Stranded With The Captain. Sharon Hartley
CAT SIDRAN CAME to a halt and admired dozens of sailboats bobbing in the water around her, one of which would be her home for the next week. The Florida sun warmed her shoulders. A stiff wind clanged rigging against tall aluminum masts, the sound a mysterious promise of adventure. She closed her eyes to listen.
An adventure was exactly what she wanted, what she needed to pry herself out of a boring rut where she never did anything but work.
Although she was safe inside her rut. And she did love her work.
A siren—an ambulance or the police—drowned out the sounds of the rigging.
“Hurry up, Cat. It’s hot out here.”
Opening her eyes, Cat glared at the back of her friend Debbie McMillan, who hurried ahead down the long concrete dock. Deb had done nothing but complain since the start of this trip. When had she become such a whiner?
“What’s the rush?” Cat asked. “We’re on vacation.”
Debbie turned, shading her sunglass-covered eyes with a brochure. “I need to get out of the sun, and so does our food.”
Joan Pastorini stepped beside Cat. “I got the extra sunscreen,” she said, holding up a plastic bag. “SPF fifty.”
“Great. Now can we find Spree?” Deb used the brochure to fan her face. “I’m melting.”
“Are you trying to depress me, Deb?” Cat asked.
Debbie shrugged. “I’m depressed enough for all three of us.”
“But you won’t be much longer,” Joan said. “We’re all going to chill and have fun for the next week.”
“So you keep telling me,” Debbie said. “But I’m not sure there’s enough tequila in all the Keys for that.”
Cat shook her head as Deb hurried down the dock. This adventure wouldn’t be a whole lot of fun if Deb’s attitude didn’t change.
“What’s the slip number for Spree again?” Deb yelled back.
“Was she always like this and I don’t remember?” Cat murmured to Joan.
“I told you she’s changed since the divorce,” Joan whispered back.
Cat watched her friend read the slip numbers. Or maybe this is why Brad left her.
“Slip twenty-eight,” Joan called, catching up to Deb.
“Here she is,” Deb said.
Cat admired the elegant lines of a white-hulled boat floating with its stern toward the dock, allowing her to confirm the name Spree in flowing black script. Two aluminum masts sprouted from the deck, the one in the rear much shorter. To provide shade, the owner had suspended a blue tarp over the opening that led below deck.
“She’s even prettier than the photos,” Joan said.
Cat silently agreed, her spirits lifting, for the first time actually believing Joan’s plan for this sailing charter might work. For the next week, she and her old college roommates planned to relax, catch up and reminisce on board this fifty-foot ketch. More importantly, she and Joan would try to coax Debbie out of the funk she’d been in since her divorce.
“Wow,” Deb said. “Look at the size of the steering wheel.”
The huge stainless-steel wheel in question stood in the center of the cockpit behind the largest mast, where people sat while under way. Cat smiled at her vision of standing behind that wheel with Spree skimming along aqua water beneath billowed white sails.
She’d always wanted to learn to sail, which is how Joan had finally convinced her to participate in this voyage.
“And damn,” Joan muttered. “Will you look at that.”
A muscled male body, glistening with sweat, emerged into the cockpit from below. An almost naked muscled male body. Ragged denim cutoffs rode low on the man’s ripped abs and hips. Very low. If they were any lower... She jerked her gaze to the man’s face.
He was tanned. Swarthy, like a pirate. High cheekbones, longish dark hair, dark eyes. Dark beard, as if he hadn’t shaved in weeks. Even a small gold hoop in one ear.
A delicious pull of attraction made her imagine something even more sensual than sailing a boat.
The man turned and stood with his back to her, staring up the mast, the rear view as spectacular as the front. Clasping his hands, he stretched his arms high overhead, rippling the muscles in his amazing shoulders, completely unaware of her ogling.
And here, likely, was Spree’s captain. Funny; she’d pictured their captain as an old salt with a British accent. She didn’t know where the accent came from, but the photo in the brochure had definitely been of such an older gentleman. Not this dangerous-looking buccaneer with a body that only came from spending a lot of time in the gym.
Not that he’d worked his muscles to where they were too obscenely bulky and huge. No question this man was strong, but also wonderfully flexible.
Flexible? Where is this coming from? Get a grip, Cat.
“Ahoy there,” Joan shouted.
Cat cringed. The man turned. Piercing dark eyes openly checked them out. He smiled, displaying perfect white teeth.
“Can I help you, ladies?”
“I hope so,” Joan said. “We’re your charterers for the next week.”
The pirate’s expression morphed into a scowl. He moved closer to them. “You’re not due until tomorrow,” he said.
“Well, I know,” Joan said, using what Cat recognized as her most wheedling tone. “But we hoped we could put our food aboard tonight.”
“You bought your own provisions? I thought you were using the concierge service.”
“We changed our minds,” Deb said. “And saved a ton of money.”
Still frowning,