The young steward brought her another drink, threading his way carefully through the lounging people, somehow not interrupting the intense discussion Phil and Harry were having. Manuel moved like a cat, quiet and unobtrusive. Yet Karen could feel his warm brown eyes burning her flesh. The way he looked at her as he handed her the drink – well, she couldn't explain it exactly, but it was as if he'd stripped her naked and was exploring every intimate part of her body with his eyes.

"Thank you, Manuel," she said faintly.

"You are more than welcome, Mrs. Brandon," he said with a grin.

He turned away, and she found herself gawking helplessly at the tight muscular rounds of his ass. There ought to be a law against leans that tight, she thought. She also told herself to be cool. They'd only been on the yacht an hour, and already she was acting like an animal in heat. Phil was here for business, that was all. She must be careful not to spoil things for him. She must smile and be the perfect wife.

"How are you coming along, Karen?" asked Harry Rosen. "Hope Phil and I aren't boring you with our business talk."

"Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Rosen," said Karen.

"Call me Harry," he said, puffing on an enormous cigar. "It's all first names on the yacht. You just let Manuel know if you want anything, honey."

"Thank you, Harry," Karen said, flushing slightly.

Harry didn't know it, but there was something she really would dig having from Manuel – not that she'd ever get the nerve to ask for it. She believed in being faithful to her husband, even if things weren't so great in bed any more. She closed her eyes and sipped her drink, trying to blank her mind, trying not to think about Manuel, about sex…