for a couple of days, and he missed her like hell, even more so since they'd welcomed Tilly into their lives too.

Sophie was his lucky talisman. The girl who surprised him. She still surprised him even now, after several years as a couple. Every now and then he saw a brand new side of her. She had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met, big enough to hold his even before he'd known that he'd given it to her.

Fuck, he missed her.

The sound of someone banging on the fire doors broke his concentration, followed by the sound of a male voice shouting outside.

"Artie, are you in there?"

Lucien frowned, crossing to the doors and leaning against the bar to open the left-hand one slowly. He dropped his sunglasses down against the glow of the low evening sun and regarded the man standing outside with his hand raised ready to knock again.

"Artie doesn't own this place anymore," he said.

The guy dropped his arm, and his whole body seemed to slump along with it.

"Let me guess," Lucien said. This wasn't the first guy to turn up in search of the previous owner. "He owed you money."

The previous owner seemed to have left Ibiza with nothing but the dodgy Hawaiian shirt on his back and a trail of bad debts in his wake after he'd hastily sold the premises and hightailed it off the island a few months previously.

The guy shook his head and leaned back against the wall of the club, his face tipped up to the skies with a resigned expression.

"No. Artie was a friend. I don't suppose you know where he's moved to?"

Lucien shook his head, noting the smooth Californian tone to the guy's voice.

"Sorry my friend. Your buddy didn't leave a forwarding address."

The stranger looked as if he'd been around the block enough times to understand the underlying meaning beneath Lucien’s deliberately sparse choice of words.

He watched as the guy looked up again into the big blue expanse overhead and banged the back of his head lightly against the wall with a heavy sigh.

Something about the American's resigned, melancholy demeanor spoke to Lucien. He looked beat. Lucien had been that man, and he found himself swinging the door wider.

"You look like you could use a drink."

The guy half laughed, though his eyes were anything but amused as he nodded slowly and peeled his back off the wall.

"Too right, man. This is turning into one hell of a long day."

Lucien headed back into the club, aware of the guy pulling the door shut and following him in. He turned as the stranger’s step slowed beside the jacuzzi.

"Not your usual club," he commented, as he scanned curiously over the opulent spa area they were passing through.

Lucien lifted a shoulder. "Ibiza has enough of those already."

He led the way down into the main area of the club. Behind the bar he reached for two tumblers and a bottle of vodka from a box on the floor, watching the American as he leaned against the bar and surveyed the almost completed club.

"So this place is yours?"

Lucien nodded as he headed around to stand alongside the guy, placing the glasses on the gleaming bar.

"All mine." He was as proud of this place as he was of all of the other clubs in the Gateway group. They sat in silence for a second as he poured generous measures of vodka into both glasses.

"Lucien Knight." He held a glass out.

The American nodded as he accepted the drink, and paused for a beat before he replied.

"Dylan Day." His eyes wandered over the aubergine velvet booths around the dance floor, the secluded spots, the sumptuous chandeliers. "This is some place. It holds what... about seven hundred at capacity?"

Lucien glanced up, surprised at Dylan's accuracy. "For a usual club, around that. This place is less because of the adult entertainment configuration. It tops out at maybe three fifty."

Dylan's eyes opened a fraction wider. "And it's still profitable?"

"Gateway Ibiza is club number ten, so yeah. I'm pretty confident about my business model."

"Number ten, huh?" Dylan laughed lightly. "That's impressive in this business."

"You know it?"

"Not the adult entertainment side of it, no, but I've been around clubs my whole life."

"That's how you know Artie?"

Dylan nodded. "I haven't seen him for a few years, but we used to be pretty close. He taught me how to run clubs."

Lucien regarded the other man as he looked around the club with assessing eyes, wondering if Artie's shady business conduct was one of the things he'd taught Dylan Day. He looked slightly less jaded with a drink in his hand, and from what he'd said so far the guy knew his way around a club. Gut instinct had Lucien asking more questions.

"I'm guessing you didn't come to Ibiza on holiday?"

Dylan took a long, slow slug of his vodka and set the empty glass on the bar.

"You guess right."

For the second time, Lucien sensed deep melancholy, learning more from Dylan's body language than his meagre words.

"When do you open for business? It's looking pretty shipshape."

Lucien noted the American's subject change without comment. "Four weeks."

Dylan looked directly at Lucien. "You hiring?"

"Hired, pretty much." Lucien didn't add that the only position that he was having trouble filling was that of general manager. He'd rather be on site himself for a few weeks than employ the wrong person. He splashed a second measure of vodka into Dylan's glass.

"Figures." Dylan raised his glass in a small salute, a philosophical twist to his lips.

"Is that why you were looking for Artie?"