But sexy as Jordan was, she was all business on her boat. Maybe she was all business everywhere; Davis had no way of knowing. All he could say for sure was that something about her no-nonsense, hard-nosed demeanor annoyed him—almost as much as her beauty attracted him. Maybe Jordan’s businesslike manner simply reminded him of Tyler. God knows, Tyler is enough to annoy anybody. Davis tapped his toes against the boat’s wooden deck, giving in to a nervous rhythm as he got a little more honest with himself. Just maybe, he felt the same envy for Jordan Griffin as he felt for his manager. After all, this young woman was hardly more than a girl—she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, tops—and here she was, the captain of her own boat, running her own business, at the whim of neither manager nor record label.
Or maybe his vague sense of irritation stemmed from something else entirely. Save for that one moment on the dock, when Davis had tripped her up with his stupid insinuation and sent her stammering, Jordan had completely ignored him, save for the few times when professional courtesy demanded she speak to him. Not so long ago, Davis would have had a girl like Jordan falling into his lap—and his bed. If there was one thing Davis could do better than making music, it was making a woman wet. But for all the desire Jordan showed for him, Davis might as well have been a bucket of fish heads.
Maybe I’m losing my edge with women, too. Maybe Tyler’s right, and I’ve aged out of this lifestyle.
The thought depressed him. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere else but in Jordan’s proximity. Thinking to check out the view from the front of the Coriolis, he stood—totally forgetting the captain’s warning.
“Look out!” Jordan shouted.
She dodged away from the helm and grabbed Davis by the back of the neck. For one heartbeat he thought, Yes! My edge is back! And he felt a cocky grin spread across his face. Then Jordan wrenched him down with all her strength, just in time for the boom to miss both their heads by mere inches. The breeze of its passage tugged at Davis’s hair, and in its ponderous movement he could sense its incredible weight.
“Shit!” he gasped. Then he chided himself. Remarkably uncool.
“Oh my God!” Emily shrieked. “Davis, are you okay?”
“He’s fine,” Storm said. “Focus! Get the gaff up!”
The crew continued hauling on their lines until the four-cornered sail raised. It caught the wind with a thump as resonant as a bass drum and the Coriolis leaned with the powerful new propulsion.
Shaking—and trying desperately to hide his shaking—Davis sank back into his seat.
“Don’t do something like that again,” Jordan said, returning to the helm. “You almost got your head split open.”
Davis was too rattled to come up with an effortlessly cool retort. “I know,” he muttered.
“You have to listen to me. I’m the captain. That means something on a boat, you know.”
“Aye aye,” Davis said, smirking.
Jordan stared at him fiercely over the rim of her shades. Then he caught just a flash of a smile in her brown eyes. It was fleeting, and quickly suppressed… but it was definitely there.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jordan said, calm and collected now, the thin, toned muscle in her arm jumping as she held the helm’s wheel firmly in place. Those lush lips twitched again in an effort to hide her smile. She called out to Storm: “Let it out more.”
The crewman responded by loosening one of his lines; the boom swung farther out until the mainsail was almost perpendicular to the mast. Its reach was impressive; it blocked the sun, casting the cockpit—and Jordan—in soft, blue-green shade.
Something about Jordan in that moment stabbed Davis with a painful, fleeting memory of Christine. Maybe it was the way she looked, so confident and totally in her element. Maybe it was the cool-colored light on her skin, reminiscent of the lights of the stage. Davis recalled how Christine would wait backstage at every concert, the curves of her body oddly, ethereally lit by the spots and footlights. The whole time he played, as the crowd screamed his name, he was conscious only of Christine standing in the wing of the stage, watching him, waiting for him…
Only she wasn’t waiting for him after all. And these days she smiled at Mark while the news sites hailed the meteoric rise of Can’t Never, and The Local Youths faded out of the light.
Ever since that terrible night two years ago when Davis had let himself into Christine’s apartment and heard the unmistakable sound of her crying out in ecstasy—ever since that moment when he’d found her plunging and gasping over another man’s body—and since that terrible, red-hot, hateful moment when that man had sat up in a panic and revealed himself as Mark, one of the few people in this world whom Davis considered a friend…
Christine hadn’t left Davis in peace since that night. He had broken it off with her then and there, of course, and cut Mark out of the band. But his every waking thought was plagued by Christine. Like a ghost—like that half-seen vision backstage—she had haunted his mind, his music, those quiet moments when Davis had tried to escape his pain. Christine was there every night in his dreams, mocking him with her presence, presenting to him that body he could never touch or hold again.
Christine had hung at the edge of Davis’s thoughts with every breath, every heartbeat. Every moment… until he met Jordan Griffin. Until he set foot on this boat.
And that tiny smile Jordan worked so hard to conceal… Davis was doing something good to Jordan, too, even if she was resisting it.
So I haven’t lost my edge—not with women, anyway. Not yet. As far as Jordan was concerned, Davis was still a sexy rock star with a hot body and irresistible charm. Music might be another matter—it remained to be seen whether he had lost his edge where his career was concerned. But if this foxy little sea captain thought he was worth one of those tiny, almost-not-there smiles, then maybe there was hope for Davis after all.
I’ll win you over, Captain, he thought as he watched Jordan test the resistance of the helm. Smiling with satisfaction, she took her hands off the wheel. The helm didn’t budge. The Coriolis, tilted on its white hull, sailed straight and true with the cooperative breeze. I’ll win you over and make you admit just how bad you want me. I’ll prove I’ve still got what it takes—just see if I don’t. Davis Steen isn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot.
.5.
They made it to Stuart Island just as the sun was mellowing, sinking in a comfortable, orange-and-pink glow toward the west. The Coriolis, sails furled, coasted through the narrow mouth of Reid Harbor and slowed about halfway down the long, skinny length of the bay. At Jordan’s signal, Storm kicked on the engine, then made his way to the bow to manage the anchor. The anchor splashed down and the Coriolis casually reversed, drawing gently backward until the anchor chain was taut and secure.
“Well, here we are,” Jordan said to Davis. “Home sweet home for the night.”
The rock star stood up rather hesitantly. Jordan suspected he was still wary of the boom, even though the mainsail had long since been furled and the boom and gaff secured. She could read his uncertainty in his tense shoulders and darting glances, but she couldn’t help but admire his persistent air of unconcern. He was determined to make the whole crew think he felt right at home on the water.
Davis stared down the length of Reid Harbor and cut a few quick glances at the cradling, pine-carpeted arms of Stuart Island that surrounded them. It was shaping up to be a beautiful evening. The sky held a certain golden glow that promised a stunning sunset to come. At the far end of the harbor the glass-smooth water was dotted with boats at anchor, distant and small. But close at hand, the Coriolis rested alone. Its two tall masts made wavering reflections in the gently rippling water.
“Home sweet home?” Davis said. “Aren’t we pulling into some resort town for the night?”
“Of course not! You’re sleeping on the boat.”
Emily, through with securing her lines, stepped down into the sunken cockpit. “You’ve got the best berth in the place—a private
cabin below. The bed’s really comfortable, and you’ve got a great view through your own porthole. You’ll love it!”
Davis’s mouth pressed into a skeptical line. “Sleeping on a boat? Who does that?”
“We do,” Jordan said, doing her best to mask her annoyance with a smile. “And now you do, too.”
This was the first client she’d ever had who didn’t actually want to be on a boat. She figured that was apt to make him ten times more unbearable than her usual customers. Good thing his manager paid me ten times the usual rate. But now she wondered if it would be compensation enough.
Davis squinted at the far end of the harbor. “Is there a town down there?”
“Nope,” Jordan said. “There’s nothing on Stuart Island but a state park and a few homes. That’s it. No town.”
“Why?” Storm asked. “Is there something you need?”
Davis shrugged. “I thought a bar would be nice. A few drinks, or maybe a lot of drinks. Some music. You know, a good time.”
“We’re all from Griffin Bay,” Emily said with an apologetic laugh. “We’re practically a different species from you big-city types. I’m afraid anchoring out and sleeping on a boat is the only form of good time our species knows.”
“Come on, you can’t really mean that.” Davis turned the full force of his charm on Emily, giving her a slow, velvety smile. His words practically purred at her, and Emily’s face flushed as red as the sunset to come. “Music makes you feel alive—gets your blood pounding. And a few drinks will let down all your inhibitions.” He left poor, flustered Emily alone and turned his smoky, smoldering stare on Jordan. “All your inhibitions. Right? Surely even you down-home Griffin Bay types know what I mean.”
Held by his intensely blue eyes, Jordan’s stomach flopped as if she’d ridden a boat over a massive swell. Emily had chided her for being too rigidly in control, but for the briefest moment she wondered what she might do if she let all her inhibitions go—and she didn’t like what she saw in her mind’s eye. The first thing she’d do would be to run her hand along Davis’s face—feel the scratch of his overgrown stubble against her skin.
Nope, she told herself firmly. No. Absolutely not. Not happening. Ever.
She had a job to do. One last job. She was going to get through the next ten days with Davis on her boat, and then she’d be done—free to build a new future. She was not going to get distracted by a man. Especially not a client. Jordan was a professional—God knew she’d worked harder, doubly hard, to prove to her cynical, sometimes bigoted clients just how professional she was as a very young female skipper.
But you haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, some sneaky little devil-voice whispered in her head.
It was true. Once Jordan had found her focus—her dream—she’d barely had time for boys, and certainly had made no time for romance now, as a grown woman. Jordan was no virgin, but her teenage fumblings hadn’t wowed her, even back then. She had always been so driven to make her business succeed that she’d spared no thought for sex.
But Davis, with his slow smile and resonant voice, might change all that in a blink… if she let him. If she didn’t maintain her boundaries. He embodied every stupid cliché of a rock star, she told herself angrily: cocky, self-absorbed, and unspeakably, forcefully attractive. Ugh. How unoriginal.
Jordan climbed up out of the cockpit and busied herself with an unnecessary inspection of the lines. If she was going to keep herself aloof from Davis’s charm, she needed to maintain her annoyance with him. That shouldn’t be hard. Just remember that he’s ten times worse than your worst client. There’s nothing attractive about rich, demanding pricks.
She began working on her defensive mantra right away. Who was this guy? Who arrived at a stunning anchorage like Reid Harbor—the kind of scenic wonderland most people only dream of visiting in person—and instantly thought of seeking out loud music and booze? Emily had chided Jordan back at the marina for her need to chill out and relax, but Davis Steen was clearly the one with the relaxation deficiency. And anybody who couldn’t slow down and appreciate the natural beauty of the San Juans was nobody Jordan wanted to waste her time or her thoughts with.
When both her anger and her attraction were under control, Jordan straightened from the lines and said lightly to Davis, “I had quite a conversation with Tyler, your manager.”
Davis looked up from the cockpit warily. “Oh yeah?”
“He said he sent you on this trip so you could unwind. Get some relaxation. Find some peace and quiet so you could think clearly.”
Davis shrugged and gave another of his low, rumbling laughs. He crossed his arms in what was probably an unconsciously defensive gesture, but somehow the posture only made him look cooler—casual and confident, his arrogant self-assurance beaming out from him like heat from the sun. Jordan couldn’t help but notice how his folded arms accentuated the shape of his muscular chest and his golden-tanned biceps.
He really is hot, she thought dismally. Dark hair, blue eyes, a little masculine scruff around the jaw, and a strong, lean body—Davis was exactly the kind of guy she had always found attractive. Too bad he’s so revoltingly out-of-touch. I mean, really. Who gets to Stuart Island and just wants to party?
“So I think,” Jordan continued, “you’ll have to find ways to enjoy yourself the Griffin Bay way. On a boat.”
Davis frowned. “Hey, man. I’m a paying client. I hired you. I think that entitles me to a say in what we do and where we go.”
“Wrong,” Jordan said. “Tyler hired me. He’s the paying client. And believe me, he paid me well to be sure you chilled out and took it easy. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tyler—that’s none of my business. But I do know he hired me for a specific purpose: to carry you off to some peaceful places. Quiet, relaxing places. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
Davis stepped up from the cockpit and moved close—just a little too close, so Jordan could smell his warm, spicy smell and feel the nearness of his body.
“Well you’re very… professional,” Davis said quietly.
Jordan’s heart pounded in her ears; she swallowed hard, and cursed herself for doing it. Davis noticed; his mouth quirked in a self-satisfied smile.
He knows what he’s doing to me, Jordan realized. He’s trying to turn me on. On purpose! It’s all a game to him. Another box ticked on the checklist of rock star clichés: using girls and getting some kind of sick power trip out of it.
Not me, she promised him silently, narrowing her eyes.
If Davis thought he could crack through her single-minded focus, he was in for a real wake-up call. Jordan’s drive and professional detachment were legendary—and her commitment to running her business the right way hadn’t waned, even while she considered giving Sea Wolf up. She wasn’t going to fall into some arrogant rock star’s trap. Even if he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen—even if her hands still tingled with the desire to feel the rough scratch of his face. Davis Steen was the worst: Jordan had already decided on that, and his attempts to make her lose her head over his hotness only proved how right she was about him.
She stepped coolly away from Davis. “I am professional,” she said. “You can ask my crew.”
“True,” Emily said, and Storm added quickly, “Confirmed.”
“When I’ve been paid to do a job, I do it,” Jordan went on. “So you’re going to see some of the most beautiful sights on Earth from the deck of my boat. You’re not going to party; you’re not going to go wild. You’re going to have a relaxing vacation, and you’re going to enjoy it.”
Davis’s slow smile curled. She wanted to jab those two intense, captivating blue eyes with the vee of her fingers. And she couldn’t look away from those eyes, either—no matter how she scolded herself to ignore his appeal.
“Am I?” Davis asked. “Going to enjoy it?”
Jordan glanced down at his chest, his arms, and even across the distance between them, even over the brisk, salty breeze of the har
bor, she caught his intoxicating smell. She inhaled it more deeply than she’d intended.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “Just see if you don’t.” And she made herself turn away.
.6.
Davis couldn’t deny that the sunset was stunning.
He had toured all around the world, and had played in some of the most incredible locations—from London to St. Petersburg, from Dubai to Seoul to Bangkok. But the rushed life of a touring musician had never given him much opportunity to absorb the cultures of the places he’d visited, let alone the chance to slow down and experience their sights—the unique beauties of the cities, the stunning landscapes that lay beyond. He’d been to Australia and New Zealand seven times each—but had never seen more of either location than their major airports, the stadiums where he played, and the handful of hotel rooms the band had called home on those whirlwind tours. He had certainly never walked their sandy beaches or witnessed the vast, dry expanse of the Australian outback. Nor had he experienced a night market in Thailand, toured the incredible historic monuments of Rome, or even experienced the simple pleasures of a London pub.
Damn, he thought as the sun dipped in a fiery red ball behind the deep-emerald rise of Stuart Island. The undersides of the thin, scattered clouds burned with the most intense shades of pink and purple, and the sky was as orange as flames.
It was an incredible sight—but as he stood still on the deck of the Coriolis, holding to the rearmost mast with one hand and watching the sky with silent appreciation, a familiar pang struck his heart. He recalled the last time he’d actually slowed down enough to watch a sunset. It had been years ago—that’s how busy he was now, trying to revive the Local Youths, trying to stay a leap ahead of his own tortured thoughts.
He and Christine had slipped away for a quiet weekend on the Oregon coast. It was just a couple of days alone together, but Davis had savored every moment of that time. Their walks on the beach, with her hand in his and the gulls crying overhead—their laughing attempts to find cafes and sandwich shops where Davis wouldn’t be recognized and swarmed by fans—their long, lazy hours of sex in the little cottage they’d rented, and late at night, after the stars had come out, on a blanket spread atop one of the nearby sand dunes. It had been a perfect weekend, and the perfect sunset he had watched with his girlfriend had been its crowning delight. Davis had started to think, on that weekend years ago, that he might feel more for Christine than the lust that crackled between them. The seaside, the music of its waves, and that damn sunset had worked some kind of magic over him. He’d begun to believe he actually loved her.
Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel Page 4