by Robin Kaye
“You’re not going to steal another boat, are you?”
Storm chuckled before he realized she was as serious as Pete’s heart attack. Breezy had that holier-than-thou tilt to her head—the one she always used before she lit into him. He swallowed back a smart-ass retort. “No, I’m not stealing her. I haven’t stolen a boat since I was twelve. I’m borrowing her with permission.” He helped Bree onto the dock, stopped at the stern, and clicked the remote on the key fob. He watched Bree’s face as the transom folded open like the tailgate of a pickup truck, turning the back of the yacht into a deck, for diving or walking across to go aboard. It was ingenious if he did say so himself, and it sure beat climbing over the side. Storm stepped onto the transom, offering her a hand.
She looked from his face to the eighty-foot performance cruising yacht. “You seriously expect me to believe you’re borrowing this gorgeous boat?”
“Yes.”
“How did you manage it?”
“The usual way—”
“Blackmail?”
“I asked for a favor. No blackmail necessary.”
“And the owner just said, ‘Sure, here are the keys to my million-dollar yacht. Have at it’?”
“Pretty much.” Storm rocked back on his heels. Bree knew nothing about yachts. No Censor Ship was a ten-million-dollar yacht, but then sharing that wouldn’t help his case, especially since she still didn’t believe a word he said. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was all a huge waste of time. “Do you want me to call my friend Thomas, the owner, so you can question him?”
Bree seemed to weigh her options, scanning the area as if expecting a SWAT team to jump out from behind the bushes.
Storm worked on relaxing his jaw. He’d taken to grinding his teeth whenever Bree was around, and the way things were going, after a few more days with Bree, he’d be lucky if he had any molars left. “Thomas Danby is a real blue blood and bigwig with the Wall Street Journal. He was still at work last time I spoke to him. Of course, I can always call his assistant, Carly, to corroborate my story. She was good enough to help me arrange everything on short notice.”
Bree’s eyebrow shot up.
Maybe mentioning Carly wasn’t such a good idea. Storm dug out his phone and offered it to her. “It’s your call.”
Bree looked around again and then took his arm instead of the phone before stepping aboard.
Storm let out a relieved breath and helped her across the transom and up the step to the deck. He unlocked the door to the companionway and looked inside. Perfect. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling sat on a tray; just waiting to be opened and poured.
“Come on down. You can stow your bag below and get a drink.”
* * *
Bree swallowed hard—the only boat she’d ever been on was the ferry, and this was so not the ferry.
She stood in between two steering wheels—why the heck there were two was a mystery. How many captains did it take to drive this boat anyway?
She wasn’t even sure what to call it exactly. A boat, a ship, a yacht? Whatever it was, she’d never seen anything like it before—well, except in pictures in fancy magazines or perfume ads with Greek gods wearing Speedos. She wondered what Storm would look like in one. She caught her breath when the picture became clear. But she needed to get her mind out of the Mediterranean gutter and back on the boat. “You want me to go down there?” Bree pointed a shaking hand to the entrance of the bowels of the boat.
“Yeah, I thought I’d give you the grand tour.”
She had a vague idea what the inside would look like from pictures, but she had always figured they’d been Photoshopped to keep it from looking like a tomb. She was a bit claustrophobic, and the thought of Storm sucking up all the oxygen in a confined space wasn’t helping matters either. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t need a tour of your friend’s boat.” The boat was tied to the jetty, or dock, or whatever it was called, but the thing still moved—much more than she had expected it to. She grabbed the edge of the table.
Storm closed in on her and pried her fingers off. “Breezy, relax. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
He gave her a don’t-bullshit-a-bullshitter look that he had down pat. She had every one of his looks catalogued. This one was straight out of her least-favorite file.
“I don’t like tight spaces.”
“You’re claustrophobic?”
“No…well, maybe a little.” Only with him—with him every room seemed to shrink, making everything feel tighter than usual—even her clothes.
“You have nothing to worry about. It’s really open and airy. It’s designed to look as if you’re not belowdecks.” He tugged on her hand and moved her in front of the doorway. “Just look inside; you’ll see.”
Bree ducked her head and caught her breath. “Look at all those windows.” They wrapped around the entire space above the walls.
“It’s called a windscreen.”
“Whatever.” She waved a hand at him, stepped onto the top step, and she could see forever. She’d expected the interior to be utilitarian, not opulent. She continued down, and did a slow turn, taking in the whole place. “Wow, it’s breathtaking.”
“Beautiful.”
Her stomach clenched when she realized Storm was staring at her, not the boat.
“This is the main salon.”
Built-in curved couches that probably sat ten people comfortably, and tables made of beautiful burr elm were scattered throughout. The interior was all soft, sensual curves, with a warm gold, royal blue, and cream color scheme. It was rich but homey, and there wasn’t one straight line in the joint. “It’s…comfortable—like a really nice apartment.”
“That’s what the owner was going for. The lower level has another salon, the galley, a nav station.”
“Nav station?”
“Navigational station—a desk, charts, GPS, the usual.”
“The usual, huh? In what world?”
“In my world.”
Soft lighting on the floor and ceilings looked like something out of a stage show. “Your friend has incredible taste.” Bree looked around in amazement. “It’s not what I expected.”
Storm took the bottle of champagne out of the bucket and went about opening it. He didn’t make a big deal of it; he just popped the top as he would a bottle of beer and poured two glasses, handing her one. “Here’s to communication—in all its forms—and to exceeding expectations.”
Bree felt her eyebrow spike and brought her glass to his, and then sipped the best champagne she’d ever tasted.
Storm turned her around. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”
“There’s more?”
“Four staterooms.”
“This place has more bedrooms than Pete’s apartment?”
“Yeah, and three more heads…”
She must have looked confused, because he choked back a laugh and continued. “Heads are bathrooms.” He walked toward the back of the boat; past the steps they’d come down, and opened a door. “Here’s the main stateroom.”
Bree stepped in and ran her hand over the coverlet on the queen-sized bed. It was silky and soft and made her want to strip just to see what it would feel like to roll around on it naked—with Storm. She’d been thinking about them wrinkling the sheets since he walked out on her the night before. She held back a laugh—the damn thing probably cost more than she made in a month. She slid back against a built-in leather couch flanking one side, and stared at the other wall made up of built-in drawers and doors. She wanted to look at anything but Storm; she was afraid he’d be able to read her dirty little mind.
“The head is through here.” He opened another door and turned on the lights. It was all mirrors and marble, a shower, curved counters, a sink, and a toilet. She’d never thought of a bathroom as sexy, but then she’d never pictured Storm and her in the same bathroom naked before either. Damn, she was in way over her head.
He pulled her a
long to the next stateroom, which was G-rated and had twin beds. She didn’t want to know if there was another sexy bathroom and was glad he just pointed to the door.
“The crew cabins are in the bow.”
“I guess you need a whole crew to sail this thing.”
“Nope, just one person can sail it; two is better, though. It’s like a remote-control car—the engines, the sails, everything can be controlled from the helm.”
“Then why are there two steering wheels?”
“Two wheels make it easier to enter the boat and for traffic flow on deck. There’s nothing worse than having to maneuver around the wheel.”
“I can imagine that would be a real drag.” She didn’t bother hiding her sarcasm.
“It also gives the helmsman a choice for the best visuals either to leeward or up to weather. Both wheels have the same controls, so it doesn’t matter which you’re using.”
There was a knock at the door, or whatever it was called. Storm took her hand and led her to the deck, where three uniformed waiters held trays. “Right on time. Welcome aboard.”
“Where would you like us to serve, Mr. Decker?”
Storm turned to Bree. “Would you like to eat up here or down below?”
“It’s a beautiful evening; let’s eat out here.” She was afraid she’d spill something, and she was pretty sure everything on the deck could be washed down. Besides, right now, she could use the fresh air. She just wished she knew why he’d brought her here. When Storm asked her to dinner, she was thinking a restaurant, not catered yacht service.
She and Storm sat down to a five-course French meal. She was sure it was the best food she’d ever been served or ingested, but she barely noticed. Wine, soup, salad, escargot, followed by the main course of sea bass and vegetables in parchment; it was lovely, but the whole time they ate, she still couldn’t figure him out.
Bree stuck her spoon into a poached pear topped with vanilla ice cream and covered with chocolate ganache, and she moaned. Okay, so maybe she did notice.
Storm cleared his throat. “You like it?”
Bree licked the chocolate-covered spoon. “Are you asking about the dessert or the date?”
“Both.” He pushed his plate away and took a sip of port.
“There’s nothing not to like, but this wasn’t what I signed up for.”
Disappointment flashed across his face and then disappeared into his typical cocky smirk. He’d been quiet, watching, and waiting. And she got the distinct impression that she wasn’t giving him what he was watching and waiting for.
The waiters packed up their wares and set them on the jetty. She leaned forward. “Is this one of those games that’s a series of tests or challenges, or something?”
“What are you talking about?” Ooh, she’d touched a nerve. His face looked like granite, except for the muscle that ticked in his jaw.
“I don’t know, but I feel as if I’m playing a game without knowing the rules, the prize, or the players.”
“Paranoid much?”
“No, not usually. I just don’t know what you’re after, Storm. I thought we were going to figure out how to deal with each other until you leave. Then Rocki showed up and said you were dressed as if you were headed to a cocktail party in the Hamptons.”
“If we were going to the Hamptons, I’d take the boat anyway. Traffic on the Long Island Expressway is a real bitch.”
“Very funny.” She sat back and crossed her arms.
“Bree.” He leaned forward. “This isn’t a game. I want to spend time with you, get to know the woman you’ve become, and let you get to know me.”
“Right, but how is our dining on your friend’s boat helping me get to know you, Storm? The only thing it tells me is you have very wealthy friends with questionable judgment. I mean, who in their right mind would lend out a boat like this? I don’t know what you’re selling, but I’m not buying, so you might as well tell me why you brought me here in the first place.”
“Dammit, Breezy.” He stood and turned away. He took a deep breath and watched the staff leave the jetty before turning back to her. “I brought you here because this”—he spread his arms to encompass the entire boat, the meal, and the uniformed waiters—“this is part of me.” Storm pressed the key fob; the back of the boat rose, and he stepped behind the wheel. Was he leaving? He pressed a button, and she heard the purr of a motor.
The floor beneath her feet vibrated, and she jumped.
Storm strode past her, climbed up on the side, and called out to a guy on the dock. “Toss me those lines, will you please?” He caught the ropes, and she watched the way his muscles moved as he made fast work of coiling them before jumping back toward her.
Bree stood and blocked him. “How is someone else’s boat part of you?”
He didn’t stop; he just walked right past her, stood behind the wheel, and glared. “It’s part of me because she’s one of mine.” He pushed a lever, and the vibration increased with his anger—and man, was he angry. He practically vibrated with it, the jerk.
“Hold on. You just told me you borrowed it.”
“No Censor Ship is my design, Breezy. She’s as much a part of me as the Crow’s Nest is a part of you.” He pressed a lever, and the next thing she knew, the dock was moving.
Shit, it wasn’t the dock that was moving; it was the boat—and it wasn’t just shifting either. It was moving forward. “What’s going on? Why are we moving?”
“Because we’re going on a romantic sunset sail, even if it kills us both, and it’s hard to sail staying still.”
“You said dinner; you never said we were going sailing.”
He spun the wheel and the boat turned smoothly, heading out of the marina and into the harbor. “It’s part of the surprise. It’s too late for you to make your escape, so unless you’re up for a swim, sit the hell down.”
Bree sat and grasped the table in front of her before finally remembering to close her mouth.
Storm steered with a steady hand through the entrance to the harbor. Once they were a hundred yards out, something hummed, and an enormous sail rose up the big mast. It fluttered for a moment and then caught the wind.
“I thought we’d cruise by Governors Island, and take a turn around the Statue of Liberty.”
They were moving faster now, and the boat tilted. The vibration from the engines died, and then all she heard was the rushing of water. The wind made a mockery of the work Rocki had done on Bree’s hair; it was flying all over and whipping against her face. She grabbed a handful of hair and stared, trying to take everything in. She didn’t know which was more interesting, watching Storm or the New York skyline with the sunset turning it pink, orange, and purple—both were equally stunning. Storm looked every bit the competent captain—controlled, steady, and well, hot.
She was such an idiot. She knew he designed boats; the proof hung on Pete’s Wall of Fame. Storm was always doodling and sketching—even in the bar on cocktail napkins, but seeing a sketch on paper didn’t make it real. Sailing in New York Harbor on an eighty-foot luxury yacht was about as real as you could get. She was downright awestruck. “Am I allowed to get up now, or do I have to sit here for the duration?”
Storm looked as if he had forgotten she was even there—he was completely emotionless. She liked it better when he was angry—she knew how to deal with his anger, but this made her feel as if he were on the other side of the world.
“Feel free to roam around. You might want to take off your shoes, though. They’re not exactly skid-proof.”
She slipped out of the ballet flats, tossed them on the cushion beside her, and stood, holding on to the table for dear life. “The ferry never tilts like this, and it doesn’t seem to move as fast either.”
He nodded, his face a mask. Had she done that to him? Probably. After all, she had accused him of stealing the boat, which was pretty low considering he was what? Trying to impress her?
She went through all the things she’d said to him in the
last few hours and cringed. What was it about him that brought out the worst in her? She was a nice person, except with Storm. She’d never been intentionally cruel. She tended to kill people with kindness. For the second time in her life she found herself in uncharted waters. She was confused; she didn’t understand herself, no less what the hell he was doing with her. Rocki was going to have a field day when she heard about this.
Bree watched him and knew she had to apologize—again. She hated apologizing almost as much as she hated acting like a bitch without knowing why she was even doing it.
If she was going to apologize, she wanted to do it right, which meant talking face-to-face, not from across a boat. He wasn’t that far away, just a few yards, but the way he looked at her, it might as well have been miles. Unfortunately, a face-to-face would also require her to leave the table she clung to.
He’d probably have a good laugh if he knew how afraid she was to let go. Bree swallowed hard, stepped away from the table, and felt as if she were walking the plank with one hand holding her hair and the other trying to keep her too-short skirt from blowing up and giving him a show.
Storm watched her but didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. He looked wary, and who could blame him? She stopped next to him and did her best to smile. It was a wobbly smile, but right now, it was all she could do not to cry. If she’d wanted to push him away, she’d done a damn good job. “This is incredible.”
“That’s one word for it. An incredible failure. I got it, Bree. You only have to hit me upside the head a half dozen times before it sinks in. You’re more like your mother than even I thought.”
“My mother?” He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d slapped her. “I’m nothing like my mother. My mother is afraid to leave the damn house.”
“And you’re afraid of living. You might not confine yourself to a house, but you’re just as closed off, to me at least. You’d rather lick eleven-year-old wounds than try again. I get it.”
“Oh really? You get it? Well, I sure as hell don’t.” She was screaming, and she really didn’t care. Years of anger and hurt came to a boiling point. Every muscle in her body tightened, and she shook with it. “How am I supposed to forgive and forget something I don’t understand? I still don’t understand why you left without so much as a good-bye! Didn’t I deserve that much from you? Now you show up after all these years, and I’m supposed to pretend it never happened and trust you?”