by Anne Stuart
Cathy’s sense of humor, long dormant, surfaced for a brief moment before being engulfed in irritation. “I don’t know anything about sailing,” she admitted, as her eyes unwillingly took in the length of him.
God, he had a beautiful back! He was wearing a teal blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt stretched across broad, well-muscled shoulders, and the faded jeans that hugged his impossibly long legs looked molded to him. He stopped, turned casually and shrugged. “Well, since I know absolutely nothing about cooking, why don’t I take care of the boat and you take care of the food? You can pick your own assistant—I’m sure Charles will be happy to help you if you want to keep everything sexually integrated.”
All this was said in such an innocent drawl that Cathy was hard put to control an overwhelming desire to shove his large frame overboard. She wasn’t used to verbal sparring, especially with one whose looks were quite distracting, and she suddenly felt the almost desperate need to get away from the hot, bright sun, the blue sky, and the tall, disturbingly handsome man who had already overwhelmed her. She had had enough of being bested by handsome men to last her a lifetime, she thought with a sudden upsurge of self-pity that brought stinging tears to her eyes behind the sunglasses.
Swiftly she headed toward the cabin. “C’mon, Meg,” she ordered in a muffled voice.
There was still one problem left to negotiate. Sin MacDonald had stopped in the middle of the narrow passageway to the cabin, his large frame filling the small aisle, and he didn’t look as if he was about to move. Cathy moved in on him, determined not to be the first to give way, and he held his ground, the hazel eyes surveying her with lazy amusement as he lounged against the bulk-head. She was forced to stop in front of him, feeling dwarfed, helpless, and frustrated.
The look in her tear-filled eyes was pure hatred. She allowed herself to glare at him, mistakenly thinking the oversized glasses hid her expression. But the anger in the set of her mouth and a stray tear slipping down from beneath the glasses told more than she suspected. “Would you please move?” she requested icily. “Unless you prefer to do without lunch?’1
He continued to stare down at her, his expression changing only slightly before he reluctantly straightened, allowing her a narrow passage in front of him. “You mustn’t mind me, Cathy. Charles should have told you I can’t resist teasing young ladies. Forgive me?”
Kindness was the last thing she wanted from him just then. It stripped her of her defenses, and Sinclair MacDonald already made her far too vulnerable. “How entertaining for you, Mr. Mac-Donald,” she said, avoiding the last part of his speech. He was still much too close. Holding her breath, she edged past him, her arm inadvertently brushing against his lean, taut body. She pulled back as if burnt, and practically ran the remaining distance to the cabin, dashing down the steps and collapsing on a cushion, her heart pounding. They would all be laughing at her up there, she told herself, wrapping her long arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. Nothing but silence came from the deck for several moments, and slowly Cathy’s deep, shuddering breaths slowed to normal.
“Are you all right, Cathy?” Meg’s voice was soft with concern and guilt as she followed her sister below. “I didn’t mean to make matters worse. I thought—”
Cathy took a few deep breaths, whipping off her sunglasses in the darkness of the cabin. “You didn’t think,” she said bluntly. “You call that”— her tone was filled with deep loathing—”that, fairly good-looking? I suppose you’d describe Robert Redford as just all right.”
“Well, I guess I understated it a bit. I just thought you should realize that a handsome man can be nice too,” she replied defensively, dropping down on a cushion beside her sister.
“Sinclair MacDonald hasn’t yet convinced me. Macho pig,” she added bitterly.
“Well, I can’t argue with macho, but I really wouldn’t call him a pig.”
“I would,” Cathy shot back, rising from the cushion and wandering toward the porthole. Sin MacDonald was directly in sight, and for the first time Cathy allowed herself a long, leisurely look, trying to inure herself to his undeniable attractions.
He must have been at least six foot three or four, with broad shoulders, a trim waist and hips, and those long, beautiful legs encased in faded denim. He wore ancient topsiders and no socks, and the V-neck of his polo shirt revealed a triangle of curling golden brown hair. Cathy had always detested hairy men; Greg had been smooth and hair-less. But somehow the sight of those brown curls was having an inexplicable effect on Cathy—one she told herself was disgust. She found herself wondering how far down his stomach the curls went. She hoped he didn’t have hairy shoulders.
And she hadn’t even taken his face into account yet. The square chin, and the wide, sensual mouth gave him a faintly piratical air. Add to that lean, weathered cheeks with that seductive single dimple when his mouth curved in a smile, a straight, decisive nose, laugh lines radiating out around those smoky, unfathomable, uncomfortably kind hazel eyes, and the combination was as potent a blend of masculinity as Cathy had ever been subjected to. The slightly long, curling brown hair had a splash of gray in it, and as Sin pulled his sunglasses from the top of his head and placed them on the bridge of his nose, Cathy bit her lip, turning back to her sister’s knowing gaze.
“Macho pig,” she repeated defiantly. “But a handsome one, for all that.”
“I thought you’d see it that way,” Meg said with a satisfied smirk. “Do you want to see what Sin brought for us to work with? I brought a salad and French bread—he said he’d take care of the rest.”
Cathy busied herself rummaging through the picnic basket on the pocket-sized table, pulling out a surprising assortment of things. “Does he have a cook?” she inquired silkily, unwilling yet to refer to Sin by name. Given the contents of the picnic basket, Sin’s disclaimer of kitchen abilities seemed a blatant lie.
“Not that I know of,” Meg replied. “He prefers complete independence and self-sufficiency, or so Charles tells me. Why?”
“There’s a beautiful quiche here, a crock of paté, an icy Soave, Russian black bread.”
“Sin would be sure to know the best delicatessens,” Meg responded before Cathy’s accusing look. “God, what a feast! It will be all I can do not to make a perfect pig of myself. Aren’t you famished?”
Cathy forced herself to turn casually away. “Not really,” she replied from force of habit, surprised to find she was lying. For the first time in three months she was actually looking forward to a meal. It must be the sea air.
“Oh, dear, you aren’t seasick yet, are you? We’re scarcely out of the harbor.” Meg eyed her with concern.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You should go out on deck and get some sun. I’m sure you won’t be in their way.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
“You can’t hide in the cabin all day, Cathy!” Meg cried in exasperation.
“I can do anything I damn please,” she shot back. “I feel trapped, maneuvered, set up, and I don’t like it.”
“So you’re going to sulk and ruin the entire day?”
There was a long silence. Cathy turned to her angry sister, suddenly contrite. “I’m sorry I’m such a wet blanket, Meggie,” she murmured. “I’ll make an effort, I promise. Just give me a few minutes, okay? We don’t want to eat for a while yet, anyway, do we?”
Meg’s piquant face softened. “No, sweetie. We can wait as long as you want. I’ll go topside and give you a few minutes to pull yourself together. Unless you’d rather talk?” She offered it tentatively, knowing from experience not to push her sister toward confidences before she was ready.
“Not now, Meg. And definitely not here. Tell Charles and Macho-Man I’ll be out shortly, okay?” Wearily she pushed her silky blond hair away from her pale face.
A moment later she was blessedly alone in the tiny cabin. It was very quiet—the creak of the wood, the snap-snap of the sails overhead, the small, subtle sounds of wind and water against the
sleek lines of the boat. And the sound of voices, soft, easy camaraderie with shared laughter floating down to her. I should be out there, she thought disconsolately, not sitting alone in this tiny cabin the way I’ve been sitting alone in my apartment for the last three months. Surely Greg wasn’t worth such prolonged mourning?
Reluctantly she looked down at her clothing. Pale beige linen pants, a thin cotton knit shirt in a subdued gray, and running shoes made up her outfit. It would be too cold out there, she decided, wandering around the small room, peering with never ceasing fascination at the complete compactness of the living quarters. From the pocket-sized galley, miniature bathroom or head, and comfortable, blue-duck covered bunks, it was efficient and welcoming. Stepping past the head, she peered through the door into the forward cabin, then hastily backed away. The master cabin consisted of a large mattress, covered by a duvet, and nothing else. The perfect spot for a sybaritic weekend, she thought with an odd combination of nervousness and contempt, and took another step backward, her slender back coming up against something tall, solid, and unyielding. She didn’t have to turn around to know with a sinking feeling that Sinclair MacDonald had caught her peering into his bedroom.
Turning, she tensed, waiting for some crack. In the darkened cabin he seemed impossibly huge, towering above her, his sea-blown brown curls almost brushing the ceiling. His sunglasses were still perched on his nose, and Cathy wished she still had similar protection from his probing eyes.
She could only be grateful the dim, shadowed light hid her reddened complexion.
“Did you bring a windbreaker?” he questioned after a long moment, and Cathy’s shoulders relaxed. “You’ll be too cold without one—the breeze is pretty stiff.”
“I forgot,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze from his face. Unfortunately, in that tiny space, there was little else to look at besides his body, and she decided that concentrating on his stomach or anywhere else below would be unwise. She stared fixedly at the curling hair at the open collar of his shirt, keeping a blank expression on her face.
To her intense relief he backed away, rummaging underneath one of the bunks and coming up with an Irish knit sweater that would probably reach to her knees. He tossed it to her, showing no surprise as she adeptly caught it, and pulled another out for himself. “Put that on,” he ordered casually, pulling his over his head. “It’ll be too big, but it’s the warmest thing I’ve got.” Still she stood there, holding the sweater in motionless hands. He started toward the steps, turned and gave her a semi-exasperated glance. “Look,” he said, running a harassed hand through his already rumpled hair. “I promise to stay at the other end of the boat if that’s what’s bothering you. Your sister and brother-in-law are really worried about you. It would be nice if you could make an effort to be sociable.”
She hesitated for a moment longer. “I’ll be out in just a minute,” she said finally, shrugging into the heavy sweater. “And you don’t have to stay at the other end of the boat,” she mumbled into the sweater.
He moved back, a glimmer in those hazel eyes. “What did you say?”
“I said you didn’t have to stay at the other end of the boat,” she repeated patiently, hoping he couldn’t see the deepening color on her pale cheeks. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you.” She placed her sunglasses back on her nose and gave him a trace of a smile.
His smile widened, the dimple appeared, and the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled behind the dark glasses. “That’s perfectly all right,” he murmured. “I’m quite rude on occasions too. Truce?” He held out one hand. Cathy stared down at it for a moment. Her father said you could always judge a man by his hands and his eyes. She had already observed that his eyes were kind and humorous, much to her dismay. The hand in front of her was large and capable and well-shaped, the fingers long and tapering, the nails short and well cared for, unadorned by any rings. She put her slender hand in his, feeling it swallowed up in his strong grip. He let go far too quickly, his hand reaching out to take her elbow.
“Shall we join the others and tell them the war’s over?” he inquired, a trace of laughter in his deep voice.
“Might as well. I don’t want to have to spend he entire day in the cabin,” she replied with a trace of her old spirit, and was rewarded with a laugh.
“Well, for that matter, I could always keep you company. I’m sure we’d have no trouble finding ways to spend the time,” he said casually.
He must have felt her entire body stiffen through the light clasp on her elbow. Yanking her arm from his grasp, she started for the steps. “No, thank you for the kind offer,” she snapped, shaking with an overwhelming rage and something not far removed from panic. She had barely taken two steps when his hands reached out and caught her, turning her to face him and holding her upper arms in an iron grip.
“Hey,” he said softly, his forehead creased, “what’s gotten into you? I was only kidding.”
“Well, kid with someone else,” she cried, knowing she sounded neurotic and completely out of control. “I don’t need Meg finding someone to flirt with me to take my mind off my problems, and I don’t need—”
He shook her, briefly but quite hard, and the words rattled to silence. “Let me make one thing clear,” he said in his deep still voice that had a curiously enervating effect on her. “I flirt with almost every pretty lady I see, unless I’m with someone, and you, despite your monumental bad temper, are one of the prettiest women I’ve seen in a long time. I don’t need Meg to encourage me, and she knows she wouldn’t get anywhere if she tried. Is that understood?” When she refused to answer he shook her again, hard. “Is it?”
“Yes, sir,” she muttered, with little grace.
He laughed then, loosening but not releasing his iron grip on her tender flesh. “Now are you ready to go above and be the nice, sweet girl I know you are beneath that bitchy exterior?”
He was smiling down at her, that beguiling little smile, and Cathy could smell the salt spray and the tangy scent of his cologne, combined with the intoxicating smell of his sun-heated flesh. She made a face. “Yes, sir,” she said again, deceptively meek.
“Good,” he said, leading her toward the steps. “But let me tell you one thing, my girl. You don’t fool me for one moment.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” she shot back, starting up the stairs. “And you, Sinclair MacDonald, don’t fool me either.” She didn’t know why she said it, and she was totally unprepared for his response.
“Really? I wouldn’t count on it.” And he followed her out into the bright sunlight.
* * *
Chapter Three
* * *
After their disturbing little confrontation in the cabin, things were surprisingly better, Cathy realized as she leaned back against the duck-covered cushions out on deck. If she didn’t know it was impossible, she would have said she was enjoying herself. The blueness of the sky, the sea all around them, the easy, non-demanding company, including Sin MacDonald, seemed calculated to relax her wary suspicions. Stifling a yawn, she shook her silver-blond hair about her shoulders, staring out at the horizon with a preoccupied air. The breeze was chilly, but Sin’s sweater was more than up to the task of keeping her warm. She would have liked to dispense with it—it was a toss-up as to which would be more disturbing: chattering teeth and blue lips or the insidious scent of Sin’s aftershave as it clung to his over-sized sweater.
“More wine?” Sin offered lazily, and for a moment Cathy hesitated. The chilled white wine was delicious, but she had no head for alcohol. To be sure, Meg would take care of her and see that she got home safely, but...
“No, thank you,” she replied politely enough, not missing the amused light in his eyes at her somewhat stilted courtesy. “I’m so full I couldn’t move.” As if on cue, Meg rose from her seat behind her sister and wandered forward to join Charles. Cathy tensed her muscles, prepared to join them, when Sin’s broad hand reached out and stayed her. She sat back down on the shiny wood deck, unwilling to come in
actual contact with him again. She was far too susceptible to his very potent charm.
“I think your sister and Charles would like some time alone,” he said, making no effort to cross the three feet that separated them on the small square of deck. “They’re still practically on their honeymoon.”
“They’ve been married eighteen months,” she shot back.
“As I said, they’re practically newly weds. You know, Cathy,” Sin observed meditatively, “I am hardly likely to throw you down on the teak deck and rape you. Particularly with an audience.”
Embarrassment and irritation warred for control, with embarrassment having a slight edge. She lowered her confused eyes to the deck, thankful once more for the sunglasses. “Is it teak?” she inquired with just a trace of agitation in her voice. “I assumed it was some sort of synthetic.”
“I’m not much for synthetics,” he stated, not bragging, merely as a statement of fact. And Cathy found she was inclined to agree. Everything about him was alarmingly real. “Why don’t you relax?” he added. “I promise you you’re safe from ravishment right now.”
“I always assumed I was,” she said boldly. “After all, I doubt I’m the type to interest a man like you.”
“A man like me?” he echoed, arrested. “And what would you think that is?”
He had a lazy half-smile on his face as he leaned back against the bench, his long legs stretched out on the deck in front of him. Cathy hesitated, wishing irrationally that he would take off those shielding sunglasses, at the same time maintaining her own for protection from his all-seeing eyes.
“Afraid to tell me?” he taunted gently. “I know enough about you already to be certain you’ve made some very arbitrary judgments about me. I’d be interested in seeing how astute you really are. Not that I think I’d have a snowball’s chance in hell of changing your mind once you make it up.”