WIFE BY DECEPTION

by Donna Sterling

  Mitch almost dropped the wrench from his hand in astonishment. Not only did she seem willing to take a saltwater shower without putting up a fight, but she wanted privacy. The Camryn he'd known wouldn't have given that matter a thought. In fact, he'd been the one to insist she wear a bathing suit, at the very least, while she showered on the open back deck … and while she sunbathed on the roof of the cabin.

  Which brought up another point: she'd left a bikini along with other clothes in the bottom drawer beneath the chart table. He hadn't gotten around to removing them yet. Would she somehow "find" that bikini, since she hadn't brought another, and she so dearly loved to sunbathe?

  "Hey, Darryl," Remy shouted, "can you hang canvas around da stern ladder so Mrs. Devereaux can shower in private?"

  "Devereaux," she repeated. "Is that Mitch's name?"

  Mitch set his teeth on edge. Oh, she was good. Too good. She almost had him believing that she hadn't known.

  "Mais, oui!" Remy exclaimed. "You don't even remember dat? You in bad shape."

  From a distance came Darryl's almost inaudible reply. "Sure, I'll hang da canvas."

  "Dere you go, chèr'," Remy said. "He'll have it up in no time."

  Mitch waited in avid curiosity for her next move. How would she get out of taking a saltwater shower without admitting that she knew they had plenty of fresh water at the start of a trip? Despite her zest for adventure, her unpredictability and her never-ending love of novel situations, one thing about Camryn had always remained implacable: she required a hot freshwater shower every morning. During those last few days of her first trip with him, she had ranted and raged, demanding water for her showers, even though they had only a small amount left for cooking and emergency purposes.

  No way would she give in peacefully now.

  She hadn't expected much from the saltwater shower, but by the time Darryl had constructed a crude canvas stall suspended by ropes from various parts of the rigging that creaked and groaned overhead, the morning had grown incredibly hot and humid. The cold, hard rush of water against her skin and through her hair felt amazingly exhilarating.

  And how nice to know they wouldn't run out of saltwater!

  Reveling beneath the forceful current of the deck hose, she tried first her own shampoo, then set it aside and reached for the bottle of golden dishwashing liquid Remy had given her. "Da only soap dat ladders real good in seawater." Most shampoo, he said, wouldn't "ladder." His prediction proved correct. She hadn't been able to work her shampoo into even the smallest lather, whereas the dishwashing liquid oozed the suds through her hair. It also left a pleasant, lemony scent. For superior sudsing power in seawater, try new lemon Joy … for those times you must settle for the deck hose…

  Smiling at her own nonsense, she squeezed the water from her thick, tangled tresses and wrapped the beach towel securely around herself. Once she'd gathered her discarded clothing, she pushed through the flap of the canvas stall and padded across the gently bobbing deck, her eyes burning and her skin tingling. She felt revitalized, as if she'd just come from a brisk swim in the ocean. A little crusty, maybe. Not precisely clean. But, nevertheless, revitalized.

  As she gazed at her surroundings, she also realized another pleasant fact. Despite the austerity of the boat itself—a functional work vessel with no ornamentation whatsoever—the vivid brilliance of the summer day provided all the beauty needed to satisfy the most aesthetic soul. The azure sky; the periwinkle water. The joyous shrieks of seagulls soaring in circles above the boat. The dense, salty taste of the wind, and its mysteriously tropical scent. The forceful heat of the summer sun, like laser rays from God's fingertips, igniting the undulating waves with the blaze of diamonds.

  Oh, how she wished she could capture the extraordinary beauty and save it forever. Savor it. Share it.

  Wistful, somehow, yet spiritually energized, she turned from the natural splendor and nearly walked headlong into Mitch. His hands shot out and gripped her shoulders to stop her from reeling backward.

  Ah. Talk about natural splendor. Backlit with the bright, fearless blue of the sky and water, his tanned face and wind-tossed hair glowed with the sun's own radiance. Gloriously shirtless, his muscular arms and shoulders glinted with the sweat of recent physical exertion. His tight, faded jeans, streaked with engine grease, rode low across lean hips. And his chest, honed to a perfection achieved only by years of heavy manual labor, glistened with golden-brown curls.

  He was, in a word, awesome. Breathtaking. A Greek or Roman sea god, surely. A god who smelled of sea brine, chicory coffee and engine grease.

  "What are you doing out here alone?" The suspicion in his deep voice jarred her out of the spell she'd somehow fallen under. His green gaze inched from her dripping hair to the slopes of her neck, shoulders and arms. The slow perusal and the tightness of his hold propelled a slew of hot tingles through her. Disbelievingly, then, he asked, "You … showered?"

  Despite her awareness of him—or maybe to deny that awareness—she slanted her mouth in a wry grin. "What gave me away?"

  His gaze held steady, as if he hadn't expected a light-hearted response from her and wasn't sure how to answer. In the ensuing silence, the feel of his work-hardened palms and fingers biting into her skin sent rivers of warmth through her, until that warmth dominated her mind and she could focus on little else.

  Slowly, he released her shoulders. "How was it?"

  With her mind hopelessly muddled in the aftermath of his touch and the virile beauty of his face and body, she stuttered, "H-how was … what?"

  "Your shower."

  "Shower. Oh! Yes. It was … invigorating."

  For some reason, he looked mildly stunned at that.

  Unable to think clearly enough to analyze his response, she drew back from him with an awkward laugh. She suddenly felt very naked beneath her towel. "And now I'm hungry enough to eat a whale." The sea breeze caught a few tendrils of her hair and trailed them across her face. Already beginning to dry, those few blond strands shimmered with tiny prisms in the blazing summer sun … and felt like cool silk against her oddly sensitized skin. She whisked her wayward hair behind one ear. "Is breakfast ready yet?"

  He continued to watch her in an unsettling way. "Yeah," he answered absently. Gesturing toward the port-side walkway, he murmured, "After you."

  Glad that their relationship had, at least, progressed to a civilized truce, Kate graced him with an approving nod, much as she would a student whose work was improving. She then gripped her towel with renewed strength and forced herself to walk, not run, toward the cabin.

  She sensed him keeping pace behind her.

  Somewhat breathless by the time she neared the port doorway, she forced her mind away from his overpoweringly male presence and thought, instead, of his kindness last night. She also remembered her suspicion that he'd slept with her. The thought was more shocking than ever. Her steps gradually slowed. She really did have to speak with him about both issues. Her stomach did a slow dip at the thought of broaching the latter subject. Deciding to start with the easier, she halted in the open doorway and turned to him.

  "By the way, Mitch," she began, tightening one hand in the damp towel clasped to her chest and gripping the doorjamb with the other, more out of nervousness than any real need, "I want to thank you for last night."

  He ambled to a halt beside her and leaned against the opposite side of the doorway. His tall, broad-shouldered form cast a cooling shadow over her. With a mystified lilt of his brows, he repeated, "Last night?"

  Her cheeks heated. From the way he'd said "last night," a casual observer might think she'd been referring to sex. Flustered that Remy or Darryl might have overheard, she hurriedly specified, "You helped me while I was sick."

  He nodded and waited, as if expecting more of an explanation to follow.

  "I mean, it was nice of you to … to hold me steady at the rail."

  His eyes narrowed. "You're thanking me for holding you at the rail? Did you think I'd just let yo
u fall overboard?"

  "I have to admit, it did cross my mind." She smiled to lighten the words, and hoped he hadn't taken offense. He merely stared at her.

  Clearing a sudden fluttering from her throat, she continued, "And you helped me get to bed, too."

  "Easier than having you pass out on the wheelhouse floor, chèr'."

  My, but he was intent on denying any finer, nobler instincts! "I believe you also brought me a cool cloth. And wiped my face. And … covered me with a blanket."

  A slight flush stole beneath the tan of his rugged, angular face, and he lifted a broad shoulder in an "it was nothing, forget it" shrug. He looked boyishly embarrassed.

  Absurdly delighted to find that vulnerability in him, she couldn't help a small, almost secret smile. "Anyway, I just wanted to thank you."

  His gaze probed hers with alarming intensity. The silence grew warm and heavy. "You're welcome."

  All thoughts of discussing their sleeping arrangements fled from her mind. The tension between them was too strong at the moment. She couldn't possibly broach the subject of sharing a bed. Visions of his sleek, muscled body lying beside her sent ripples of heat through her stomach. Gripping her togalike towel with both hands, she turned and fled to the captain's quarters.

  Mitch remained in the port doorway and watched her go. It took a while, but gradually he gathered himself together enough to think straight. He felt as if he'd suffered a series of physical shocks … and all because of the changes in her. What the hell was going on? He couldn't put his finger on the exact nature of those changes, but she was very different from what she used to be.

  Why had that truth hit him so hard just then? She'd thanked him plenty of times in the past. For lots of things. Gifts he'd given her, favors he'd done for her. But would the Camryn he'd known have thanked him for those few acts of basic human decency last night?

  No. She'd have expected them. Despite how bitterly he'd chastised her or how angry they'd made each other, she'd known she could count on him to bring her through any crisis, if necessary. She'd taken that fact for granted. Oh, she might have uttered a "thanks" while he helped her through a bout of seasickness, but she wouldn't have given the matter another thought. She damn sure wouldn't have approached him about it the next day. That was more in line with what a stranger would do. Or, someone who honestly appreciated every act of kindness shown to her. Camryn didn't fit into either category.

  Perhaps that had been what had shaken him—the sincere warmth in her thanks. It hinted at a depth of feeling that Camryn simply didn't have. Or rather, that the "old" Camryn hadn't had.

  The possibility that she'd somehow developed new depths shook the hell out of him. And so did the connection he'd felt with her. For in the midst of her gratitude, he'd also caught the glow of humor. She'd known that her thanks had made him uncomfortable; he'd always had a hard time handling thanks or praise. With nothing more than silent laughter in her gaze, she'd teased him about that difficulty … in a soft, warm, accepting way.

  Never before had she touched him on such a subtle, nonverbal level.

  "Hey, Cap'n," Remy called to him from his seat at the galley booth. "You hungry?"

  "Hell, yeah." Mitch sauntered into the galley, snatched his gray T-shirt from where he'd draped it over the back of the booth seat and quickly shrugged into it. He then poured himself a cup of coffee and dropped onto the bench across the booth from Remy. The fragrance of sautéed beef, garlic and onions, freshly baked bread and chicory coffee made him realize how hungry he was.

  He didn't intend to eat, though, until Camryn had joined them. He wanted a good excuse to be there when she refused the grillades and mayhaw jelly.

  Remy, he noticed, was just finishing up the last few bites of his own breakfast.

  "Has Darryl eaten yet?" Mitch asked, grateful that he had two competent helpers to take turns at the wheel.

  Remy nodded, his mouth too full to speak.

  "You two haven't finished all the grillades, have you?" he teased, knowing full well that they both waited in avid curiosity to see if Camryn would pass or fail the test they'd devised for her.

  "We value our lives more 'n dat, Cap'n."

  Mitch smiled and settled back for a long wait. That was another defining quality about Camryn—she took a good long while blow-drying her hair, putting on her makeup and getting ready to face the world in the morning. She was, to say the least, "high maintenance."

  He tried to put the time to good use by recalling all the things about her that had annoyed him the most. Unfortunately, thoughts of their conversation this morning kept interfering. He couldn't stop from seeing, feeling, the genuine warmth that had transformed her smile in a way that had driven the very breath from him.

  It had been the second time this morning that she'd succeeded in shaking his composure. The first time had been different, though, and even harder to understand. When he'd climbed up from the engine room to find her standing at the rail, wearing a towel that covered her only to midthigh, enjoying the gorgeous summer morning as if she wanted to inhale it, he'd stopped dead in his tracks. And when she'd nearly walked into him, he'd caught her by her slender shoulders, looked into honey-brown eyes that brimmed with profound appreciation of the beauty around them … and he'd been zapped with a charge of longing that left him momentarily paralyzed.

  He supposed he could chalk the reaction up to her physical beauty, and to the fact that he hadn't had a woman for a long time. But the bothersome need for absolute self-honesty refused to let him off that easily.

  Sure, her face, body and long, shapely legs were enough to strike any man dumb, especially with beads of water glistening on her smooth, lightly tanned skin, dripping from her hair and sparkling in her curling lashes. But he himself had grown immune to her beauty. He'd come to see her as an empty promise. A taunt. A reminder of the mistake he'd made when he'd first set eyes on her, believing he'd found his life mate.

  No, the strong, sudden yearning that had gripped him this morning had not been strictly sexual, or even for Camryn herself. It had been the old aching need for that unknown woman; the one who was destined for him. The one he would love with his whole heart and soul, if only he could find her. The one who would fill the terrible emptiness that had grown to frightening proportions within him.

  Okay. So it seemed he associated his ideal woman with the physical beauty he found in Camryn. He couldn't deny there was something uniquely appealing about her face, her form, her hair. Even her soft, smoky voice. Ironic. And frustrating. He'd thought he'd moved far beyond the time when her attributes affected him at all … even if the longing she now provoked was for an unknown woman rather than her. The point was, she'd made him feel … something. And that wasn't good.

  One thing for certain—he wouldn't let her take any more deck-hose showers. Not if she'd be traipsing around in damp towels with droplets sparkling on her lashes. Neither he nor his crew needed that kind of distraction.

  The door to the captain's quarters opened, surprising him into alertness. Barely five minutes had passed since he'd sat down. No way could she be dressed and ready this soon.

  "Mmm. Something smells wonderful," murmured the soft, smoky voice he'd been trying to put from his mind.

  Again, she surprised him. With a sunny smile for Remy, she strolled out of the captain's quarters dressed in a soft, scooped-neck yellow T-shirt that hinted at her curves without actually clinging, and slim white shorts that weren't as long as her khaki ones of yesterday, but not cut nearly as high on her shapely thighs as the cutoffs she used to wear. Her hair was neatly combed, but still damp, and shorter than he'd expected. Flowing freely today instead of pinned up in a twist as it had been, her smooth, thick bob barely brushed her shoulders. She wore no earrings, bracelets or makeup, other than, possibly, clear lip gloss. She looked young, fresh and appealingly innocent.

  And he felt another tug of longing. Not for her—damn it!—but for the woman he had wanted her to be. Illogical anger quickly followed,
and he tightened his hold on his coffee cup. She would never be that woman.

  Was she deliberately messing with his mind? Could she possibly know how these changes in her appealed to him? He couldn't allow himself to forget his earlier suspicions—that she'd taken on a new appearance to lure some unsuspecting, upper-crust guy into her life, and that she ultimately intended to win the court's favor to get full custody of Arianne. Was she also trying to play him for a fool?

  She wouldn't succeed. At any of it. Her true colors would shine through soon enough.

  "Come sit down, Mrs. Devereaux," Remy invited, surging to his feet, his gray ponytail swishing beneath his New Orleans Saints cap. "I'll fix you a plate."

  Mrs. Devereaux. Mitch tried not to scowl. The name was another reminder of his mistake.

  "Thanks, Remy." Camryn accepted a steaming cup of coffee from him. Strangely enough, she took it black, without her usual double dose of cream. "But would you mind calling me 'Cam'? I haven't been a 'Mrs.' for quite some time." With a glance at Mitch, she added, "At least, not that I know of. Being called by my married name makes me feel like a … fraud." She flushed at the last word and hurriedly lifted the cup to her mouth.

  Mitch stared at her. He felt as if she'd psychically divined his discomfort with her use of his name. And though he was glad, very glad, that she'd asked to be called by a name other than "Mrs. Devereaux," he was also a little annoyed. He wasn't exactly sure why.

  Remy mumbled something about being honored to call her "Cam," then turned to the stove to fill a plate for her.

  She settled across from Mitch at the booth and cast him an oddly shy smile. As if his presence somehow flustered her.

  He hadn't realized until now how beguiling a certain amount of shyness could be in a woman. It hinted at intriguing vulnerabilities. He wouldn't forget, though, that her shy manner was part of an act. Had to be. She'd never been shy with anyone, let alone him.

  "I'll take a plate now, too, Remy," he said, refusing to return her smile. Her skin seemed especially luminous this morning, and the subtle fragrance wafting from her reminded him of lemons and freshly netted seashells.