Riding the Storm. Joanne Rock
Triton he’d just agreed to sail down to Charleston for his brother.
Scowling at the flashy, thirty-foot Nonsuch Ultra nosing well into the neighboring slip, Keith hoped he’d be able to back out of the marina without hitting the other boat. He needed to get under way, make some serious progress toward South Carolina, before his brother Jack caught on to the prank Keith had pulled at their oldest brother, Ryan’s, engagement party tonight. While toasting the future bridegroom on the lawn of the Murphy family compound, Keith had deliberately baited Jack.
It hadn’t taken much, since his second oldest brother was touchy as hell, and all the Murphys were notoriously competitive. Soon, Jack was taunting Keith back, saying that he couldn’t sail his way out of a paper bag. Keith had suggested swapping boats, ostensibly to prove he knew how to sail as well as any of his brothers. His bigger motive had been to get Jack onto his boat—a slick forty-five-foot power catamaran that was too cushy for Jack the purist, but which currently played host to Jack’s ex-girlfriend. And Jack had fallen for the bait and switch so damn easily. Right now, he was probably halfway to Bar Harbor, Maine, to deliver the catamaran to Keith’s chief financial officer. Jack would get one hell of a surprise when he discovered Alicia on board, sleeping peacefully in anticipation of a lift to Bar Harbor from Keith.
Of course, all Keith’s matchmaking efforts were purely to benefit Jack.
As CEO of Green Principles, an environmentally minded company he’d grown from the ground up, Keith had worked his butt off this summer on a merger with a competing firm. He had finally acquired the company two weeks ago, and he needed a break before his next major project—to cement a partnership with Wholesome Branding, a global marketer that could take Green Principles to an international level by recommending it to companies that needed a “greener” image. Green Principles helped businesses and corporations of all sizes to become more environmentally friendly. They assessed a client’s carbon footprint, paper waste, recycling efforts and energy use, highlighting problem areas and making suggestions for improvement, projecting costs for the changes and putting the clients in touch with contractors and suppliers who could implement them.
Sailing south in a vintage Pearson Triton for a few days sounded like the perfect way to clear his head from one deal and strategize how to manage the next. In Charleston, Keith would hand off the boat to Jack’s friend, who was supposed to buy the vessel. By the time Keith came home, he’d be recharged and ready to make the partnership with Wholesome Branding work.
Assuming he could maneuver around that damn Nonsuch butting into his space.
Cursing the big shot Wall Street broker who’d attended the family engagement party, Keith climbed onto Jack’s trim, highly functional sailboat. Sizewise, it wasn’t that much smaller than Chase Freeman’s ride. But everything about the Vesta seemed sleeker. Keith would figure out how to get her under way without any help from the owner of the boat next door. Last he’d seen Freeman at the party, the guy had been feeling no pain on the dance floor. He didn’t look as if he intended to head back to his boat for the night anytime soon.
Keith loosened his tie, then thought better of it and whipped the silk right off his neck. He tossed it aside, not caring where the thing fell. His responsibilities were done as of now.
For a moment, he debated scouting around below deck for some boat shoes or a pair of jeans. But considering his haste to get out of Dodge before his brother realized what he’d done, he settled for bare feet and rolling up his trousers. He switched on the motor for close maneuvering—sails and rigging could wait until he had more room to work. Already Keith could feel anticipation firing through him. Much as he enjoyed the perks of the corporate power cat, and all the bells and whistles of GPS position locking and docking, he had grown up on Cape Cod and he loved to sail. It was in the Murphy blood.
Two hours later, he had the Vesta out in the open water.
The night air was cool and crisp. He’d ditched his dinner jacket long ago, after sprinting forward and aft a few times to make adjustments on the sails. Even though he had ideal conditions—the weather showed he could sail on a reach for at least the next day or two if he could stay ahead of an oncoming storm system—he’d bungled the jib and had a close call with the boom in his haste to get to sea. Now, he had a beauty of a draft going as the boat cut through the water with ease. His navigation lights cast warring patterns of green and red on the deck, while all around him the sea grew darker as he left Cape Cod in the distance. Traffic heading north, toward Boston, would be heavy in the morning. But right now, he had the water to himself. He avoided the shipping lanes, steering clear of bigger vessels.
Tempted to pound his chest and roar with the sense of accomplishment, Keith did exactly that. He let out a howl for good measure. His ex-navy brother had been talking trash to say Keith had forgotten how to sail. Just because his work had kept him busy the last couple of years didn’t mean he’d gone soft.
He took advantage of the favorable wind for another hour before he called it a night, tucking into quiet waters off Nantucket to anchor. By now, he’d left Chatham far enough behind that his brother couldn’t call off their deal to exchange boats. Besides, exhaustion was kicking in, and Keith still had to secure the sheets and rigging for the night.
It was going on 4:00 a.m. by the time he stumbled down the steps in the companionway.
And damn near had a heart attack.
He could see the shadowed outline of a figure—a woman, slumped over the table in the middle of the main salon. She had her head cradled on her arms atop a huge, open book. Through a veil of dark hair, he could just make out the pale skin of her cheek.
“Miss?” he called stupidly. But his heart raced with the fear that she was injured, or worse.
If she was alive and breathing, how could she have slept through three hours at sea?
Shoving past some built-in storage bins, he knelt beside her to feel for a pulse, already wondering how in the hell he would explain to the police why he’d left without checking over the boat. But—thank you, God—her heartbeat thrummed softly against his thumb where he gripped her wrist. A wave of relief flooded through his veins, so hard and fast that he sank onto the seat beside her. Too soon, other worries crowded his brain. Did she have a medical condition, or need some kind of emergency attention?
And what the hell was she doing on Jack’s boat in the middle of the night?
He tugged his cell phone out of his pants pocket, only to discover he had no service. No surprise, really, this far off the coast of Nantucket. He’d dropped anchor in shallow waters but hadn’t sailed too far in, so that he’d be able to get under way faster after sunrise.
Calling to mind some half-forgotten CPR class he’d taken during a summer of lifeguarding on a Cape Cod beach, Keith tried to take a reasonable inventory of the woman’s vital signs. She breathed evenly. Wasn’t feverish. Heart rate normal for an adult female at rest. And hello, was she ever female. While widening her collar for better access to the pulse at her neck, he got an eyeful of black lace bra cups beneath her soft blouse.
If he’d still feared for her health, he might not have noticed. Well, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed in such detail. But with the worst of his fears assuaged by a quick check, his normal male instincts kicked back in with a vengeance. This woman—lying on a book of fabric swatches, he discovered—was a looker.
Shoulder-length dark hair framed delicate features in a heart-shaped face. Her slender nose tilted gently upward above lips that were deep pink, even without makeup. Long, beaded earrings tangled in her hair, and he realized her whole outfit was vaguely artsy. She wore faux snakeskin shoes and baggy jeans rolled up slightly to show off her ankles. Her dark peasant blouse was densely embroidered, underneath a more austere black jacket. A series of silver necklaces dipped into the generous cleavage he continued to admire. For a petite woman—under five and a half feet, for sure—she carried just the right amount of curves.
Shifting on the bench seat beside her, he touched her cheek. Not just because he wanted to, but because he really needed to wake her up. Had she been a guest who’d imbibed too much at his brother’s engagement party?