The Boat Builder's Bed

by Kris Pearson

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Seduction on the Cards

  The PA's Revenge

  Taken by the Sheikh

  Romances that sizzle with love, life and laughter.

  THE BOAT BUILDER’S BED

  by Kris Pearson

  Kindle Edition

  ISBN 978-0-473-20523-2

  For more information about this author, visit http://www.krispearson.com/

  Love and thanks to Philip for the covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling. And thanks to Joseph, who told me about growing up whangaied—and breathed a whole new book into life.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Kris Pearson

  Cover design © by Philip Pearson

  Cover photograph dreamstimes.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  Free chapter of Kris’s novel ‘Taken by the Sheikh’ at the end of this book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rafe Severino pounded his fist on the steering wheel in time with the old Rolling Stones anthem. The Stones weren’t getting any ‘satisfaction’ and neither was he. His company, Severino Superyachts New Zealand, seemed unstoppable. Personally though, Rafe was lost in the desert.

  And he knew it.

  He hated that his marriage had been a mess. Hated being the last son to establish his own family. Hated the way his parents fawned over his younger brothers and their kids—and barely acknowledged his existence.

  He hated even more that he let it matter.

  Ahead of him a truck swung out across the road prior to reversing into an alley. Rafe slowed and then stopped to give the driver space.

  The wind from the sea had risen. A flag flapped and rattled on a nearby pole. An empty Coke can tumbled along the gutter. Inside his Jaguar with the volume up high, Rafe saw both but heard neither. ‘Satisfaction’ seemed a long way off.

  He sucked in a deep breath and tried to drag his brain onto something else.

  His eyes drifted to the legs of a high-heeled blonde as she edged through a nearby doorway with a sign-board. The wind tugged at the long tendrils of her hair, concealing part of her face with a sexy golden veil, but still something about her seemed familiar.

  Then the hem of her filmy blue skirt flipped up and Rafe sharpened his attention.

  To the girl’s obvious consternation the sign-board started to collapse, and he easily lip-read her short sharp curse. His mouth quirked at her frustration, and he watched as she batted at her flying hair with one hand and clutched the sign with the other.

  Recognition streaked through him then—an assistant of Faye’s. Josie or Susie, something like that. Maybe his ambitious ex-wife had new premises he didn’t know about? Was she going up in the world or down?

  A combination of curiosity and his grandmother’s long-ingrained code of chivalry made him turn the big car into a vacant space and kill the engine and the music. At that instant a more vigorous gust of wind wrenched the sign right out of the girl’s hands and flung it onto the sidewalk. The two halves parted company and she jumped onto one to hold it down, for all the world like a child playing hopscotch. The other flew up and hit the front of his car.

  There was a bang. A crunch. A sound that could only mean bad news. Rafe added his own curse to hers and swung his long body out. He closed the door with a savage ‘thunk’ and strode around to assess the damage.

  The girl stayed frozen, all legs and flying skirt and hair, as though she was perched on her own little surfboard.

  Once she’d gathered the gleaming strands up in both hands her mouth became a perfect ‘o’ of horror and her eyes grew almost as round.

  Rafe’s quick inspection confirmed his corner light needed repairing in a hurry. He shot her a glacial glare. “Nice work.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said in a crushed voice.

  Not trusting himself to speak further, he dug out his mobile and started running through the pre-sets to find the Jaguar dealer.

  “So, so sorry,” she repeated. “I’ll pay for it somehow.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “It was a total accident,” she added with a hint of defensiveness.

  Rafe held up a hand to silence her as the dealership answered. He turned away to conduct his conversation and concluded it with, “Around two? Thanks buddy—I owe you.”

  He returned his gaze to the girl. She stood very straight now, clutching her half of the sign with an absolute death-grip and looking as though she expected the guillotine blade to fall any second.

  Christ man, lighten up! It wasn’t her fault and they can fix the car this afternoon.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, softening his manner as he took in her obvious panic. “No-one’s fault. It was only the thought of not being able to use the car tonight.”

  “Bad things seem to happen in threes,” she said. “At least that’s the whole three out of the way. First your light. Then not being able to use your car. And third, my broken sign. I really need that sign.”

  Rafe turned and picked up the other piece of sign-board, undamaged apart from its hinged top. “It’ll never stay together with these tiny screws. It’s Josie, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head. “Sophie. And you’re Mr Severino. I worked—”

  “—for Faye. Yes, I know. I’ll fix the sign for you.”

  “Why would you do that? After I damaged your car?”

  He ignored the sharpness in her query. He’d over-reacted. No wonder she sounded prickly.

  “Because I’m a helpful kind of guy. Is Faye about?”

  “Faye? Faye and I—have gone our separate ways,” she muttered, avoiding his eyes.

  “That’s apparently the current thing to do. Faye and I have also gone our separate ways.”

  “No! When?” she blurted, looking at him with those wide grey eyes again. Then she recovered her manners. “Sorry. I’m surprised. I didn’t know. I thought you were the perfect couple.”

  His mouth flattened into a grim smile.

  “That was my understanding too, until a few months ago.”

  So Faye’s been hiding the fact we’ve divorced? Interesting.

  He inspected the sign more closely. “Is this place any good?”

  “Very good indeed.”

  He sensed defiance or defensiveness in the three abrupt words. He waited for her to say more. She didn’t.

  He thought of his almost-finished house and its current unloved interior. “I need a decorator. Someone as good as Faye.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “I’m better than Faye. I actually listen to what customers want.”

  “You work for this place?”

  “I am this place.”
She turned away and pushed at the door, indicating he should follow. “There’s only me. I opened today—or would have if the crummy sign hadn’t fallen apart.”

  “I’ll fix it for you,” he repeated as he followed her inside. The sign was competently painted but the carpentry looked dire. Would offering his expertise make up for his initial burst of temper? He hoped so. “I suppose you used the screws supplied with the hinges?” he asked, and then surprised himself by adding, “Have you got any more sensible shoes?”

  “What?” she demanded, apparently thrown by his change of subject.

  “As I said, I need a decorator now I don’t have Faye. I’ve been letting things slide. Do you want to see my house and submit a proposal? It’s still a bombsite. You won’t get around it in those.” He eyed her high-heeled sandals, and the slim ankles and light golden calves above them, pleased to have the excuse to inspect her openly.

  “You’re serious? A proposal to decorate your house? Faye’s house? After I damaged your car?”

  “Forget the car. It’s fixable. Yes—the house above the water. But it’s not Faye’s any longer.”

  He watched as she squeezed her big eyes shut and buried her even white teeth in the cushion of her lower lip.

  “I can’t just drop everything,” she objected after a few seconds. “I’ve stuff to arrange.”

  “Pretend you’re not open for business yet. It’s only nine-fifteen.”

  “But I’m having a drinks-and-nibbles function to let clients see my new studio. I sent all the invitations out saying five o’clock Monday.”

  “Then you’ve plenty of time.” He handed her the other half of the sign. “I’ll get my tools.”

  She’s not surprised I’ve offered to mend it. Maybe Faye made fun of my background?

  On brief reflection he decided that wasn’t Faye’s style. Happy to be known as the wife of the founder of mega-successful Severino Superyachts, yes, but he’d bet his balls she hadn’t admitted to marrying a part-Maori carpenter from a small forestry settlement.

  The irony of handing over the decorating of his ex-wife’s dream-house to her younger assistant amused him. He might just do it if she was any good. God knows it was time he got around to doing something with the place.

  Sophie had almost fallen off her sandals with shock. Rafe Severino? Here? And he’d offered her the chance to work for him?

  Why on earth had she been so rude? Told him she couldn’t drop everything? Submitting a design proposal for his house was the opportunity of a lifetime—the ideal way to launch her new business. Even if no work followed, when word got around she’d been invited to quote it would bring her untold kudos.

  But she’d been totally thrown by his sudden appearance. So unnerved by the waves of undiluted masculine power rolling off him it was like being stalked by a marauding tomcat.

  She watched, a mesmerized sparrow pinned to the spot, as he approached his luxurious car, popped the trunk and lifted out a well-worn metal tool-box. And saw him glance up as he carried it back inside. Above her windows a shiny new sign proclaimed SUBTLE in large stylish letters and interior design studio in much smaller ones.

  “Interesting name,” he said, pushing the door closed against the wind.

  “It sums up my style,” she managed. “Tranquil, timeless, modern without being outrageous. Is that what you’re looking for in your house?”

  He shook his head. “So far I’m only certain of what I don’t want.” He sent her a swift assessing glance. “I’ve had a chap in a bow-tie and tweed cap who wants to kit the place out like an old English castle. There’s a little gay guy who insists bright pink accents are the latest thing in Paris...”

  “Craig Kennedy?” she queried, feeling a smile tugging at her lips.

  “You know him?”

  “We all tend to know each other slightly.” She tried to stifle her grin, and hoped she sounded professional.

  “Okay, I’ve also seen Hilda Bergermeyer with the terrifying teeth, and Willa Rushworth...”

  “You’re hard to please. Willa’s supposed to be good.”

  “We didn’t seem to be on quite the same wavelength.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I want a family home. Something relaxed and informal. Somewhere for my children to grow up feeling loved and safe.”

  Sophie felt surprise and vicious pain flash through her. Her old boss had a family she’d never talked about? Sophie had had to relinquish her own beloved daughter. Why did some people have all the luck?

  She drew a calming breath. “Faye never mentioned the children.”

  “There are no children,” he grated. “She didn’t want any, but she took her time letting me know that.”

  “Ah.” The solid ground slid away, and Sophie cast about for something else to say while she considered this unexpectedly personal revelation. Total strangers sometimes shared amazing confidences. She could remember pouring her heart out to a sympathetic florist when it became obvious she could no longer keep tiny Camille with her in Wellington. Talking to the barely known woman in the flower shop had brought more comfort than discussing the huge problem with her doctor or landlady or her best friend, Fran. And she’d known all of them so much better.

  “Sometimes those who want don’t get, and vice versa,” she hazarded, catching sight of her reflection in the corner window and attempting to drag her fingers down through her tousled hair to return it to some sort of order. Lord, she looked a mess!

  But why would a woman not want children from Rafe? They’d be beautiful—dark-haired, dark-eyed—and as for making love with him to conceive them... The thought simply fried her brain.

  Sophie flicked a glance up at his hard-planed face.

  He returned her gaze very directly for a moment, then hitched his impeccable trousers up at the knees and hunkered down to attend to the broken sign.

  His expensive suit fabric threatened to make contact with her newly-oiled hardwood floor. A wave of panic washed through her. What if his trousers were ruined? She zipped out to the washroom and grabbed an old navy blue towel.

  “Kneel on this,” she begged. “I didn’t finish that until yesterday.”

  “You oiled the floor?” He gazed around the studio with more attention.

  “I did everything. It’s a bit smaller than I wanted, but the location’s good—right in the heart of the design district.”

  “You painted it too?”

  “Mmm. Hired a portable scaffold, bought the paint and oil, and just went for it.”

  “It’s come up well.” He stroked a finger over the glowing floorboards and then rose lithely to his feet. Sophie waited, on edge for his opinion.

  His dark eyes wandered around the airy space.

  “Dangerous doing it on your own—a little thing like you.”

  She saw him calculating the height of the lofty ceiling, and decided to ignore the comment about her size. She was a perfectly adequate five feet five. He was somewhere over six feet.

  “Couldn’t afford to pay anyone,” she admitted. “It was terrifying to start with, but I tried to be very careful. I needed to conserve my funds for professional sign-writing and things like that...” She trailed off as his gaze came to rest on her face again.

  “And a chandelier?” His eyes held hers for seemingly endless seconds, and she looked away and swallowed before she could speak again.

  “No—pure luck. I found most of it here in an old box. I thought it was too good to waste, so I gave it a clean and bought some extra glass beads from the craft shop and...sort of strung them around.”

  Why am I telling him this? He can afford anything in the world—he doesn’t want to know about my scrimping.

  “It’s a pretty touch,” he agreed, gazing up at the spangles of white light and rainbows of pale apple green and aqua dancing on the fresh sunlit paint. “Quite grand for a girl on a budget.”

  Is he teasing me?

  Sophie stole a sideways glance at him as he stood in her private space—tall, swarthy-skinned, wi
th an unnerving air of absolute authority. Anyone else in a snowy shirt and a black Armani suit would look ridiculous grasping a chunky power-tool. In his large hand it seemed perfectly acceptable.

  “Nice toy for a ‘boy’,” she countered, indicating the drill and wondering where her courage had come from.

  “Points to you.” A sudden smile softened his austere face. “Why did you put your work-table so far back? It looks professional. People would like to see you in action.”

  She shook her head and tried to sound sensible. Sensible? Most of her was acutely on edge, and her head felt filled with fog.

  “No—I can plug my lamp and computer in back there. And I really didn’t want to feel like a goldfish in a bowl. I thought it was more important to have the fabrics and mood-boards where people could see them, anyway.”

  He nodded, and began to pace past the wall-mounted boards with their glossy photos and small samples of paint-colors, carpet, tile and fabric.

  “I recognize that. It’s one of Faye’s.” He stabbed a finger at a photo of a silver and white dining room.

  “About half of them are Faye’s. Her clients, but absolutely my ideas and execution.” Sophie lifted her chin and stared him down.

  He sent her another devastating grin. “Don’t be so touchy.”

  “I worked damned hard on those projects.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly, not wanting to sound annoyed and nervous when she needed to appear calm and organized.

  “They look good,” he agreed, flourishing the drill at the beautiful interiors. “Where are your fabrics going?”

  Sophie raised her eyes to the ceiling. “That’s the next job I need to do. I’ve got some display lengths for up there.” She indicated a row of six high chromed curtain rods suspended on nylon cords.

  He glanced up at the rods, then down to her.

  “Not in those shoes. I’ll do them for you.”

  “What?”

  “By way of a trade. I presume you have a ladder somewhere if the scaffold’s gone?”

  “Out the back,” she agreed in a small voice.