“Linda, I—”
She stopped Addie with an upraised hand.
“Go now. Before you change your mind. Trust me. Go.” She leaned forward and took Addie’s hand, looked earnestly into her eyes. “Do not even finish your carrot.”
* * *
DEREK STOOD AT the helm of Joie de Vivre, having steered carefully out of the tiny Lahaina Harbor on Maui. He was heading northwest with his six passengers to explore the island of Molokai. This was one of his favorite trips, a full eleven days, with the passengers designing the itinerary. After Molokai, this group wanted to visit Lanai, then Hawaii. Usually he was in great spirits at the start of a trip, and today the weather was glorious: eighty-two degrees with full sun and calm water.
It might as well have been forty degrees with dense fog and towering seas.
Up until the minute he started Joie de Vivre’s engines, he’d been hoping Addie would change her mind. Eleven days from then he was sure he’d still be hoping. Hell, next year he’d still be hoping. His bookkeeper, Mary, was due to go on maternity leave after they got back and he’d made arrangements to hire a temp rather than give up hope Addie would want the job.
He and Addie had agreed to keep in touch, but his last email on Wednesday morning had gone unanswered for four days. Four miserable minute-by-minute days. Derek had considered calling, but pride kept him from the phone. Addie knew he still wanted her, knew he still wanted to hear from her, still wanted her here with him. He wasn’t going to beg.
Most likely.
Derek closed his eyes briefly against the pain, shaking his head. Listen to him. He missed her so deeply it was as if mini construction workers were hard at work 24/7 jackhammering his heart. Addie had turned him from the cool untouchable captain of his own soul into an obsessed pining wimp.
“Captain.” The voice of Renard, his first mate, came from over his left shoulder. Derek hadn’t heard him approach.
“Yes, Renard.” Derek pulled himself up tall. Apparently he’d even started slumping. By tomorrow he’d probably have developed a permanent whine and half his teeth and hair would fall out.
She was killing him.
“Trouble down in your cabin, sir.”
“In my cabin?”
“Trouble with a passenger. Jenny found her when she was cleaning, asleep in your bed.”
Derek’s mood blackened further. He knew exactly which passenger. The stacked blonde who’d gotten drunk at the welcome onboard dinner the night before and tried to fondle him under the table while her older husband sat right next to her, too wasted to notice.
Lovely people.
“Gene can handle her.” His excursion leader was expert at dealing with difficult personalities.
“I’ve never seen him stopped by anyone before, sir. He claims this is something only you can manage.”
Derek’s lips tightened. This was ridiculous. “Unless her life is in some kind of danger, there is no reason he can’t—”
“I’m...afraid it is, sir.”
Derek stared at Renard incredulously. “Her life is in danger?”
“Uh. No, not really.” The smaller man’s dark eyes flicked to one side, then returned to his. Derek had the distinct impression Renard was amused, and it pissed him off further. “Thing is, sir, she insists on seeing you.”
“Right.” Derek nodded curtly, wanting to growl. Stupid diva theatrics. “Take the wheel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Derek banged through the bridge door, thudded down the narrow wood stairs, attempting a smile at one of the passengers making her way to the top deck. Once on the main deck, he strode to the captain’s quarters, located in the bow of the ship.
At his door he hesitated, listening. No voices. Gene was nowhere to be found. Damn it. He shouldn’t be leaving his captain to deal with this woman alone. Unless there were witnesses, whatever happened would be her word against his.
He knocked. “Hello?”
“Yes?” The voice was strangely high, oddly false sounding. The woman last night had a low smoker’s voice. Was she trying to disguise it? “Is that Captain Derek?”
Captain Derek? “This is Captain Bates, what are you doing in my cabin?”
“Waiting for you.” The caricature of a voice took on a breathy quality, probably meant to be seductive.
“Ma’am, there are plenty of other places on the ship where we can talk privately if you need to.”
“Talking wasn’t what I had in mind.”
Derek rubbed his jaw. There was something very weird about this. Was one of his crew playing a trick on him? They knew better than to risk their jobs or the boat on a prank while their captain should be at the helm. He’d been through all the passengers in his mind, and besides the crazed smoker lady and her husband, there was a honeymooning couple and an older pair celebrating their retirement.
So who the hell was—
A thought occurred to him.
A beautiful, wonderful, fabulous thought.
He tested the brass door handle. Unlocked. He pushed it open. Went inside.
Addie.
Naked.
In his bed.
Derek was there in two steps, grabbing her to him, holding her, feeling her warmth, hearing her laugh at first, then dissolve into a couple of sobs he could tell she was struggling to control.
He kissed her. Her hair, her temple, the dimple in her cheek, then he found her mouth in a kiss that lit fires all the way through his body, and cemented her already strong hold on his heart.
He meant to talk to her, meant to discuss the situation, ask how long she was there for, whether she was really going to give their relationship a serious chance or if this was just a short visit.
But she was naked. In his bed. Kissing him as if she really, really meant it, and he was only human and definitely a man.
So in a very short time, his clothes were off and he’d joined her between the soft sheets, reveling in her skin against his, her mouth on his chest, on his neck, his hands stroking every part of her he could reach.
And when he moved over her beautiful body and entered her, they stared into each other’s eyes in awe of what was between them, then reached hungrily toward each other and kissed as if they’d never stop, while their bodies heated and mated and made sounds of satisfaction and of deep forever-after love.
He rolled to one side to touch her clitoris, loving the noises she made, the sharp breaths, the gasps, the way her head writhed on his pillow. And when he knew she was close, when a flush covered her body and cheeks, he plunged back into her, sending her over an edge he fell over himself only a few seconds later.
Eventually...very eventually, the movement of the boat reminded him who and where he was. Captain Bates. On duty.
But Addie was with him.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her sweet scent.
“I can hardly believe it, either.” She stroked his hair, gazing up at him, starry-eyed, the most enchanting sight he’d ever seen. “I wasn’t going to.”
“That part I knew.” He took her hand and covered his heart. “Leaving you nearly killed me.”
“I know. I kept telling myself the pain would get better, that I’d done the right thing. And then life in New York, which I thought I needed, started to feel like a prison without you.”
He couldn’t believe he was hearing his over-and-over again fantasy, directly from her lips this time. “Yo
u quit your job? Left your apartment?”
“I didn’t quit exactly. Not yet. I took vacation, sick time and a short leave. I have a few months to see how this goes.” She wrinkled her nose self-consciously. “You know I’m not a risk taker.”
“You were smart. We don’t really know how we’re going to do.” He kissed her again, tasting the exquisite corner of her lips, the sweet roundness of her chin, as sure that they were right together as he’d been of anything in his life. That he belonged on the sea. That he was meant to own Joie de Vivre. “Though I’m giving us good odds.”
“That’s my job.” She stretched against him, nearly making him hard again. He had a feeling he’d have to change his schedule for the first week or so, in order to include as much lovemaking as possible. “Speaking of which, is Mary’s job still open or will I be your kept woman?”
“Her leave starts after this trip. So she’ll have time to show you the ropes.”
“Well, Mr. Captain. I’ve been reading about boat stuff. We sailors call them ‘lines,’ not ‘ropes.’”
“Is that right?” He drew his finger down her full soft lips. “I can see you have a lot to teach me.”
“I should think so.”
He grinned, so overwhelmed by emotion he could hardly speak. “I’m so glad you’re here, Addie.”
“So you can get laid regularly?” Her eyes told him she was teasing, but he wondered if she knew.
“So I can tell you in person that I love you.”
Surprise widened those eyes then emotion filled them with tears. “Oh, Derek.”
“Too soon?”
“Would I be here if I thought you were a passing fling?”
He grinned. He would have liked to hear I love you, too, but her eyes were telling him loud and clear. His cautious woman could take all the time she needed. “Listen, I better call my crew and let them know I’m being unavoidably detained.”
“They couldn’t have been nicer to me. Paul called Renard and vouched for me, so they let me sneak on.”
“Totally against ship’s protocol.”
“I should have asked you?”
He kissed her, getting hard again, thinking he’d give them about three months of sea-time bliss before he started shopping for an engagement ring. “Only the captain can give you permission to come aboard, Miss Sewell.”
She turned to lie facing him, draped her leg over his hip and pressed herself intimately against his growing erection. “I’d like very much to come on board, Captain Bates. Then I’d like to come again. And again after that.”
“Permission granted.” He cupped her face in his hands, realizing that this boat he’d loved for so long had changed with Addie a part of her.
Now she very much felt like home.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of Taking Him Down by Meg Maguire!
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Blaze story.
You like it hot! Harlequin Blaze stories sizzle with strong, sexy heroines and irresistible heroes playing the game of modern love and lust. They’re fun, flirty and always steamy.
Enjoy four new stories from Harlequin Blaze every month!
Visit Harlequin.com to find your next great read.
We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com
Subscribe to our newsletter for special offers, new releases, and more!
Harlequin.com/newsletters
1
“NOT TIGHT ENOUGH. Start over.”
Though the guy suppressed his frustration well, Rich knew he was getting cussed out in the privacy of the teenager’s head.
Tough shit, kid. Get yourself a paid fight and you can be the colossal dick for a night.
The gauze was obediently unwound from Rich’s palm, the elaborate process started all over.
Mercer cut through the locker room chaos carrying a tub of Vaseline. According to the promotional materials, he was Rich’s trainer. In truth, Rich trained himself. He liked it that way, not having to answer to anybody. But after tonight he’d be committing to a manager, landing a deal with a major mixed martial arts organization. He’d get hauled out of Boston and obscurity and shipped out west to train under a team of MMA specialists. Saddled with a half dozen guys riding his back about every mile he ran, every forkful of food or drop of booze that passed his lips, every last detail that led up to him stepping into the ring.
Oh frigging well. Price of success.
“You look good,” Mercer said, crouching and unscrewing the tub’s lid.
“You look real pretty, too, Merce.”
“You look calm. If you’re faking it, keep it up.” He smeared Rich’s temples, cheeks and forehead, to reduce the friction when he took a shot to the face.
When Rich’s hands were finally wrapped and taped to his satisfaction, Mercer passed him his fingerless MMA gloves.
“Where’s your mouth guard?”
“Quit fussing, grandma—I got everything organized. Go celebrate for a few minutes.” Mercer’s actual trainee, Delante, had won his first real pro fight twenty minutes earlier, with a skull-thumper of a closing punch. “Get that kid cleaned up for the press and tell him not to mumble.”
“Fine. I’ll be back.” Mercer slapped Rich’s shoulder and took off.
Rich tugged on his gloves, gave his fists a squeeze. Nice and snug. He liked the feeling with the medical tape in place, that promise of a proper scrap, no sparring tonight.
He was a good fighter—a hell of a good fighter, if you factored in how DIY his regimen was—but he had more than that going. He was six-three and had made weight at 204. He was built and goddamn good-looking, and had what his late mentor called “the magic.” That thing you can’t build in a gym or find in a supplement bottle. That thing that made guys want to hit you and made their girlfriends want to wake up in your bed.
Nobody respected a pretty face inside the ring, and that suited Rich fine. Whatever had people hungry to see him lose, bring it on. Whatever had opponents hating him for winning, whatever had promoters eager to give him another match. Love and hate felt the same when you were high on adrenaline, and your detractors shelled out the same money for tickets as your fans did. That hate-ability plus a solid win tonight and Rich would get signed. Give it nine months and a couple decent matches and he’d be on the magazine covers, courted by equipment and vitamin companies for the right to slap his face on their ads. Whether it’d still be so pretty by then...
Didn’t matter. Rich would win, he’d sign, his future manager would handle the offers. He’d suck it up and take whatever orders his training team barked, and he’d be successful. Of that, he had no doubt.
But he wasn’t hungry for that—fame or attention.
He was hungry for a fight, sure. That was a perk. But the thing that lit a fire in his gut, made him salivate for this moment, was the money.
Fifteen grand when he won tonight. Down the road, once he signed—twenty, thirty, fifty and up, plus the endorsement deals. And he’d lease his face to whoever offered him the fattest checks, and cash them with no qualms.
It might not be honorable, but Rich Estrada fought for money. Because fighting was the thing he was good at, the diploma he’d never earned, the only marketable talent he had.
He fought because if he didn’t, his mom would be dead inside a year.
* * *
THE ARENA WAS in turns dim and blinding, the air pungent with a hundred clashing aromas. Lindsey Tuttle was planted in the thick of it, thre
e rows from the action and close enough to hear every kick and punch and grunt.
The cage was eight-sided, walled in by chain-link, and it held two bloodthirsty opponents—just names off a fight card, men Lindsey didn’t know beyond their records and vital stats.
She leaned in toward her boss and friend, Jenna, to shout-whisper, “Who’s winning?”
“I dunno.” On closer inspection, she saw that Jenna’s eyes were squeezed shut. It seemed she’d reached her capacity for spectating during the previous match, watching with her hands clamped to her mouth as her boyfriend, Mercer’s young protégé, had won his first big fight. It hadn’t been too bloody—a lot of rolling around, then one wince-worthy punch that sprayed red across Delante’s opponent’s cheek. It had dropped the guy’s limbs like deadweight and had the ref announcing a knockout halfway through the third round.
Lindsey watched the two strangers grappling under the lights. There was no commentary to explain what was happening, and she wasn’t sure which of the guys tangled on the ground was pinned, and which was doing the pinning.
But damn, it was exciting.
It was the fourth fight of the night, the big-deal bouts still to come. Lindsey worked for Jenna’s matchmaking company in Chinatown, and their office was located one floor above the mixed martial arts gym Mercer managed. Aside from Delante, the only fighter Lindsey knew from the gym was slated for the third-to-last match. She glanced at his name on the fight card. Rich Estrada.
She shivered.
Half-Hitched Page 19
