by Jill Jaynes
Pirateless in the Caribbean
A Knit Witchery Tale
By
Jill Jaynes
Uncial Press Aloha, Oregon
2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-216-2
Pirateless in the Caribbean
Copyright © 2016 by Jaimee Friedl
Cover art and design
Copyright © 2016 by Becca Holland
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.
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To Steve, my inspiration for everything good.
To the ladies of WSR, thanks for being the best kind of friends—honest ones.
And to Bob—this ponytail's for you.
Pirateless in the Caribbean
Nichole
"You know, Sammy, I usually think pirates are pretty hot, but in this movie Johnny Depp is just a little too grungy for me. Give me Orlando Bloom any day." Nikki sighed and pulled her gaze away from the television screen where Orlando valiantly fought a losing battle in the first "Pirates of the Caribbean" movie—her favorite—and focused on her knitting.
Sammy, her ginger tabby, purred in response from her favorite spot at the foot of the comfy padded rocking chair nearby. She tucked her paws more securely beneath her.
Reaching the end of her row, Nikki paused to hold her work up. "This is turning out better than I'd hoped," she said, as she inspected the scalloped edge of the lacy panel with a critical eye. "I've never tried knitting a bathing suit before, but when I saw the pattern for this monokini, I could just imagine Stephanie wearing it. She'll look amazing in this.
"If I can ever get her to put it on." She carefully placed the unused skeins of special swimsuit yarn into her workbasket. "That girl doesn't know the meaning of the word stop. I don't think she's taken a break from her job in at least three or four years. She needs a vacation, and soon."
Nikki eyed the TV screen again where Johnny was currently sailing someone else's ship out of a tropical island cove. She clasped her hands together under her chin, her knitting bunched in her fists. Sighing, she closed her eyes.
"Just imagine how romantic it would be to get marooned on an island with a pirate as yummy as Orlando." She opened her eyes and smiled at Sammy.
"That's what Stephanie needs, whether she knows it or not."
"Meow." Sammy flicked one ear and turned as if startled to gaze up at the rocking chair. "Meow," she said again, sharply.
Nichole laid her work aside, then stood to stretch. "Honestly, I don't know what is up with you and that chair. C'mon, let's go to bed. I'll finish this up tomorrow. I have a feeling she's gonna need it sooner rather than later."
After flicking the TV off with the remote, she reached under the glass dome of the Tiffany floor lamp to turn it off.
She paused for a moment to admire the elegant iris pattern in the glasswork. "I wonder what made my grandmother decide to leave it to me in her will? She never even met me." A feeling of warmth and peace stole over her, like the glow of the lamp's soft light, making her smile. "Mom said she had no idea, when I asked her about it."
"Maybe someday I'll find out, but for now its bedtime." She headed down the hall for bed, and Sammy trotted after her.
In the darkened living room, the rocking chair began to move silently.
Chapter 1
Stephanie
Stephanie Birch sipped her complimentary champagne and scowled out the tiny airplane window at the ocean of fluffy clouds below. Damn! She was only one hour into this trip and it already felt like an eternity.
She knew a lot of people would give their right arms to be sitting where she was at the moment—in a first-class seat on her way to a first-class Caribbean vacation. She wished she could give it to one of them.
Absently, she plucked a fresh blueberry from the white ceramic bowl of fruit the perky stewardess had brought in a misguided attempt to cheer her up, and popped it in her mouth. She sighed. Damn, it was perfect. Not mushy, not sour, just firm and juicy and sweet as it burst in her mouth.
She didn't want to enjoy this. She wanted to hate it all.
She did hate it all, she reminded herself, and focused on fuming all over again at her boss's high-handed maneuvering that put her in this seat.
She should be in a very different place, the seat in front of her orderly desk in her orderly office, doing what she did best. What they paid her a lot of money to do. Five years of focus, hard work and long hours had earned her a reputation as a killer contracts attorney. She was one of the best in Seattle, maybe even in the Pacific Northwest. No matter what my brothers think. She was poised to become one of the youngest partners in the firm's twenty-five year history.
One little incident, just one little slip up, and her boss shipped her off to the nearest Caribbean island.
Okay, so she shouldn't have lost it and screamed at the client's secretary on the phone. She should have screamed at the woman's boss. He was the one who deserved it. But she had somehow managed to refrain from telling the General Manager of Gentel Corporation exactly how big of an idiot he was. Which, she had to admit, was likely why she was on a plane to St. John's with orders to decompress, instead of applying for unemployment.
Stephanie rolled her head back against the headrest, and pressed her fingers against the dull throb in her temples. She wasn't stressed. She wasn't. She'd done fine without a vacation for the last five years and she didn't need one now. She just had a bad case of technology withdrawal.
Her boss had made her relinquish her smart phone, her iPad and her laptop into his keeping before she left on the trip, ensuring she had no way of connecting to work on the sly. He had even taken her e-reader, insisting it was for her own good.
All she had to entertain herself with was a John Grisham paperback he had plucked from his office shelf and tossed to her when she had asked what she was supposed to do for all those hours stuck on a plane. The whole situation gave her a new sympathy for substance abusers.
She dug frantically in her purse for the novel, anything to give her fingers something to do. Pulling out the piece of paper she'd stuck between the pages, she smoothed the wrinkles left from her wadding the offensive thing into a ball after she'd first read it.
"If you want that partnership, this is the only way," her boss, Brett Bainbridge, of Bainbridge, Smith and Lowry, had warned as he'd held the paper out to her. "You're going to go on this vacation and you're going to do every single thing on this list." His expression had softened. "You need this Stephanie, as much as we need you. I'm asking you to trust me."
She had snatched the list from his hand. "You can lead a horse to the Caribbean, but you can't make it party," she'd retorted, images of ducking out of the airport security line at SEATAC dancing through her head. How would he ever know, once his driver dropped her off at the airport, where she actually went or what she did?
That was bef
ore she'd known he was going to personally take her to the airport.
His lips had curled in a diabolical smile. "Try me."
The list consisted of only a few lines. Five lines that guaranteed this was going to be the vacation from hell.
You must perform, participate in, or otherwise do each of the following:
ߦ Read a book for one hour at the pool or on the beach
ߦ Get a massage
ߦ Have a drink on the beach at sunset
ߦ Go to a party
ߦ Take the day tour to Paradise Island
Unbelievable.
She shook her head, her stomach clenching at the injustice of being required to comply with the unreasonable list of demands. But apparently she was going to have to. He was demanding evidence. Solid, concrete, no-two-ways-about-it evidence. She grimaced as she drew from her purse the antique-looking disposable camera Brett had forced into her hand along with the note. The last time she'd seen one of these was ten years ago, a tacky party favor at her cousin Tiffany's wedding reception.
ߦ You will take a picture of yourself performing each of these activities, and bring back some item visible in the picture
But the last line was the kicker.
P.S. The owner of the resort I'm sending you to is a friend of mine. I've asked him to make sure you have an enjoyable stay.
Brett was having her watched. Damn, he was good. Which was why she was, in fact, on this plane going to St. John's.
Stephanie imagined that most other people wouldn't have a problem with anything on this list. If she were honest with herself, there was some small part of her that wouldn't mind getting that massage. Sitting for an hour by the pool doing basically nothing sounded like pure torture though, and she wasn't much of a drinker. Not since her college days, at least. Parties were something she avoided as much as possible, since they almost always involved fending off uninvited male attention.
She really hadn't had time to think about men for the last several years. She'd had a one-track mind and that track was all about succeeding in her career. She had three older, already successful, brothers to catch up with and, more importantly, to pass. Getting distracted with dating and sex and all the drama that came with it was at the bottom of her to-do list.
What about love? A little voice whispered at the back of her mind.
Stephanie shuddered. God, she hated that voice. It came from the weakest part of her, the part that dreamed about love and weddings and happily ever after. She kept it locked away along with other childhood fantasies like fairies and unicorns. She usually managed to squelch it before it could get through. Maybe stress was getting to her.
Slamming that door in her mind, she firmly took the reins of her destiny into her hands. That partnership belonged to her. All she had to do was get through the next five days and four nights.
* * * *
Okay, I am Officially in Hell.
It was certainly hot enough out here in the Caribbean sun to qualify. She pulled the brim of her floppy straw hat further over her face and squirmed on the padded lounge beside one of the resort's picture-perfect pools.
Everything about this resort was picture perfect, and she hated it. She did. Right from the moment she'd arrived in the surprisingly comfortable Jeep that had shuttled her from the airport. How could she enjoy this jewel of a resort, perched on a stretch of pristine white sand at the edge of turquoise water and surrounded by lush tropical greenery, when it was the last place on earth she should be?
She didn't want to be here, breathing in the scent of jasmine floating on a warm breeze through the open floor-to-ceiling glass doors of the elegant beach-front suite her boss had reserved for her. She should be working on her caseload, following up on the dozens of loose ends that refused to be tied up, not sliding beneath gardenia- scented bubbles in her sunken Jacuzzi tub after the sumptuous room-service dinner she'd ordered. She should be poring over her notes by lamplight, downing another cup of bad coffee, not succumbing to sleep amongst the giant fluffy down pillows that invited her to join them on the king size bed.
But what choice did she have? She deserved that partnership and she would do whatever it took to get it. Even if it meant staying in this end-of-the-earth place for five days and bringing back the evidence her completely unreasonable boss had demanded.
So here she was, refreshed from a good night's sleep after yesterday's marathon trip, getting started on task number one:
ߦ Read a book for one hour at the pool or on the beach.
She hadn't met the owner of the resort. At least she didn't think she had. But she had no doubt her boss would be getting a full report on her activities. A glance around the pool deck showed it to be occupied mostly by couples, and a few serious sunbather-types, bodies oiled and glistening, browning like rotisserie chickens.
Sweat trickled between her breasts. Ick. What kind of idiot thought it was "fun" to park themselves in tropical sunlight fierce enough to incinerate an insect? She had never understood the allure of laying out to cultivate the perfect tan, the way her friends had when they were all teenagers. She'd been too busy actually doing things, like competing on the varsity swim team, or crewing for local yacht races.
Yet here she was, wasting time exactly that way.
She tugged at her bathing suit bottom where it insisted on creeping up her rear-end. The lacy white monokini her friend Nikki had made for her was stunning, and much sexier on, than she had ever believed possible when she'd accepted the hand-knit gift as a last minute going-away present. A simple white bikini overlaid and tied together with a sweep of delicate knit lace, it fit perfectly. But she sure wasn't used to showing this much skin.
She'd been trying to read the Grisham novel for a while now. She was surprised to find it wasn't terrible, but the heat was getting to her and concentration was impossible. She sighed and eyed the pool. Nikki had assured her the bathing suit would be fine for swimming.
She only swam for exercise any more, and that's all that pools were to her. A means to a practical end. She'd grown up more in the water than out of it. Give her the ocean or a river any day.
On the other hand, if she was going to stay out here for the required hour, a dip in the aquamarine water was looking more and more like the best way to survive this brutal heat.
Suddenly, a tingling sensation zapped her like an electrostatic shock beneath the lace of her bathing suit, then raced over her skin. "Oh!" she gasped, and sat bolt upright. "Damn tropical paradise is giving me heat rash!" Pool it was, then.
Dropping the book into the straw beach tote she'd picked up in one of the resort shops, she jumped to her feet, tossed her sunglasses and hat onto the lounge and stalked to the pool.
Rick Lowry stood beside the canvas towel bin he'd ostensibly come out to restock with the resort's signature sage-green towels and watched the leggy brunette's approach to the pool. He wore the same pleated linen shirt and khaki shorts that were standard dress for the staff, and most guests didn't know he was the owner. His ponytail and close-cut beard misled them, too. The mild disguise helped him keep an eye on things in a low profile way.
There was nothing low-profile about the beautiful woman who held his attention. It was all he could do not to whistle.
The lacy bathing suit showcased her generous curves perfectly, leaving just enough to the imagination. From the satisfyingly skimpy top to the scrap of bikini bottom that hugged her shapely behind, the sheer white lace glowed against her olive skin. With her dark hair twisted back in a careless knot, and the J-Lo sunglasses she'd left on her lounge, she could have been a starlet on an incognito vacation. But he knew exactly who she was.
She was the woman who'd haunted his dreams for the last two years. The woman he'd missed his chance with and kicked himself over ever since.
She was also the woman he was supposed to keep an eye on for his good friend, Brett Bainbridge, still a partner at his father's law firm in Seattle.
He watched her reach the edge of the pool an
d dive into the water in a clean, effortless arc. The sheer grace of it took his breath away. She was more beautiful than he remembered, and his memory was very good.
Rick had been in Seattle visiting his father at Christmas two years ago—the last Christmas they'd have together, but he hadn't known that then—when he'd seen Stephanie Birch at the holiday party at his father's law firm. He'd been struck then by her statuesque beauty and the poised self-assurance she exuded like an irresistible perfume.
Brett had noticed his interest, and had quietly suggested the only way he'd get more than five minutes of her attention would be if he were a million-dollar client. "She's a heartbreaker, bro'," he'd said, laying a consoling hand on Rick's shoulder. "Looks like heaven, but there's nothing but steel and ambition under that lovely exterior."
A lot had happened in the two years since then. He'd missed his chance that night, but he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Fate had dropped her here on his turf for four days, and he wasn't going to waste them. If he was going to have regrets, by God, they would be over things he had done, not those he hadn't.
Stephanie surfaced, turned on her back and glided with slow, even strokes down the length of the pool. A few couples bobbed lazily along the edges, in their own private worlds. She had the center to herself.
He wondered how time had changed her, because it surely had one way or another. She swam with perfect, practiced movements. Obviously she swam a lot, maybe to blow off steam. Probably had a gym membership.
As she reached the end of the pool, she executed an efficient turn, then started another lap down the center, barely ruffling the water with her strokes.
He knew she was here for a vacation. That Brett had sent her here with strict orders to relax. Which meant she was likely as much or more of a workaholic as she had ever been. It also meant she might be near a breaking point—a subject he'd had a fair share of experience in.
