Angela's Affair (Pacific Waterfront Romances, #13)

by Vanessa Grant

  With any luck, tonight he would be home in Vancouver. Then, after he finished going over those contractors’ bids, he would call Sheila or Edith. He shrugged, not really wanting to see either of them. He must be getting desperate, though, standing in a phone booth watching the girls go by, fantasizing.

  He focused on the telephone booth where a spider was adding to a complex network of cobwebs above the telephone, and finally the Seattle number he’d dialed rang through to an answering service.

  Closed until Monday. Damn Charlotte and her trail of chaos!

  He strode down the ramp, hurried out the float toward Misfit, Charlotte’s rather appropriately-named boat. His mind was back in Vancouver, dealing with the land option and the contractors’ bids for the north shore development. As he turned onto the last finger, he caught one glimpse of that warm confusion of curly hair—the woman with the bundle—and his heart crashed against his rib cage in a wild beat before he pushed the crazy fantasy out of his mind.

  If he got stuck here overnight, perhaps she would be free for the evening. He felt a heavy pulse beat through his body. Crazy! She wasn’t beautiful, just...something.

  He passed a big, white powerboat, then a two-masted blue schooner—at least, he thought it was a schooner. His eyes raked over the boats. Had she boarded one of them? Which one? The white? The blue? Why the hell did it matter? Was she inside that old wooden monstrosity at the end, just opposite Charlotte’s?

  Then he saw her, standing in the cockpit of Misfit with a mass of blue material spread out in front of her. He jerked to a stop, staring at her.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He heard the echo of his own voice and wondered where the anger came from, and why it bothered him to find she had some connection with his sister.

  “Who are you?” That was better. His voice was quiet now. He strode out the little float, stopped when he was close enough to see that her eyes were wide and green and staring. He gripped the stanchion but did not step up onto the boat, mainly because he could feel his heart thudding and felt an insane urge to touch her face, feel the softness of those shining curls. A total stranger! What was the matter with him? Delayed adolescence!

  He cleared his throat.

  The silence was alive. As she turned away, he could see that she was fitting the blue fabric onto the shining metal tubing over the hatch. The clothes she was wearing were not cotton, but natural canvas. Deceptively simple, the kind of garments that turned out to cost four times what you expected. The shirt seemed shapeless, with green trim at neck and wrists to echo the color of her eyes. Shapeless, but it hung on her in some magical way that hinted at the woman’s curves underneath.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Fitting the dodger on.” Her voice was slightly husky. She had laughed with the workman up at the road, but she was not smiling now. Frowning, although she had faint lines around her mouth that told him she laughed easily.

  That hair, all coppery wildness. The life in the way she moved. He didn’t know just what it was, but she bothered him, and he wanted her.

  Her eyes locked onto the dodger as she did something to a zipper and muttered, “You’re Kent Ferguson, aren’t you? Charlotte’s brother.”

  Chapter Two

  Angela would have recognized him anywhere. She might have known him even if Charlotte had not shown her the picture, just from the description and the deep blue of his eyes. Eyes like Charlotte’s. Thirty-five, Charlotte had said, but he looked older when he frowned.

  Cold and controlled, according to Charlotte, but a minute ago he had been shouting. At her. Angela didn’t like being shouted at. She concentrated on the zipper, pulling it closed so that the dodger stretched tightly along the stainless steel bow of the frame. He seemed taller than the six feet Charlotte had said he was. He was wearing a dark suit with the jacket open, and a subdued tie that shrieked quiet class. Too hot, she would have thought, but he looked cool all the way from his dark blonde hair right down to the black city shoes.

  He would be very good-looking if he smiled, but he was frowning and she did not suppose he would tell her anything, although she asked anyway.

  “Do you know where Charlotte is?”

  His frown grew deeper. “How did you know I was her brother?”

  Who else would turn up on the marina floats dressed for high finance and the big city? She smothered a smile and said truthfully enough, “Family resemblance.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  His dry disbelief was an insult to Charlotte and Angela felt like smacking him, slamming the red imprint of her hand onto his tightly-drawn cheek. She gave the zipper a hard, angry tug, knowing that hitting him would be pointless.

  “Did Charlotte send for you?” If she had, it wasn’t good news for Harvey. Angela bit her lip. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “You could say that. What are you doing there? What is that blue thing?”

  “It’s a dodger, protection from the rain. Charlotte ordered it.” She moved around to the front of the plastic windshield and snapped it down to pull it tight. The dodger was a perfect fit, taut and smooth. It snugged onto the boat as if it belonged, its blue fabric a perfect match for Charlotte’s sail covers.

  “But it covers only the hatch.” The frown was in his voice. “Not much use for someone standing in the cockpit.”

  She looked across at him, her eyes suddenly filled with laughter. “Have you never been sailing in the rain?”

  “I’ve never been sailing, period.”

  “Too much time behind a desk,” she speculated. “You’re missing a whole world.” She took a piece of chalk out of her pocket and marked where she would sew a reinforced slot for the mainsheet. Give him just one week of summer sailing and that wavy hair would change from brownish to a streaky, heart-stopping blonde. He might learn to smile, too.

  She rubbed out part of the chalk line and drew it back slightly to the right. “Sailing to windward in the rain, this dodger will keep most of the misery off. As for the hatch, without the dodger, every time you slide it open when it’s raining, the water on top of it ends up down inside.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” His wry voice made her realize that she probably sounded as if she were lecturing her six-year-old nephew.

  She felt the motion of the boat when he stepped onto it. Her eyes jerked up. The man was too much, dressed as if he owned the world and looking like it, too, with those shoulders and that harsh, thin face. She had an urge to see him in something less formal than a suit, wondered if a canvas fisherman’s shirt and blue jeans would make him less intimidating.

  “Did you actually make that?” He had his hand on the edge of the dodger, his eyes narrowed as he studied the intricacy of its structure.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I’m the dodger lady.” Silly thing to say. She shrugged, added, “I do quite a business in sailboat dodgers. Are you in the market?”

  She looked and found his eyes on her, the coolness gone and a disconcerting probing in its place. He said something just as an engine started up on the boat beside Misfit. She blinked, re-focusing.

  “What did you say?” On Charlotte, those blue eyes flashed with emotion. His were cool again now, almost cold. She must have dreamed the emotion in them.

  “I said, how much?”

  “How much what?” He couldn’t possibly mean what she thought. She had said “in the market,” and he had asked “how much?” As if he were asking her price. She felt the heat crawl up her neck, knew her sensitive skin would be flushing and was almost certain he would notice. She must have imagined that heated question in his eyes a moment ago, must be completely off-balance this morning. Or maybe it was just chemistry making her feel awkward, unexpectedly and uncomfortably aware of his tall, lean masculinity.

  “Money. Dollars. How much does my sister owe for your work?”

  “Oh, that. Ah—” She shoved her hand through her hair. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a le
ather folder. His check book. A pen. A fountain pen, of course, and probably real gold.

  She muttered, “Charlotte will pay me.”

  Abruptly, tension flared between them. “I’ll pay you.” His blue eyes glared ice at her.

  Angela demanded, “Where is she?” not intending to shout, but finding her voice loud and aggressive.

  “God knows,” he muttered, and she wondered suddenly if those harsh lines leading down his cheeks concealed anger, or some other emotion.

  “Don’t you even care where she is?”

  “Not particularly.” His eyes raked over her. She felt as if he knew exactly what she would look like without the shirt, without the slacks. She felt...invaded...off balance, then angry as he snapped, “I’m in a hurry. Just tell me how much, leave the blue stuff, and clear out.”

  She had not expected to dislike him, had never thought she would meet him. There weren’t many people she actively disliked. She shook her hair back. His lips were thinned in irritation. There was no anger now, just impatience.

  She snapped, “You just show up and figure you’re going to turn everything upside down, take Charlotte’s affairs and—”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m here because she asked.” He lifted cold blue eyes from the checkbook.

  “But Charlotte—”

  “Is gone. On to the next adventure.” He sounded bored.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered. Poor Harvey. Poor Charlotte, falling in love and afraid to trust it, running away because she was afraid to explain to Harvey. “But the boat was open,” she protested weakly. “Charlotte must have come back and—”

  “I opened it.” He was writing something on the check. The date. “What’s the name of your business? And how much?”

  Angela gripped the fabric. “Harvey said the moorage is only paid until Sunday, so she’ll be back.”

  He straightened and she felt fear. Crazy, because he was just a man, very civilized, and they were in the middle of a busy marina. But when he snapped, “Who’s Harvey?” she jumped.

  “My—they—they’re in love.” He would not understand about love, about caring. Not with those eyes. “Listen, Mr. Ferguson, you can put away your pen. Charlotte will be back by Sunday. She’s just gone away to think for a bit, and—”

  “Charlotte doesn’t think. She simply reacts.”

  Angela gritted her teeth and ground out, “You, on the other hand, don’t feel. You just think.”

  A speedboat passed behind them, setting up a wake and rocking Misfit. He reached out and grasped a shroud overhead, holding himself against the motion. “Do you want to get paid, or not?”

  She bit her lip. Harvey was so sure Charlotte would be back. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  He sighed. “Lady, I’m trying to pay you some money. I’m the messenger boy, here to tidy up my sister’s loose ends, and you’re a loose end. But if you need documentary evidence—does this constitute proof?”

  “This” was a fax. She let go of the fabric and took it from his hand, felt a jolt of sensation as his fingers brushed hers. She yanked her hand away and concentrated on the fax. “You’re taking away the boat? She’s in Seattle? Where? Which hotel is she in?”

  He shrugged indifferently. “She sent the fax from Seattle. She’s probably in Hong Kong by now, or Paris. Who knows.”

  “You must know.” If he cared, he would know, but perhaps he really didn’t care. Oh, lord! Poor confused Charlotte. That weekend, over in Mystery Bay, Charlotte had talked and Angela had listened, but there hadn’t seemed much to say except, “Why don’t you tell Harvey? I’m sure he’d be understanding.”

  Charlotte had run away, so that must have been the wrong thing to say. What if Charlotte was gone because Angela had said “tell Harvey” and that was simply impossible.

  Kent Ferguson, here because Charlotte had sent for him. That was ironic in a horrible way. He was frowning, announcing cynically, “I’ll know where she is when the bills come in. If you don’t want a check now, send me the bill.” He slipped something out of the leather case and she found a business card in her fingers.

  She wanted to crumple it in her hand. “You can’t just write a bunch of checks and walk away. You—”

  “Can’t I?” His lips twitched. “A suitable check looks after most problems, I’ve found.”

  “If I’m one of those problems, you won’t get rid of me with a check.” She pushed the card into her pocket. “You’re taking the boat away now?” This boat was Harvey’s only real link with Charlotte. “Where—? No, you can’t! I’ve got alterations to do to the dodger first. You have to leave the boat here until—”

  “The dodger will do as it is.”

  “No! It needs—this is just the first fitting. I can’t leave it like this. It’s not finished, not right.”

  “Oh, for—” She jerked back as he towered over the cockpit. His eyes were suddenly hot and something flashed between them, leaving her breathless. She pressed against the side of the cockpit, away from him, and compressed her lips tightly together to keep the yelp of panic inside.

  “I’m not about to assault you.” His eyelids had dropped until his eyes were only slits in his harsh face. “Excuse me, but I want inside for my briefcase.”

  He brushed her arm as he swung through the companionway. She felt the fleeting touch as an angry jolt right through her body. He was gone only a second, re-appearing with a leather attaché case. She had not moved while he was gone, but she wished she had. The cockpit seemed so small, too small.

  He stopped, staring down at her. He was not quite as tall as she had thought, but the shoulders made him seem massive. He must have his suits tailored especially for those shoulders. He smiled, but there was no softness, no friendliness in the twist of his lips.

  “Relax. I admit that the thought of ravishing you had occurred to me, but that was before you opened your mouth.” She gasped and he seemed to tower even more threateningly. “The appeal wore off quite quickly,” he murmured. “You’re almost as much trouble as my sister.”

  She swallowed. This man frightened her, but she couldn’t just let him sail away, for Harvey’s sake. She muttered, “Charlotte’s in love with Harvey. I’m sure she is. She just—they just—if he could see her, talk to her—“

  He put the briefcase on top of the hatch, snapped it open and took out his cellular telephone. “Charlotte’s been in love so many times, it’s nothing new or special. When it’s over, she leaves me to clean up the mess.”

  “You’re the problem, not the solution.”

  He stared at her. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  She gasped, “Nothing. I—Don’t you—“

  He punched three numbers on the telephone, stopped and demanded, “Don’t I what?”

  “Don’t you wonder why Charlotte sent you a fax instead of telephoning? I’d avoid talking to you, too. You’re a hard man, and you don’t give a damn about anyone, do you?”

  He caught her arm, his hand closing around her wrist. She jerked, pulling his fingers painfully tight. He lifted her hand, holding her against him for a moment before she tore away. There was so little room, just this tiny cockpit and a man who seemed to radiate virility. She felt an unwilling tightness at the pit of her stomach as his gaze trapped her eyes.

  She thought she heard a ringing sound, then realized it was in her head, some spell he had her under. He seemed frozen, his fingers curled around her wrist, his eyes digging into her soul.

  “What do you want?” she breathed, and for just an instant she believed that he wanted her. She twisted her hand and the sun caught the gold of her wedding band. Then suddenly she was free, falling back against the cockpit seat, stumbling and sitting down with a thud.

  She jerked back to her feet. “If you ever touch me again, I’ll—” She shook her head, heard her own breath heavy and ragged. “Let me out of here.”

  She stumbled past him, leaped onto the float and heard him moving behind her. S
he had to get away before she went right to pieces. The man made her feel vulnerable, shaken, as if she were a young girl. When he had held her imprisoned with his fingers around her wrist, his body hard and close to hers, she had felt the most incredible urge to melt into him.

  “What’s your name, dodger lady?” his voice called after her.

  She did not answer, just kept moving. She hurried along the float onto the main finger, not looking where she was going until she cannoned straight into a big woman pulling a carry-all cart.

  “Sorry!” She was out of breath, as if she’d been running. Breathless, and senseless, too, because it took her a second to realize who she had smashed into. Then she blinked and mumbled, “Theresa, I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

  Theresa, big and friendly and interested in everybody’s business, smiled at Angela. “How’s everything, Angie? Did you hear about the accident on Water Street? A taxi and a bus. They say Ernie Wenchen’s boy was driving the cab, and he’s being charged.”

  Angela felt like a fly trapped between two overwhelming forces. Theresa in front of her with an endless fountain of gossip; Kent Ferguson coming up behind her.

  “Theresa, have you met Kent Ferguson? Charlotte’s brother, you know.” Theresa blinked and Angela thought she could feel the man’s anger behind her. She added, “Charlotte from Misfit.”

  “Oh?” Theresa’s prying eyes lit up, focusing on the man behind Angela. “Her brother? You’re much younger, aren’t you?”

  Angela stepped aside and left him facing the formidable Theresa. If he got free in less than five minutes, he was even more forceful than she had thought. She could hear his voice as she walked away. He sounded politely bored and she almost laughed. Training, she thought. A man who dressed like that, moved like that, would have been well trained in all the social graces. He wouldn’t be rude, except in the most well-mannered fashion.

  Yet a moment ago, he had grabbed her like a forceful, impulsive caveman. Her heart crashed against her ribs as she remembered his fingers holding her, his hard chest against her breasts. His eyes—No, he hadn’t really intended to do that, to seize her and pull her close for that breathless moment. It had been madness for him, too, and by the time he got free of Theresa he would have lost the urge to chase after Angela.