The Mediterranean sun was high and merciless.
A white super-yacht, floating on the water, music drifting from the top deck, champagne glasses clinking.
On the sun lounger lay Isabella Caldwell... fifty-two years old, looking thirty-five, with golden skin, a blank bikini, and diamonds flashing at her throat and wrists.
A waiter approached her. He looked at least twenty-five, tanned, shirtless, black trousers rolled at the ankles.
He carried a tall glass of punch, bright red with fruit floating on top.
"Your drink, ma'am." He said.
Isabella heard his thick voice and lowered her sunglasses slowly, eyes travelling over him like she was shopping.
She bit her lower lip as she sat up, took the glass, and let her fingers brush his on purpose.
He shivered and swiftly pulled his finger away.
She smiled, noticing his nervousness.
"What's your name, handsome?"
"Mateo, ma'am," he said, his voice a little shaky.
"Mateo. Oh. Sounds hot," she repeated, tasting it. "Twenty-five?"
