Dedication
To my long-suffering husband and daughter, who were (mostly) patient with my absent-minded behaviour and housework-avoidance when lost in Robin-and-Dan land.
Thanks to Lou Harper for reading my patchy first draft scene by scene, and always being ready to discuss character and plot when I needed someone to bounce ideas off. Thanks to Jamie Merrow for the incredibly thorough and insightful edit that helped me get to a polished final draft. Thanks also to my team of beta readers who read the second draft and gave me their honest reactions: Angharad, Ben, Jill, Julie, Krista and Kristina—I hope to return the favour one day!
Thanks to Josh Lanyon and members of his crit group for helping me get those crucial first few chapters knocked into shape.
Thanks to Charlie Cochrane for encouraging me to “start writing and see where it goes”, and to Linda Ingmanson at Samhain for taking a chance on a first-time novelist.
Thanks to all my online and real life friends who encouraged me to keep working on those drafts—your support has been invaluable and much appreciated.
And last but not least, thanks to my capricious and salacious muse—it’s been exhilarating getting to know and trust you, and I hope you’ll lead me on many more exciting escapades.
Chapter One
“You still there, Tris?” Dan asked, trying not to stare at the slipstream of muddy water churned up by his hire boat’s propeller. The stupid bloody phone kept cutting out—proof, if the general lack of buildings and abundance of trees weren’t enough, that he truly was in the arse-end of nowhere. He fiddled with his Bluetooth again. It crackled.
“Can you hear me?” Tris shouted.
“Yes, all right! It’s bad enough with you leaving me in the lurch—there’s no need to deafen me too.”
“Now, now, sweetheart, don’t get tetchy. I’m just practising projecting. Anyway, what are you complaining about? With me back here, you won’t have any competition when it comes to seducing all those country bumpkins. You on your Faerie Queen.” Tris sniggered. “They must have seen you coming, giving you a boat called that.”
Dan sighed. Tristan Sinclair might well be his oldest friend, but right now he was not in Dan’s good books after accepting a part on the chorus line of La Cage aux Folles. “It’d be spot-on if you were at the tiller, mate. Fat chance I’ll have now, going out on the pull. Can’t even manage to take any bloody pictures.” Dan eyed his camera with frustration. Even with it hanging around his neck, he was too chicken to let go of his hold on the tiller and take a shot. “I could be up on the roof with some great views, you Judas.”
Tris laughed. “Like you’d be standing on the roof! What about the drop into the water, Danny-boy? Or is it not so bad now you’re there?”
Why had he ever told Tris about not being able to swim? “You’re a total bastard.”
“Sorry, darling.” Tris did at least sound contrite. “You know me, I just can’t resist. But I do mean it—are you okay?”
Dan pulled his life jacket tight and kept his gaze fixed on the canal ahead. There was another narrowboat moored up and a solitary figure standing on the towpath alongside. Looked like a man chopping wood.
“Well, are you?” Tris prompted, and Dan recognised the genuine concern.
“Yeah, it’s not so bad if I don’t look down into the water. Besides, it’s only four feet deep. Even a short-arse like me couldn’t drown.” Dan shuddered at a vision of himself standing freezing cold in the murky canal, just his head and shoulders clearing the surface.
“You’re mad, taking a job on a boat if the stuff scares you that badly.”
“It doesn’t scare me! And besides, this is the best offer I’ve had in ages. I’ve had enough of writing up third-rate Spanish resorts. Besides, they want my pictures too.”
“Really? You never said.”
“It was all a bit last minute. Didn’t get a chance. Couldn’t turn down a job like that, though.” Despite being surrounded by the wet stuff, Dan added to himself.
“Yeah, well you can’t blame me for taking the best offer I’ve had in ages either, can you?” Tris sniffed. “It’s not so easy to find decent parts at our age. On stage, that is,” he added, and Dan could hear the smirk. “At least your career is wrinkle-proof. No one cares if the guy who wrote the guide book was a doddery old fool.”
“Fuck off, I am not doddery!” Dan flexed his twenty-nine-year-old muscles and checked his course. He glanced at the man up ahead again, then widened his eyes. What he’d taken from a distance for a patterned T-shirt turned out to be tattoos. The guy was half-naked, in October! They must make these boaters out of hardier stuff than him. He’d caught sight of a few of them on the day’s journey—weather-beaten, hairy blokes in their baggy, raggedy clothing. Shame that wasn’t his type, or he’d be spoilt for eye candy along here.
“Jesus, Tris, you should see this guy up ahead. Wish I could take you a picture.”
“Why? Is he hot? Is he—” The line went completely dead this time, not just crackly. Dan cursed, then turned his attention back to the boater.
The inked whorls across his upper back rippled as the man drove the axe down into the log before him. Scratch that about boaters not being Dan’s type—this one was just fine from the rear. He wore sturdy black leather boots that reached mid-calf, and his close-fitted combat trousers were tucked inside. His dark hair was cropped short, his tanned back tautly muscled, and his pert buttocks lovingly accentuated by the cut of his trousers. Dan spotted a dark patch on the waistband and imagined licking the sweat from the channel of his spine—picturing himself chasing a bead of perspiration on down, below the waistband and between those enticing cheeks.
Bloody boat engine. The vibrations, combined with the hot man up ahead, had given him the mother of all boners. And stranded on his deck in tight Levis, it was going to be pretty obvious to anyone who cared to look. Wouldn’t be a problem somewhere he stood a chance of being able to do something about it, but out here on the bloody Kennet and Avon canal? It was enough to make him wish the bloke away…but it was hard to wish away such a perfect arse. Maybe if he got a look at the front of him. An eyeful of snaggletoothed, bushy-bearded boater would be like a mental cold shower.
Dan strained to catch a glimpse as his narrowboat slowly chugged past. The glint of Tattoo-guy’s pierced nipples hijacked his attention, distracting him completely. As he panned up the boater’s body, a thud shook through the boat beneath him.
Dan pitched forward, catching a blow to his ribs from the rear door.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” The boater dropped his axe and glowered. “Stupid fucking tourist! They shouldn’t let you lot out in boats if you don’t know how to steer the bloody things.”
“God, I’m sorry! Wait a minute, I’ll sort it out.” Panic coursed through Dan’s body. He grappled with the controls, trying to recall how the guy at the hire company had operated the reverse gear. If only he’d been paying more attention! The prow of Dan’s boat pushed against the rear fender of the woodchopper’s deep red boat. He really did have his nose up the other guy’s arse after all. Just not quite how he’d been imagining it. Dan cut the engine—he could remember how to do that much at least.
Tattoo-guy jumped onto the back deck of his own boat and gave Dan’s a hard kick, bracing himself against the rear doors. The bulk of the Faerie Queen rocked free; then the boater grabbed the rail along her roof to hold her steady. Dan clung to his tiller and gave his rescuer a grateful smile. “Thanks. Sorry, I couldn’t find the reverse anywhere.”
The boater took hold of Dan’s boat and pulled it alongside his, using brute strength to shift the tonne of steel through the water. Dan’s smile faltered as he drew nearer to the bloke. Tattoo-guy looked seriously pissed off, his dark blu
e eyes hostile and his mouth set in a line.
“Watch where you’re going in future, all right? You could do serious damage to some of the boats along here. Serendipity’s a tough old bird,” he said, patting the roof of the red boat, “but some of the others have wood or fibreglass hulls. You could sink them if you’re not careful. And slow down a bit, ’cause your wash ends up rocking the boats you pass, understand?” His voice vibrated with controlled anger, but it was surprisingly rich and cultured for one so scruffy.
“Yeah, okay, point taken. I’ll be more careful.” Dan attempted another smile.
“It’s not some fucking joke. These are people’s homes. We might not live in brick-and-mortar houses like the rest of you, but that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a bit of respect.” The bloke folded his arms and glared at Dan.
Whoa! Where had that come from? “Hey, can we start again, please? It was a simple accident. I’m not disrespecting anyone here. I’m just a canal virgin, all right?”
“I suppose you think that makes it all right, then, do you? Steering like a bloody maniac and crashing into my boat?”
“Yeah, wait, no!” Dan could see he wasn’t going to win this argument no matter what. “I’ve said I was sorry. If there’s damage, I can pay for it.”
Tattoo-guy sneered. “That’s exactly the sort of attitude I’d expect from a tourist. You think you can just throw money at a problem and it’ll go away, don’t you?”
“Look mate, you don’t know anything about me.” Dan drew himself up to his full five foot six, painfully aware the other guy was still looming over him by about half a foot. “I’ve just offered to pay for any damage I’ve caused, so I don’t see what your problem is.”
“My problem is if you’ve caused any damage with your little stunt, I have to cruise all the way to the nearest dry dock in Bristol and get her lifted out of the water. Then I’ve got to clean and reblack the hull, which has got to be one of the most backbreaking tasks I’ve ever had the misfortune to do. It’s not like spraying over a nick in your car’s paintwork. It’s a week out of my life I’ve got to spend sorting out the results of your sloppy steering.”
“Oh. Shit. That is a big deal. Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re a tosser.” Tattoo-guy gave Dan a withering stare, then dropped to his knees and leaned over the water. Dan took an instinctive step back. He relaxed when the man began poking at the side of his hull under the water, presumably feeling around for damage. You couldn’t see anything in the murky green canal. Looked more like pea soup than water.
“You’re a lucky man,” Tattoo-guy said, straightening up again. Funny, Dan didn’t feel all that lucky right now, despite being in the vicinity of a gorgeous, half-naked boater. “There’s no damage done this time, but like I said, you need to watch out, because some boats are a lot more vulnerable.”
Dan nodded. “Right. Gotcha. I’ll pay better attention.”
“What’s your excuse, anyway? Talking on the phone, were you? Or taking a photo? I know you can only go at a snail’s pace on one of these boats, but as you’re such a beginner, you should have your whole attention on the water ahead, all right?”
Dan wrenched the Bluetooth from his ear and shoved it into his pocket. There was no way he was going to tell this miserable git what had distracted him. It was bad enough being shouted at by the best-looking bloke he’d met in ages. He tried for a smile and just about managed it. “Right you are. Any more tips while you’re at it?” And he didn’t mean for that to come out sounding sarcastic, but it was too late to take it back.
“Yeah. Clear off. There’s spots for tourists to moor up in Bathampton.”
Tattoo-guy gave Dan’s boat a push and turned away, hopping back to the bank and picking up his axe. That would be Dan’s cue to leave, then.
He started the engine with a sigh. Bugger, what a way to hit it off with his first real boater. He turned his concentration back to his boat and tried to remember how to get the thing going again. By the time he was confident enough to look back, Tattoo-guy was nowhere to be seen.
As Dan neared civilisation, the canal became much more crowded. Admittedly he wasn’t travelling any faster than he could walk, but he’d passed nothing but boats for the last half an hour. It was like a linear city stretched out through the valley, sandwiched between fields of sheep and patches of woodland. There was a conspicuous absence of hire boats, so he couldn’t have reached wherever those tourist moorings were supposed to be.
Dan itched to get shooting but didn’t dare with Tattoo-guy’s words still ringing in his ears. There were so many different styles of boat. He’d assumed they would all be narrowboats, but that was far from the case. There were ones that looked about double the width—too wide for the canal, really, so he had to concentrate on his steering when passing them. There were tall boats with high wheelhouses in the centre that looked like they’d be more at home bobbing up and down on the ocean. There were small white cruisers that seemed to be made of plastic—they must be the fibreglass ones. Dan took extra care when chugging past those, dropping his speed from walking to crawling. But even more surprising than the variety of styles of boat was the range of conditions they were in. Boats that gleamed with fresh paint and polished portholes were moored up next to rust-buckets that looked like they should be sunk to put them out of their misery.
Steering around a curve in the canal’s path, Dan caught sight of the white railings of a swing bridge up ahead. He’d passed through only one so far, and someone else had opened it for him so he hadn’t had to figure out how to moor up and operate the bloody thing. That was another reason he could have done with having Tristan onboard. Dan scanned the bank. There was a clear section coming up, and the sign said seventy-two-hour moorings. Those must be the tourist spaces, and if he stopped here, he could figure out the bridge on another day—preferably when not half-dead from hunger.
But how the hell was he meant to steer into the bank? The instructor had shown him earlier, but all Dan could remember right now was the guy’s meaty paws on the controls. He should have been concentrating, but the sight of the prison tattoos across the guy’s knuckles had distracted him, making him wonder what on earth would possess someone to ink “ABBA RULE” as a permanent message to the world.
Did he have to steer the front or the back in first? The burly instructor with the Swedish pop fixation had somehow managed to get the boat to drift in sideways so that the whole fifty-foot length bumped gently against the bank at the same time. Ah well, Dan would just have to see what he could do. What was the worst that could happen?
Getting the front end against the bank was fairly straightforward, even if it did make contact with an ominous grating sound. But then there was the back to steer in, and everything he tried seemed to make it swing out farther. Not willing to concede defeat, Dan crunched away at the gears, swung the tiller arm around and churned up the canal into a muddy soup.
And then he’d gone and done it. Got the boat wedged in diagonally so that he was nearly caught up in the branches of an overhanging tree on the wild side of the bank, while the front end was where he wanted to be—the towpath side.
“Jesus, not again,” someone called behind him.
Dan whirled around, and his stomach did a nauseating little flip. Sodding perfect! It was Tattoo-guy again, standing astride a beat-up old bicycle with one of his trademark glowers directed Dan’s way. Okay, so he was wearing a T-shirt this time, but there was no mistaking that piercing gaze and air of contempt.
“Uh, I don’t suppose you could help me out, could you? I seem to be stuck.” Dan gave what he hoped was an ingratiating smile.
Tattoo-guy stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head, dismounted and chucked the bike against the fence. He strode over to the front end of the Faerie Queen and hopped on deck, making his way down the side of the boat like a monkey. Watching him move along the sticking-out shelf—the gunwales, that’s what it was called—Dan couldn’
t help but admire the economy of his movements. For a big bloke, he was remarkably agile.
Within moments he fetched up on the back deck and loomed over Dan, radiating annoyance. “And what exactly were you trying to do this time? It’s not wide enough to turn here. Anyone with half a brain should be able to see that.”
Dan bristled. “I’m not an idiot! I was trying to moor up where you told me to, on the tourist moorings.” He gestured at the sign, nearly clipping Tattoo-guy’s arm. “The stupid bloody thing wouldn’t go in the right direction, and then I got stuck on something. Shit, are we going to have to get someone to tow me off it?”
Tattoo-guy raised his eyebrows. “What you’ve somehow managed to do is get stuck on the shelf. You can’t see it, but it runs along under the water to protect the wildlife on the bank.” He stared pointedly at the bank behind him, and Dan coloured.
“Oh, bugger. Sorry ’bout that. It was the first time I’ve had to moor up, and I couldn’t work out how to get the back of the boat to go the right way. These crazy things steer all back to front.”
Those dark blue eyes gave Dan a look of utter disbelief. “How long did they spend teaching you how to steer? All of five minutes?”
Dan squirmed. “More like fifteen, but I reckon I could have done with longer.”
“No shit. Well, I suppose it’s not really your fault if they let you go without knowing what you were doing.” A weariness crept into the man’s voice, and Dan relaxed enough to take him in properly. He was perhaps Dan’s age and definitely rough around the edges, what with the frayed T-shirt, the grime in the creases of his knuckles, and the five-o’clock shadow, but there was no denying the bloke had great bone structure, his cheekbones high and his chin strong. Shame he always seemed to be frowning. Dan wondered what it would take to get him to smile.
“So, what do we do now?” Dan asked.
“You need to push us off the shelf with the bargepole, and I’ll take over the steering, since you obviously can’t handle the pressure.”
Barging In Page 1
