“Michael!” she shouted one last time. When he still didn’t look up she jerked the wheel left, and immediately realized she’d made a mistake. The sailboat turned sharply, dipping onto its right side. She screamed, sure they would tip over. Somewhere over the noise of the Jet Ski and the motorboat that was frantically blaring a horn and turning to go between her and the shore, she heard Mike holler as he lost his footing. He managed to grab the mast before he flew into the lake.
“Jesus, what are you doing!” he yelled. “Look out, we’re coming about! Pop the jib sheet. Release the boom!”
Now that the motorboat was passing safely to the right—with a great deal of cursing from the passengers—she tried to correct her mistake by turning the wheel back. It was too late. The large, horizontal beam swung over her head. Wind snapped the sail into place with a jarring force that threatened to flip the boat in the opposite direction.
“Let out the mainsail!” Mike yelled as he fought against the front sail that had engulfed him like a shroud. “Pop the jib sheet!”
“What’s a jib sheet!” she hollered back as he finally battled his way free of the sail and scrambled into the cockpit. With one smooth flip of his wrist, he jerked on a line, and the contraption that held it taut released its hold. The line fed out, allowing the front sail to move to the opposite side of the boat. He did the same to the line that held the big beam in place. Both sails fluttered and went slack as the boat settled neatly into an upright position, slowed, and died in the water.
Standing in the cockpit and breathing hard, he turned to face her. She cringed and waited for an explosion of male temper and string of belittling insults.
“I, um, I take it you’ve never sailed before,” he said, very calmly.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Well, then, first lesson. Sailboats can’t maneuver as fast as a motorboat, which gives us the right of way. In other words, we’re supposed to hold steady, and let the motorboats go around us.”
“But they were about to hit us.”
“Trust me, Kate, they would have passed safely on our port side if you hadn’t tacked right into their path.”
“Oh.” She squirmed. “Sorry.”
“No, no, that’s okay.” He ran both hands through his hair, a useless gesture in the wind. “My fault. I should have asked if you knew how to sail before I turned the helm over to you.”
“Perhaps we should let you take care of the sailing part of this weekend.” She started to slide away from the wheel.
“What, and deny you all the fun? Don’t be ridiculous.” He took the seat behind the wheel. “Come on and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“No, Mike, really—” Before she could express her opinion on just how unfun she’d found the last few minutes, he took hold of her waist and settled her before him with her bottom wedged between his thighs.
“Now the first thing we need to do is find the wind. So, take hold of your port sheets—”
“What’s a sheet?”
“One of the lines that controls your sails,” he explained, gathering two of them in hand.
“You mean these ropes?”
“Kate.” He chuckled. “There are no ropes on a sailboat.”
“Then what the heck do you call all those?” She waved a hand at the dozens of blue-and-white nylon ropes trailing all over the deck.
“Once a rope is cut and attached to something on a sailboat, it becomes a line, which can also be called a halyard or a sheet, depending on what it’s attached to. The halyards raise and lower the sails, the sheets control their side-to-side motion.”
With surprising ease, he tightened two of the sheets. The mainsail and jib—as he called the front sail—magically filled with wind. Gracefully, the boat eased forward. He set the main sheet in a cleat, then handed her the jib sheet.
“Here,” he said near her ear. “Take this, and get a feel for the wind.”
She was about to ask what he meant, but the minute she took hold of the line, she understood. The sail tugged playfully against her hand, like a frisky mare asking for more rein.
“Now, if you ever get scared and want to slow down, simply let your lines out.”
“And what if I want to go faster?”
“Tighten the sheet and turn closer into the wind. Not all the way, just close enough so you’re riding the edge of it.”
With one hand beside hers on the wheel and his other hand guiding hers on the sheet, he helped her find the edge of the wind. The boat leaned sideways as it picked up speed.
“What do I do if we start to tip over?” she asked.
“We won’t,” he assured. “A good, sturdy vessel like this is virtually impossible to ditch.”
“Virtually?” Her voice rose as the boat leaned farther to the side. They both leaned in the opposite direction as counterbalance.
“‘Trust me, Kate. Unless you’d rather take things slow?”
Not sure what she wanted, she held their course feeling the wind tug against her hands. The more the boat leaned, the faster it sliced through the water. At some point, the fear shifted to exhilaration, followed by a thrilling sense of freedom.
Mike gradually turned over control and moved to the high side of the bench where he could watch Kate. Everything about her delighted him, especially the memory of their trip into the marina’s store. She’d taken one look at the prices of the swimsuits and her eyes had bulged. If he hadn’t slipped the store clerk his credit card and convinced her to tell Kate all the swimwear was half off, he never would have talked Kate into buying one. And though he would have preferred she’d purchased one of the skimpy two-piece numbers, he had to admit she looked great in the bright blue suit she’d selected.
Gone was the pale anxiety from that morning. In its place he saw an expression—part fear, part wonder—that reminded him of how he’d felt when he’d first started sailing with his dad. There was nothing quite like the feel of a good solid vessel responding to your slightest touch, of flying over the water on nothing but the power of the wind.
The breeze shifted subtly and Kate adjusted instinctively.
“You have the feel for it,” he observed.
“For what?” She glanced toward him then turned back to keep her eye on the lake traffic.
“For sailing.” Reaching for the bag of supplies they’d just bought, he pulled out the bottle of sunscreen. “Not everyone does,” he said, squeezing lotion into his hand. “Are you sure you’ve never done this?”
“Never. Oh, that’s cold.” She sucked in a breath as he applied the lotion to her shoulders.
“Sorry.” He hid a smile as he squeezed more lotion onto her back and felt her body shiver beneath his hands. The tropical scent of coconut rose up from her sun-heated flesh. “With this white skin of yours, you’ll be red as a lobster by the end of the day.”
“Actually, I don’t burn. I don’t tan either. I just freckle.” She made a face. “So, what about you?”
“I never freckle.”
“No, silly, how long have you been sailing?”
“Since before I could walk.” Shedding his shirt, he squeezed lotion on his own shoulders and sucked air in through his teeth. Kate was right; it was cold. What’d they do, keep the stuff in the refrigerated cases with the beer? “But then, I’m a Cameron, so sailing’s in my blood.”
“Oh, that’s right, you said your grandfather sailed out of Glasgow on a cargo ship. I assumed you meant a freighter, though, not a sailing vessel.”
“I did.” Mike reached into the ice chest. “You want a beer or a Coke?”
“Coke for now,” she answered. “I’m holding out for that bottle of wine you bought to go with dinner.”
Grabbing a beer for himself and a Coke for her, he settled back to enjoy the day. The sky stretched overhead, with just enough clouds to cool things off while sunlight shot sparks off the water. The wind off the starboard bow was strong and steady; the woman at his side a pure pleasure. In all, a
perfect day. “Even though my grandfather started out on a freighter, sailing has always been the old man’s secret passion, especially after he settled in California and started his own shipping company: Cameron Shipping—’We sail the world for you’.”
“The old man?” She cocked a brow in disapproval.
“His choice, I assure you—as in The Old Man and the Sea.”
“What about your father? Is he into sailing?”
“Absolutely.” Mike looked about to check their heading. While Lake Travis was large, its long, winding course through the rolling hills required a great deal of tacking back and forth to navigate. “We need to come about, pretty soon. Think you can handle it?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes widened a bit, but she looked willing to try.
“I tell you what. Why don’t I take the wheel while you handle the sheets?” He talked her through the maneuver, which they pulled off with surprising ease. “You want the wheel back?” he asked once they’d set a new heading.
“No.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’d rather sit back and watch for a while.” Scooting along the bench, she leaned her back against the cabin and stretched her legs out on the cushion to catch the sun.
“So, where were we?” he asked, distracted by the trim shape of those feminine ankles and calves. Women had such intriguing dips and curves; an endless landscape to be thoroughly explored.
“You were about to tell me about your father.” She tipped her head back, looking peaceful and relaxed as the boat settled into a steady rhythm.
He smiled in satisfaction, since that had been the point of the day, to help Kate get her mind off what had happened that morning. He still wanted some more details on the subject, but decided to wait until later.
“My father,” he said, drawing his attention away from her legs. “Now, there’s a man who loves to sail. In fact, in his rebellious youth, he ran off to Hawaii to crew on a chatter boat.”
“Hawaii?” Kate cocked a brow. “How exciting. Did he stay there long?”
“‘Bout ten years. He worked his way up to serving as first mate on one of the first big commercial yachts, the kind with luxury cabins, a dining galley fit for royalty, and a lounge with live entertainment.”
“Ooo.” Kate’s smile turned dreamy. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To sail around the islands on a ship like that?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, as an image came to mind of sailing with Kate in Hawaii—not on some crowded luxury yacht, but on a small, chartered vessel for their honeymoon. On the way home, they could stop in Santa Monica so he could show her off to his family, maybe fly Dylan out so he could meet his new cousins.
The thought of Dylan dimmed the fantasy a bit, since Mike still wasn’t used to the idea of taking on another man’s son as his own. Pushing the thought away, he concentrated on his story. “That’s where Dad met my mom, working on that ship.”
“Oh?” Kate prompted.
“She was the headliner in the lounge, and a hell of a singer.”
“Really?” Her attention perked up at that. “Does she still perform?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Mom gave up the stage when she found out I was on the way. She and Dad had been married less than a year, having the time of their lives, both of them living for the moment with little thought for the future. Then, wham, here I come along and change everything. I guess having a baby has a way of making a man think about the future, big time.”
“Believe me,” she laughed, “it has a similar effect on women.”
“I imagine it does.”
“So what happened?” she asked.
“Dad moved back to California and went to work for Cameron Shipping.”
“And your mother?”
“She became a full-time mom to me and my sisters. I pretty much took that for granted growing up, but now I wish she hadn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged, glancing at the gauge at the top of the mast to check the direction and speed of the wind. “I think it’s just as important for kids to see their parents pursue their dreams as it is for parents to see their children succeed.”
“I never thought of it that way.” She cocked her head, studying him. “Speaking of children, you must have made your parents proud with your success. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, pleased.
She leaned forward. “Just from the little animation you did for my Web site, I can see how good you are.”
“I thought you didn’t like the graphic.”
“I liked the graphic just fine.” She gave him a repentant look. “In fact, I loved it.”
“Even if it got you in trouble with Gwen?”
She shrugged. “I wish now I’d told Gwen to stuff it and leave your cupid alone. Well, it’s too late for that now. But I hope it’s not too late for me to say thank you. It was a wonderful gift.”
“You’re welcome.” He felt his chest expand with pride as their gazes held.
“But tell me about your parents.” She settled back. “Are they happy with your career choice, or did your father have his heart set on you going into the family business?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what Dad expected me to do.” Mike shrugged. “By the time I was old enough to go to work in a shipping yard, I was already making money as an animator.”
“And how old was that?”
“I was fourteen when I worked on my first movie.”
“Fourteen!” Her eyes widened, making him grin.
“Back then, we were all pretty young. I think the average age of most special effects crews was between eighteen or twenty.”
“That’s incredible.”
“You have to understand, CGi barely even existed until recently. In the beginning, we just made it up as we went along, writing our own software and gluing spaceships together from whatever model parts we could pick up at the local toy store. It was fun, exciting.” He smiled at the memory. “And it’s never stopped being that way.”
Her face softened as she looked at him. “I think it’s so great that you love what you do.”
“Yeah, I really do love it,” he said. As much as you love being Dear Cupid. And he’d be damned if he’d stand by and watch her give up her column just because some woman out in L.A. couldn’t take the competition.
Chapter 17
“MIKE,” Kate called up through the hatch of the sailboat’s cabin. “Where do you keep the salt and pepper?”
“Look in the cabinet over the sink,” he called back from the cockpit where he was lighting the grill attached to the stern pulpit. Since she’d wrinkled her nose at the thought of hot dogs, they’d opted for chicken kebobs instead.
Late that afternoon, they’d found Mike’s cove and dove in the cool water for a refreshing swim. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so carefree, floating about on air mattresses, splashing water at Mike, then shrieking obligingly when he swam toward her to the theme from Jaws.
With her swimsuit now dry, and the scarf tied back around her hips, she rummaged through the galley in search of condiments. “I’m not finding them,” she called through the hatch.
Mike’s head appeared, backlit by the golden-peach sunset. “Try the shelf over the dining table.”
“Dining table,” she muttered, moving around the counter to the eating area. On the shelf over the U-shaped booth, she found all manner of nautical flotsam, including models of old sailing ships, gadgets and tools she couldn’t begin to imagine the use for, and pictures. There amid the sailing notions and whatnots, the found three framed photos bolted to the wall. “Did you find it?”
She glanced over her shoulder as he came down the ladder. “Is this your grandfather?” she asked.
He leaned over the counter to see what had caught her attention. “Yeah,” he breathed, his face warming with a smile. “That’s him. Crusty old sea dog, isn’t he?”
Actually, she found him very handsome in a rugged, weather-beaten way. He
held an infant in his big callused hands that looked as fascinated with him as he was with the child. “Is that you?”
“Heck no, that’s my baby sister, Carly the Brat.” Undisguised affection tinted Mike’s voice as he rummaged through the icebox for the bag of preseasoned meat. “She’s fourteen years younger than me, and spoiled rotten.”
“Oh, and I’m sure you had nothing to do with spoiling her.” She cast him a sideways smile, enjoying the sight of him with his windblown hair and freshly tanned skin.
“Hey, I’m her big brother. I’m entitled.”
“So who’s this man standing with you here?” She pointed to a photo of a much younger Mike holding a sailing trophy and bottle of champagne with a slender, darkly exotic-looking man.
“My dad.”
“Really?” She looked closer. “You don’t look anything like him.”
“My grandmother’s Polynesian. Dad and my two middle sisters take after her, Carly looks like my mom, and I’m a throwback to my Scottish grandfather.”
“Yes, you are,” she agreed, imagining how he’d look in his later years. The image had definite appeal. Then she looked at the final picture and her smile faded at the sight of the stunningly beautiful woman in the black-and-white glossy photo. A long fall of pale hair framed intoxicating eyes, arrogant cheekbones, and a pouty mouth. A movie star, she assumed from the illegible autograph sprawled in one corner after the words. “To Mike, with all my love.”
“An old girlfriend?” she asked coolly.
“Bite your tongue.” Mike shuddered playfully. “That’s my sister, the Brat.”
“Oh.” She blushed at her momentary lapse into jealousy. “Your favorite, I take it.”
“What makes you say that?” he asked, slicing open the package of meat.
“She’s the only sister whose photo you carry on your boat. And not just one photo, but two.” She waved to the picture of his grandfather holding the infant.
Mike chuckled. “She’s my only sister with a big enough ego to give me an autographed picture of herself for Christmas.”
Dear Cupid Page 16
