Up Too Close

by Stein, Andrea K.

  Even with René sound asleep in her hammock, she’d still had to deal with testosterone poisoning. She almost giggled at the memory. At that moment, he rolled out, gave her a mock salute, and disappeared below.

  Soon after, delicious smells wafted from the galley. His bacon, of course, but an even better scent of frying potatoes, onions, and peppers. Overlaid was a whiff of one of her favorite things - strong French coffee. She could get used to this kind of sailing.

  With the morning thermals, the breezes began to build until there was a good, spanking wind. She shook out the reef and raised the mainsail before changing course to carry them east toward Carriacou and maybe some welcome sanity from Lindsay and Alton. She was determined to make sure René did not interfere with the happy couple on the Bonnie Blue.

  Just as her pre-dawn, four-hour shift was about to take its toll and her eyelids were getting heavy, René appeared with a tray with two breakfast plates and two steaming cups of coffee. She could have kissed him, but stopped herself. Wouldn’t do to get him too excited this early in the cruise. She’d have to pace herself with this sailing Lothario and chef.

  “For you, mon cher,” he said and set the tray down on the cockpit table. He pulled out the table sides and motioned for her to relax into the passenger seat cushions while he took over watch duty, brandishing his cup of coffee and a second plate of bacon, eggs, and potatoes. He headed for the wheel and balanced his plate on the nearby lazarette cover.

  CeCe sagged back onto the faded, torn cushions with her coffee and sipped the deep, dark, fragrant liquid of the gods. After she’d sucked down half of the contents, she gave a lusty sigh and said, “Is this part of your campaign to get me to share your bunk?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”

  “Oh,” CeCe said. “Just checking.”

  He folded his Cartiers and hung them on his shirt. Then he raised his eyes to the horizon and sipped his own coffee. Something about the look in his face made CeCe want to keep staring. His dark features, the stubble of his beard, the full lips - all designed to keep a woman happy.

  René had changed. He wasn’t flirting constantly, wasn’t trying anything, and yet, at every turn, she caught him about to say something filthy. But he never did. He was actually being kind.

  She watched him while he checked the sails and ate his bacon with a look of ecstasy on his face. Maybe the same expression would be on his face in bed. The thought caused an involuntary shiver to settle low in her belly.

  Really? Over René? Never.

  “CeCe, mange!” René called. “Food is meant to be eaten hot.” He gave the mainsail a critical look, finished off his breakfast, and then moved to raise the rest of Tourbillon’s canvas.

  “Oui, mon capitaine!” CeCe bent over the table, fully intending to use ladylike manners, but ended up practically shoveling in her vegetarian mound of eggs, potatoes and peppers.

  She was ravenous, and the hunger had hit her all of a sudden. She was never this hungry in the morning.

  What was wrong with her?

  Under René’s ministrations, Tourbillon mirrored CeCe’s spirits. She lifted and practically skipped across the waves with the extra sails and rising winds.

  Chapter Six

  12.3000ºN, 61.4000ºW

  Day Four, Aboard Tourbillon

  Tyrell Bay, Carriacou

  René eyed the slender CeCe in fascination. She must have been starving to death. Who knew such a perfectly-sized woman would have an insatiable appetite?

  Dwelling on the words insatiable and appetite so close together brought on other thoughts best left alone. This voyage would either kill him or cure him of womanizing.

  When they approached Tyrrel Bay on Carriacou, René was still at the helm. CeCe approached the ancient windlass on the bow with a look of trepidation. He could tell she was wondering what would happen if the mechanism didn’t work when they dropped the hook in the midst of a lot of other yachts.

  She looked back, doubt on her face. He shook his head hard, guessing at her hesitation. They had their hand signals down pat. He let go of the main halyard to douse the mainsail at the last minute and headed the powerless ship up into the wind. He didn’t want to use the diesel engine unless there was a dire emergency.

  CeCe dropped the anchor into the depths of the bay on cue, and they swung around a few times until the old girl headed her nose up into the breeze from shore. He started the diesel, backed down on the anchor, and then gave the final signal to lower more chain to keep the hook stable on the bottom.

  René thought CeCe must have been convinced the anchoring maneuver was going to be a disaster like everything else. She raced back as soon as they were finished, gave him a boisterous hug, and jumped up and down, slapping high-fives.

  Damn. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand the closeness of this woman without a complete, psychotic breakdown. At the end of the trip, he’d need to hole up with large quantities of tequila and women to wind down and recuperate from weeks of enforced proximity to the warm, sexy Swedish woman.

  “See? Didn’t I tell you? She is going to take good care of us. We will make it all the way,” CeCe shouted, joy making her face glow.

  Since he’d radioed Lindsay earlier, she was already roaring across the bay in her shore launch. Someone else motored the huge Swan yacht behind her at a much more sedate speed. He hoped Alton was with her. He didn’t want to have to deal with two hot women, both of whom didn’t trust him. He needed the chef as a buffer. There was just so much a red-blooded Frenchman could handle.

  René sighed in relief when he crossed to open the lifeline to let the visitors board. Alton grinned at him from the launch. “Hey, René, I love your boat. It’s like a floating version of my great aunt’s hutch. The one with the water damage, she used outside on her porch. I think rats lived in it.”

  “Did I really lose Lindsay to you? I can’t believe it. I have shamed my country.”

  Lindsay flashed René a warning stare. He knew the sign. No laying on thick the hot French lover-man-of-the-year schtick.

  “You never had a chance,” Alton said. “Lindsay and I are meant to be together.”

  René softened and smiled. “Oui, I can see that. Perhaps one day, I hope to be able to say the same thing about the woman I love.” It was a nice idea, but the thought kind of unnerved him.

  CeCe emerged from the companionway and squealed. “Alton! Lindsay! My friends!” She’d gone below and put on a fresh T-shirt with her stretch skirt, the one that made René drool. He just wished she’d ditch the baggy “Whirled Peas” thing. Why not a bikini top? Shame to hide all those treasures.

  René pulled Lindsay aboard and then Alton. Both sandwiched CeCe with a hug. René was being so good, his face hurt from smiling.

  Lindsay turned to René and got down to business. “Now tell me what the emergency is on the Tourbillon. Better yet, show me. I can’t believe all your wiring is bad. You just left the dock at Secret Harbor.”

  Before she followed René below, Lindsay walked back to Alton and bent him over in a lascivious kiss. René rolled his eyes, but CeCe gave out an “Awww.”

  * * *

  Once the two captains disappeared into the cavernous below decks of the old ship, Alton turned to CeCe and tipped his head to the side in a question. “Is there something you want to tell us?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “everything’s fine,” and broke into a torrent of tears. She’d been so excited to see her old friends. Why the hell was she crying?

  “Stop,” he said. “Did that bastard of a frog hurt you? Are you here because you want to be here, or is he holding you hostage? Or were you so desperate to get off Grenada, you agreed to crew this floating disaster?”

  She cried harder.

  He walked close to her side and let her bury her head on his shoulder. After she sobbed hard for a few minutes, he led her to the cushioned settee in the cockpit and made her sit. “You have to tell me
what’s going on, CeCe. Talk to me, but no more tears. Women crying freak me out like a bad wine pairing.”

  He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

  After mopping the wet off her face, she took a deep breath and faced him. “It’s been a rough few weeks. I guess I just kept everything inside until now when you asked me what’s wrong.” At that she started crying again. What was happening to her? Why the wild mood swings? And why the waterworks?

  “This calls for emergency measures,” Alton said. “Talking might not help, but good food will. Old Iowa saying, ‘Why cry when you can eat?’“ He grinned. “Did you guys provision before you left Grenada?”

  “Yessss,” she said, between hiccups.

  “Take me to your galley, lady, I’ll see your leader later.”

  “What?” she asked between sniffs.

  “Never mind. Old joke. Do you have butter, flour, sugar, potato chips?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then we’re in business. Let’s go. I know how to make women moan with happiness.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the tall chef assured her. “It’s a gift.”

  CeCe followed Alton down the companionway and into the cramped galley. Though she had spent hours cleaning, smoke stains still blackened the stove hood and all the surfaces felt greasy.

  Alton sighed. “Now I know what happened to Hitler’s personal chef. He was reincarnated as this kitchen. I’m assuming the stove and ovens work. Or have you tried them? Has anything exploded? I’m thinking maybe going out in a blaze of oven glory would be better than a bad case of old yacht botulism.”

  His English came fast and furious, and she knew he was joking, or at least she thought he was. It was kind of hard to tell. Until he smiled. “Don’t mind me. I like to complain as much as I like a good crudité.” He gestured, “Oven works?”

  She nodded. Twisted open the propane tank under the counter and adjusted the corresponding valve leading to the stove and oven. “There’s a problem with the connection to the main propane tank. René hooked up a small one here so we can cook.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard you and René say those three words a lot …there’s a problem. Seems like the whole boat is a problem.” Alton gathered all the ingredients, a glass bowl, a whisk. CeCe noticed he didn’t ask for measuring cups. He’d spent so much time cooking, he didn’t need them.

  “I love the Tourbillon,” CeCe said. “She may be decrepit, but she all she needs is some love.” At that word, love, her lips trembled.

  Alton, though he was in full-on whisk mode, noticed. “She’s probably been through a lot, the ship I mean. Life can be hard when you’re being tossed around on an ocean. But yeah, love can help. I know my life is so much better with Lindsay, but believe me, we didn’t start out so well. She, uh, insulted my luggage. It was awful.”

  CeCe knew that was a joke. She laughed.

  “So.” Alton oiled up a pan and dolloped a teaspoon of batter onto it. “You and René. What’s up with that?”

  Her and René. They were a couple, but a couple of what?

  “I need to get to Portugal. I have a job there, and I need the work until Becca can get us the money Carrothers promised. It’s simple. I go with René to Portsmouth, and he pays for my plane ticket to Portugal.”

  “Why would the owner of this wreck want it in Portsmouth? I think there’s probably a maritime museum in Massachusetts that would take her.”

  CeCe shrugged. “We don’t know who owns the boat. Devin Manning is our contact.”

  “Devin Manning.” Alton shook his head. “That guy. Now it makes sense. He’s probably going to convert the ship into a helicopter. Or something completely and over-the-top spy-ish.”

  CeCe sighed. He probably was. “The only reason why René agreed is because he’s afraid if he doesn’t do this job, Manning won’t give him another. He’s done a lot of work for Devin Bond. Or is it James Manning?”

  “Devin Douchebag is more like it.” Alton rattled a tray into the oven. “So what about René?”

  “I made it clear. No monkey business.” The thought of words and images of mating primates filled her head. “No, that’s not the right phrase. No funny business. Is that right?”

  “Actually, both work,” Alton said. “No funny, monkey business. I getcha. Do you think you can trust him? I mean, if you wind up in the middle of the Atlantic with René, you won’t have any help. What if René, well, what if he forces himself on you?”

  Anger flashed through CeCe. “No, Alton. I know you and René have your differences, but he would never hurt me. I feel safe with him. He’s a master sailor. I couldn’t be in better hands.”

  She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Part of her wanted to feel René’s hands all over her, and earlier that morning, watching him with the wind in his hair, his eyes fixed on the horizon, she felt more attracted to him than she had to any other man.

  That might explain the tears. She was terrified she might actually be falling for René.

  “Sorry,” Alton said quietly. “You’re right. The guy might be the ultimate French man-slut, but he’s not a monster. Lindsay and I just don’t want you to get hurt. Your ex, Carrothers, put you through hell.”

  “René isn’t Carrothers,” CeCe said. “He’s trying to change.”

  “Into what? Another species, like arrogantis assholi?” Alton said.

  “Could be,” CeCe said, “but I know he has the capacity to change.”

  “Believe me, CeCe,” Alton said. “Most men want to change, but can’t. Just be careful, okay?”

  She smiled at his warning, but inside, her stomach did a steep drop, like the first pitch on a roller coaster.

  CeCe was on an adventure. She felt it. Careful and adventures didn’t mix. But what if, one more time, CeCe was just hoping the guy she was falling for was good? Carrothers had seemed good at first.

  What if, yet again, CeCe was blind to the truth?

  * * *

  Lindsay lay flat on her back and pulled at a spaghetti mess of wires from under the last bulkhead near the stern of the ship. They were all different colors, none matched, none followed the usual protocol René was accustomed to seeing on super yachts. Merde.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, not expecting an answer. And in all fairness, even if she told him, he would not have any idea what she was talking about. Bigger yachts usually had their own engineer. He knew the basics, but beyond that, he was in trouble. Thank God for Lindsay. Her work with her Uncle Tommy at their family’s old marina had given her technical savvy to fix just about anything on a yacht.

  “Whoever had this old girl is a clever bastard.” Lindsay scooted out from behind the bulkhead, a smudge of oil on her forehead. “He’s rigged a system of three batteries that are redundant - one for the engine starter and two DC batteries for everything else aboard. Problem is, when one of them dies, you have to re-route the other two manually. And to do that, you have to know how he connected all the pieces of the system.”

  Sweat rolled off René’s forehead and pooled at the end of his nose before dripping down onto his chin. “Then how in the name of all that’s holy are we going to fix the system so we can get there safely?”

  Lindsay gave him an enigmatic grin and scooted back behind the bulkhead, emerging a few seconds later with a yellowed, laminated piece of paper trailing tails of duct tape.

  “Gotta love anal-retentive old men,” she said and pointed to the hand-drawn diagram. “It’s all here. I’ll help you re-route the batteries. You two just need to take it easy with power usage. No hair dryer or microwave oven use. Only the essentials: a few cabin lights for safety, the red safe light at night, and the running lights.”

  “Hair dryer?” René asked. “I’m not sure CeCe has a hair dryer.”

  “I wasn’t talking about CeCe. I was talking about you and all your hair care procedures.” She gave him a wink and motioned for him to follow her to the first battery.

&
nbsp; “I do have a new mousse I am trying,” René said, a teasing tone in his voice. “It’s not heat activated. It uses the natural oils in my hair.”

  Lindsay slid a dirty, acidy, battery out of a slot near the engine and sighed. “Right, your natural oils. Lovely. Hand me a Phillips head screwdriver.”

  René plunked the tool into her hand and she turned to fiddle with the battery.

  “How do you know it was an anal-retentive old man?” René asked. He remembered how CeCe had corrected him about the Mexican chef who taught her the salsa recipe. “Could it be a woman?”

  “Could be,” Lindsay agreed. “Still can’t believe you don’t know who owns her. And that you like working with Manning.”

  “Ah, Devin Manning does make things interesting.”

  “Either way,” Lindsay said, “you’ll want to get new batteries on Martinique. I’m pretty sure the Russians used this same battery during the Cuban Missile Crisis. But this should work to get you there.” Lindsay took a rag and wiped crumbly white acid off the leads, careful not to drop any on the cabin deck. René admired the muscles of her arms, but more, he felt proud to know her. She was such a capable woman, strong. He was glad they could still be friends.

  “Tell me about CeCe,” Lindsay said.

  “She needs to get to Portugal. I need a first mate. It is very convenient for us both.”

  Lindsay turned and gave him a scowl and a glare. She snapped her oily fingers and motioned for him to keep talking.

  No wonder they could be friends. Lindsay was as tough as he was.

  “What?” René asked. “You think I brought her aboard just to sleep with her? She said she wasn’t interested, so I’m trying something different. I’m trying to be a good man.”

  “Bullshit, René. You’re going to get her out in the middle of the sea, bring out the wine, and use that famous French charm. I bet some kind of cheese will be involved. And before you know it, she’ll be in love with you, and you’ll saunter away for your next bit of catnip.”