Kate flopped back against her pillow

Way to go. Nothing like a bloodcurdling scream to waylay suspicion. No telling what Cole thought she had in her closet now. Drugs. Stolen jewelry. A bag full of cash.

She got out of bed and opened the closet, feeling around for the leather case. Still there.

She pulled out the suitcase, opened it and stared down at the neatly stacked rows of bills. A little over one million dollars. By rights, it was hers. Karl had stolen every cent of it. Left her virtually penniless.

So getting this money back meant she had beaten her ex-husband at his own game. In the end, she’d won.

She should be drinking champagne. Celebrating.

She went to the sink and stared at herself in the small mirror. But what was there to celebrate, really? She’d regained a few strands of her tattered pride. So what? It didn’t change the fact that she was thirty-three years old, had never worked a day in her far-too-cushioned life and had no idea where to go from here.

Dear Reader,

A Woman with Secrets was a fun story to write. I love the Caribbean and have always thought it would be great to sail around for a while, island to island, living like someone content to leave all memories of fifteen-degree winter mornings in the been-there-done-that file.

On arriving in Miami for a ten-day excursion of just this sort, Kate Winthrop gets both more and less than she’d bargained for. When the story starts, she is completely absorbed with the need to exact revenge on an ex-husband. But aboard the Ginny, Kate finds herself falling in love with Cole Hunter, and she begins to see that she can be someone she never imagined she could be. By the end of the trip, Kate has let go of her need for revenge and is motivated to make her once-shallow life mean something.

While I hope A Woman with Secrets has its moments of humor and lightheartedness, I found myself unable to resist weaving threads of seriousness through the story. Maybe this is a reflection of my increasing awareness of a need to look outside myself to those situations where even a small effort on my part can make a difference to another living being. The ripple effect of kindness continues to amaze me. When people link hands and take it upon themselves to make a difference, incredible things can be done.

I like to think this is the place where Kate is at the end of A Woman with Secrets. A place where happiness is a direct result of giving instead of taking.

I love to hear from readers. Please write to me at P.O. Box 973, Rocky Mount, VA 24151. E-mail at inglathc@aol.com. Or visit my Web site at www.inglathcooper.com.

All best,

Inglath

A Woman with Secrets
Inglath Cooper

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Inglath Cooper is a RITA® Award-winning author of seven published novels. Her books focus on the dynamics of relationships—those between a man and a woman, mother and daughter, sisters, friends. Her stories are often peopled with characters who reflect the values and traditions of the small Virginia town where she grew up.

To my Dad, for showing me the true definition of

courage and determination.

And to my editor, Johanna Raisanen,

for being such an absolute pleasure to work with.

An eye for story weaknesses, a kind manner

and she loves dogs, too. Need I say more?

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Even a dog knows the difference between being stumbled over and being kicked.

—American Proverb

KATE WINTHROP HAD REACHED an all-time low. She was broke. Desperate. And about to become a thief.

She had her ex-husband to thank for each of these mantles. And if it were the last thing she did on God’s green earth, she planned to get even with him.

She made this resolution in the backyard of the castle-size Georgian house Karl had recently purchased in one of Richmond’s more lavish neighborhoods. Amazing in itself, considering he supposedly had no money. But then, he had her money, and it didn’t look as though either conscience or good sense had prevented him from spending it.

A car drove by, the lights arcing across the backyard, catching her in its glare for a flash of a second. She stepped back into the shadows, her heart relocating in her throat. She waited a full minute after the car had passed before peeling herself off the brick wall.

A headline flashed in front of her: Kate Winthrop, Daughter of Self-made Millionaire Hart Winthrop, Five to Ten in State Pen.

Long headline, but point taken.

She knew it was crazy, coming here like this. Even so, she could no more make herself leave than she could erase the mental image of Karl stealing her blind day by day, week by week for the past three years. As it always did, the thought brought with it fresh humiliation.

She stepped back and studied the house. Karl lived by the creed that more was more. Here, that principle had been put to adequate test.

A pool took up most of the suburban backyard, surrounded by expensive, imported planters that anchored boxwoods the size of an overfed sumo wrestler. Wrought-iron loungers with plump cushions sat in neat rows at the water’s edge.

She pictured herself upending each of them into the blue water. That was too petty, though. She was here for real evidence. Something concrete. Something she could take to the police, wave in their faces with an indignant, “See, I told you he was a scumbag!”

As to what that would be, she had no idea. She’d know it when she saw it. In all reality, could someone really embezzle millions of dollars without leaving a trail of some sort?

She patted a hand against the pocket of her zip-up vest and pulled out her flashlight. She glanced down at the rest of her outfit. Turtleneck, gloves, cargo pants, boots. So maybe she’d gotten a little carried away with the Mission Impossible theme.

French doors served as a wall to the back of the house. She stepped forward and pressed her face against the glass, peering into the darkened living room. After learning that Karl and his new wife would be out of town until tomorrow afternoon, Kate had called the house earlier in the day to inform the maid she had a package to deliver to Mr. Forrester. Berta—leave it to Karl to import a German housekeeper—had said she would be there until 6:00 p.m. It was now seven-thirty. All the lights were off in the house, no one home. Still, her stomach dropped at the thought of being caught.

But then she envisioned herself standing in front of the divorce court judge, heard him say that as far as he could see, she had knowingly and willingly given her husband the authority to do with their joint funds as he had seen fit. “His name is on all the accounts, dear,” he’d said, Southern disdain for her idiocy marking each word. “Your husband might have made some bad decisions, but there’s no law against that. I suggest you be careful who you marry next time, young lady.”

So there was no law against robbing your wife blind. There was, however, a law against breaking and entering. She sent a quick glance over both shoulders, then turned the flashlight around and placed the butt of it against the glass pane nearest the door handle. A quick jab, and the glass shattered, falling to the floor on the other side. She reached through the open cavity and pressed the lock. The door swung open, and the silence exploded.

She jumped as if poked with a cattle prod, even though she’d fully expected an extra-loud alarm system. Extra was Karl’s style. If you could super-size it, his name was on the dotted line.

She stepped inside and closed the door, using the flashlight to wind her way down the hall to the front of the house.

The control panel was where she’d thought it would be: to the left of the door. She had forty-five seconds to figure out the code and turn off the alarm before the security company called. Earlier that day, she’d invested a couple of hours in coming up with the combinations Karl might have used.

Being married to Karl had left her with an absolute understanding of the three engines that pulled his train of thought: golf, women and money. And not necessarily in that order.

From her pants pocket, she pulled the piece of paper on which she’d written her best guesses.

First, golf. With one gloved finger, she punched in the two scores he had bragged about so often that the numbers were seared in her brain. 6265.

But the ear-piercing wail continued.

Door number two: women. She punched in 3624, picturing Karl’s wife—Tiffany-the-interior-decorator, her surgically enhanced figure leaving little doubt as to what had initiated his defection.

But clearly Karl had not immortalized Tiffany’s measurements in his alarm control panel. It continued its wail. Her nerve endings were beginning to feel as if they’d been dipped in Tabasco Sauce.

One more. Time was running out. She had ten seconds max. Next on the list: Karl’s penchant for picking stocks. He played the market the way little old ladies in Las Vegas played the quarter slot machines, going online ten or fifteen times a day to monitor his latest picks. He’d hit the jackpot once, quoting the stock’s sell price to anyone who would listen. She glanced at the piece of notepaper on which she’d written the last of her three guesses.

What if she were wrong?

She drew in a deep, hopeful breath and punched in the numbers.

The wailing immediately ceased. Ah. Silence. Peaceful, blessed silence.

And then she grew indignant again. It figured, after all. When it came right down to it, everything that mattered most to Karl centered around money. Without it, he couldn’t afford golf or women.

She leaned her head against the wall, gathering up her now shredded nerves of steel. A neighbor could have heard the alarm. The police could be on their way right this minute.

Even as she indulged her paranoia, she knew the closest house lay well out of earshot. It wasn’t likely that the police would have been notified. Now that the alarm was off, she should have all night to search the house.

Still slumping with relief, she turned around and waved the flashlight across the room. The main living area looked like a candy cane factory, the red-and-white stripes on the walls nearly blinding her. A hysterical giggle bubbled up from her throat and broke free, the sound ridiculous in the otherwise tomb-still house. Appearances were important to Karl. She wondered if he provided his business associates with protective eyewear when he entertained here.

She left the vertigo-inducing living room and aimed the flashlight down the hallway that led to the rest of the house. Tiffany’s touch had found its way to these walls as well. Karl now had stripes in black and white, green and white, pink and white. The upside? If she could find something to convince the police he was a crook, he’d have no problem adjusting to his prison uniform.

The house felt eerie, pitch black as it was. But she didn’t dare turn on any lights for fear that someone would notice and report it. Like the alarm code, she had planned this part of her efforts as well. She’d start with the most obvious place: Karl’s office. Using the flashlight as a guide, she poked her head inside several different rooms until she found it.

Here, Tiffany had given up the striped wallpaper for paint. Purple was her color of choice, although Kate would bet Karl had dubbed it eggplant.

She headed for the desk, sat down in Karl’s leather chair and began opening drawers, using the flashlight to illuminate their contents. The first three yielded nothing more than paper clips and files full of papers that meant nothing to her.

The bottom drawer was locked.

But she’d come prepared for locked drawers. She reached inside her vest pocket and pulled out the small black case that held a series of lock picks she’d managed to purchase at a pawn shop in the seedier part of Richmond.

She chose one and got to work, fumbling at first, then getting the hang of it. The first four did nothing. The fifth one, however, did the trick.

The drawer popped open. Again, there were files, neatly organized. Behind them sat a metal box. She reached for it first, surprised to find it unlocked. She popped the latch and then sat a little straighter at the sight of the gun nestled inside. What was Karl doing with a gun? A big one at that. In three years of marriage, she’d never known he had one.

Maybe he and Tiffany played games with it. A mental picture she didn’t need.

Glad she’d reached the point where she could actually joke about the biggest mistake of her life, she slammed the lid closed and stuck the box back in the drawer. She worked on the files then, leafing through each of them in the hope that something incriminating would jump out at her.

Nothing did.

Twenty minutes later, she’d found little more than records of car loans, garage services, health insurance.

She slumped in the chair, her ponytail squished against the cushioned back. There had to be something in this mausoleum of a house to prove what a lying, cheating…

She put the brakes on that particular rant. It was old territory, after all. Trekked across one too many times.

Looking back, she could see everything so clearly now. Not that it did her any good to have such remarkable hindsight—a worthless commodity, after all.

With renewed determination, she got up from the chair and headed for the master bedroom, where lace and mirrors were the key decorating ingredients. She wondered where Tiffany had actually managed to get her hands on an interior design degree. The house was an aesthetic assault to the senses.

She started with the nightstands by the bed, emptying the contents of their drawers on top of the black duvet. She shook her head. Black? Really.

She rifled through hand lotion, Chap Stick, a few receipts, theater ticket stubs. She worked her way through each drawer in the room, ending up in an enormous walk-in closet that could easily double as a retail store. She closed the door and flipped on the light switch. She patted down every suit, looked under every sweater, opened every shoe box.

Nothing.

She sank onto the floor and dropped her head in her hands. Maybe it was time to accept the fact that she had been used. That she’d let herself be conned by a man who planned her fleecing down to the last dime. Maybe it was time to put it all behind her and start over again. At McDonald’s, maybe. Polyester uniforms could do a lot for a girl with natural curves. Emphasis on natural.

She got to her feet and glanced at her watch. Time to admit defeat. She gave one of Karl’s Ferragamo loafers a kick and sent it hurtling across the floor. It landed against the baseboard of the closet with a loud whack.

She stared at it for a moment. Was the board loose, or was her desperation making her see things?

She got down on her knees and poked it with an index finger. The baseboard moved. She shoved the shoe aside and gave the board a tug. It loosened easily.

Renewed hope tumbled through her like a shot of straight adrenaline. Pressing her left ear to the floor, she peered into the hole, then stuck her hand in, encountering something hard.

She fumbled for the flashlight, and then beaming it into the hole, spotted what looked like a leather bag.

Heart pounding, she dropped onto the carpet, planted one foot on either side of the opening, then grabbed the bottom of the exposed wall with both hands and pulled. It gave, and a small section of the wall opened up like the entrance to Aladdin’s cave.

She sat there for a stunned second or two. Then she reached out and eased the bag forward. She popped the latches and it opened. She froze.

Money. Stacks and stacks of it. She picked up a bundle and fanned the edges. All one hundred dollar bills. Too many to count.

She sat for a long time, not moving, just staring at what she’d found, the taste of revenge sweet on her tongue even as she reached a whole new level of understanding about her husband’s betrayal.

She tilted the satchel up and emptied its contents onto the floor. There had to be at least a million dollars. Maybe more.

So what now?

If she left this house with the money, Karl would be hot on her heels as soon as he discovered it missing.

But what could he do? Go to the police and accuse her of stealing back what was hers to begin with? Let him try. Stupid, once, yes. Next time, he would find her a worthy opponent.

She waited until she’d arrived back at her apartment before she called Tyler Bennett’s home number. He’d worked for her father for years and represented Kate in her divorce from Karl as well. After three rings, he answered with an indignant hello.

“It’s Kate,” she said. “Sorry to call so late.”

A fumbling sound was followed by, “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know. You’ll be happy to hear I can now be removed from your delinquent accounts list.”

A big sigh, and then he said, “You called to tell me this?”

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You want to tell me what this is really about?”

“You won’t approve.”

“Kate, didn’t I tell you to stay away from Karl?”

“You did, yes. Which I agree, under normal circumstances, is very good advice. It just so happens he separated himself from a good portion of my money long enough for me to find it.” She glanced at the pile of money on her bed and smiled.

The ensuing stretch of silence made her wonder if he had fallen back to sleep. “I realize your fondest dream is to put Karl in jail,” he said in a careful voice. “But as your attorney, I have to tell you this kind of behavior is going to land you behind bars.”

“For taking back what was mine to begin with?” she asked, unable to keep the indignation from her voice.

“There are ways to handle these things, Kate. This is not one of them.”

“Yes, I’ve had a relatively good indoctrination to the legal way.”

“And what do you think he’s going to do when he finds the money missing?”

“I’d love to be there to see it, but I think I’ll forego the pleasure and give him a little time to cool off. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. You and Peg are leaving for a cruise day after tomorrow, right? She mentioned a buddy of yours from law school runs the tours.”

“Yeah,” Tyler said cautiously.

“How much would you take for those tickets?” she asked.

A full fifteen minutes later, she had finally convinced him to sell her the tickets. Although he made a valiant effort to convince her she might be stepping off the ledge of sanity.

“I’ll pick them up at your office first thing in the morning,” she said and then hung up. She quickly stuffed the money back in the satchel, the thick shell of self-disgust she’d been wearing these past months melting under a wave of self-congratulation.

In finding Karl’s stash, she had reversed the wheel of fortune. For a washed-up artist who’d been robbed of her demolished inheritance, it was a step in the right direction. Maybe Karl would be the one applying for a job at the Golden Arches.

She closed the latches on the leather bag and got to her feet. Paybacks were hell.

CHAPTER TWO

It is a true saying that a man must eat a peck of salt with his friend before he knows him.

—Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

COLE HUNTER RESTED AN ELBOW on the side of the phone booth, the receiver tucked inside his left shoulder, his gaze fixed on the steamy pavement beneath his feet. The Miami sun burned through the back of his white T-shirt while barely suppressed frustration bucked inside him.

“Look, Sam, no insult intended here,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even, while barely restraining the urge to shout, “but why should I believe you’re any closer to finding my daughter now than you were all the other times?”

“I know I’ve told you I was close before,” Sam said, his diplomacy failing to coat Cole’s irritation, “but I’ve managed to connect with a discarded boyfriend of your ex-wife. Apparently, she dumped him, and he’s not too happy with her.”

Cole had no trouble believing this. Casting people aside, after all, was Pamela’s forte. “And he said he knows where she is?” he asked, trying not to let himself get too hopeful.

Lately, he’d begun to think he would never see Ginny again. And in a way, it had become easier to let himself believe that than to believe in something that might never actually happen.

“Said he does.”

“And what does he want in return for that information?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Then give it to him,” Cole said without hesitation, glad for once of the investments he’d made early in his law career, the returns on which he now lived. “I’ll make a transfer to your account as soon as we hang up.”

“Done. But I’ll have to wait for him to call me.”

“Are you telling me you can’t get in touch with him?” he asked, incredulous.

“That’s the way the guy wanted it.”

Disbelief blasted through Cole, skepticism fast on its heels. “Are you sure he’s on the up and up?”

“He insisted on playing things his way. Look, Cole, I know how anxious you are to find your daughter,” the detective said, “but you’ve waited this long. Don’t give up now. I have a really good feeling about this lead.”

Cole wanted to believe him. And what choice did he have but to go along? If this Pamela castoff could help locate Ginny, then Cole could stomach the idea of doing it his way. “I’ll be going out for the next ten days this afternoon,” he said. “You have the numbers to reach me. The reception’s decent once I get out of port. Call as soon as you hear anything at all, okay?”

“Will do,” Sam said and hung up.

Cole placed the receiver back on its hook, but didn’t immediately let go. Some inner quirk of superstition kept his hand where it was, as if to sever the connection would also sever the possibility that he might actually find his daughter this time. It had been almost two years since he had seen Ginny. Nearly two years of wondering where she was. If she’d missed him. If she thought he was the one who’d abandoned her. The thought cut like a knife in his chest. To think his child might actually believe he didn’t care about her, that he’d walked away from her…

Using his phone card, he dialed the number for his bank and made a transfer to Sam’s account. He turned then and headed back down the boardwalk to the Ginny. A migraine loomed at the periphery of his vision like a hurricane off south Florida, hanging back and building up force.

Just short of his boat, he spotted Harry Smith spread-eagled across the bow, adding another layer to his suntan. The pounding in his temples gained momentum.

Harry showed up with predictable frequency, usually accompanied by a couple of string-bean-thin blondes, one of which he always offered to Cole—generous guy that he was—despite the fact that he had yet to take him up on his offerings.

Harry raised his head now and squinted in Cole’s direction. “The love boat’s back in port,” he said, getting up and jumping onto the dock, his smile chastising. “And it’s a wonder, after you all but sank it.”

Cole shot him a look. “You’re the one who can’t function without a woman on each arm. I’m managing just fine.”

Harry hailed from Savannah and everything about him suggested old money. At thirty-six, he thoroughly enjoyed his reputation as a playboy and did whatever he could to further it. Heir apparent to a silver fortune, he spent his days cruising around the Caribbean on his father’s yacht, his deck decorated with sun-adoring women who were drawn to him like honeybees to ice cream.

“Unlike you,” Harry said, “I’m not cursed with an aversion to the female gender. You’re the one living like a monk. Don’t you think there’s a little something wrong with a guy who never takes advantage of the fruit just waitin’ to be picked off the trees?”

“Have you ever noticed how fruit can be fresh one day and rotten the next?” Cole asked.

Harry rolled this around a moment, and then said, “You know, you should move to Alaska. They wear parkas there instead of bikinis.”

“It’s a thought,” he agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. He had to give Harry credit for tenacity. Harry couldn’t understand how any red-blooded male could survive two years without a woman. As someone with skid marks on his heart, Cole wasn’t real keen to repeat the experience. The only thing he cared about was getting his daughter back and making sure Pamela never saw her again. As for the rest of his life, he was just biding time.

“You see, Cole,” Harry said, “you’re not playing the game by the right rules. Nobody said you’ve got to fall in love. I walked that plank once myself, and if anybody knows there are sharks below, I do. This is all about fun. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“You really buy that crap?” he asked, amused.

“Sure I do.”

Cole shook his head. “Somebody always wants more, Harry. That, you can count on.”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “But next time you get lonely for a little female companionship, don’t come looking for—”

“I won’t.” He picked up the bottle of water sitting by the rail of the boat and took a long draw on it. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were going to be out for a while.”

A shrug accompanied Harry’s reply. “Met up with a little blond-haired gal who needed a lift.”

“The Triple A of the Caribbean.”

“I do what I can,” Harry said with a slightly wicked grin.

“Excuse me.”

The voice turned them both around. A woman stood on the dock, a pull-handle suitcase beside her, an expensive-looking leather satchel in her left hand. Harry’s disgruntled expression disappeared behind an orthodontically correct smile.

“Can I help you with something, miss?” he asked with the charm that was part and parcel of his genetic code.

She glanced down at the sheet of paper in her hand and frowned. “This is Tracer Harbor, isn’t it?”

Harry bolted forward as though a pot of scalding water had been tossed at his back. He took the paper from her hand, scanned its contents and shot Cole a rejuvenated grin. “Yes, ma’am. And this is the Ginny. Looks like you’re in the right place.”

The woman tipped her head and peered past them at the boat. “I— There’s been some kind of a mistake, I’m afraid. I’m supposed to be booked on a cruise—”

“So you are,” Harry squinted at the piece of paper, before saying, “Miss Winthrop. You’re looking at the captain.”

The woman’s perfectly arched eyebrows drew together over a look of suspicion. “You’re the captain?”

“Ah, no. I’m Harrison Smith. Friends call me Harry.” Harry directed her gaze toward Cole, giving him a thumbs up signal behind her back. “Captain Cole Hunter, at your service. On that note, I have a few things to do. Down the dock,” he said, pointing. “Over there. Well out of hearing range.”

Ignoring Harry, Cole looked at the woman and said, “You’re Tyler’s friend?”

“Ah, yes. Kate Winthrop,” she said. “Tyler spoke highly of your cruise.” She shot a glance at the Ginny, then corrected herself. “Boat.”

Cole had gone to law school with Tyler. He and his wife Peg had been booked on the trip out of Miami today. He’d called and said they had a change of plans, but a friend would be taking their place. According to Tyler, this friend needed a vacation and wasn’t opposed to a little roughing it.

Looking at her now, Cole strongly suspected roughing it for Ms. Winthrop meant getting booted from the Four Seasons to the Ritz-Carlton. She had that look. Diamond solitaires impressive enough to be her only jewelry. The kind of straight blond hair whose upkeep could probably support several mortgages. And blue jeans with designer holes in the knees.

“Passengers aren’t supposed to arrive until later this afternoon,” Cole said, glancing at the satchel she held in a death grip at her side.

“I’ve been driving for the past twenty hours,” she said. “I thought maybe I’d be able to board early.” She glanced at the boat behind him, crestfallen, as if she’d been anticipating a version of the QEII and had just realized she was getting a tugboat.

“Tyler did tell you this is a working vacation, didn’t he?”

She shifted from one foot to the other. “Working vacation? No, I just assumed—”

“Look, Ms. Winthrop, there’s nothing fancy about what you’ve signed on for,” he interrupted, his patience waning. “Everyone is expected to do his or her part whether it’s helping out in the kitchen or fishing for dinner. I have one crew member, but the idea is it’s pretty much your boat for the duration.”

She blinked hard, her grip on the satchel tightening. “But I…don’t know anything about boats.”

He bit back a sigh. Before the day ended, the hurricane pounding at his temples would no doubt hit land. He decided then and there that he would be far better off with a cancellation on his hands than taking Ms. Kate Winthrop on this excursion. Hitching a thumb back toward town, he said, “Try the Fontainebleau. It’s a full-service hotel. Room service. Great big pool. The works. Much more your style, I’m sure.”

THE WORDS RANG of insult.

Married to Karl for three years, Kate certainly knew one when she heard one.

Standing there in the bone-melting Florida heat, she stared at the back of the tall, sun-bronzed man now striding across the boardwalk toward his boat. Anger swelled inside her. Long overdue, without question. Life had landed her enough blows of late, and she had no intention of letting some overgrown Tom Sawyer with his shaggy hair, ragged cutoff jeans and bare feet change her plans.

Not that this was turning out at all as she had expected. She’d assumed the Bennetts’ cruise plans would involve nothing more taxing than days spent by the pool sipping piña coladas. This particular vessel couldn’t have been mistaken for a cruise ship in pitch dark and high seas.

But the likelihood of getting on a real ship at this late date was next to nil. And she wasn’t about to let this boat sail without her. When Karl arrived back in Richmond, she intended to be somewhere in the middle of the ocean where he wouldn’t stand the remotest chance of finding her.

“Captain Hunter!” she called out in the most humble voice she could muster.

He turned around, looking surprised to find her still standing there. “Was there something else I could do for you?” he asked.

She faltered under the set look on his face, cleared her throat, then said, “I’m not interested in a hotel. I’m booked for this cruise. I don’t intend to change my plans.”

He didn’t say anything for several seconds, but merely stared at her as if she were a child for whom he had to find a convincing argument. “Look, Ms. Winthrop, you can’t expect the rest of the group to carry your weight—”

“Captain Hunter,” she interrupted, digging her heels in. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t expect anyone else to do it for me.”

He watched her for several drawn out moments. Resisting the unfamiliar urge to fidget under his level gaze, she stood her ground. To her surprise, he let out a deep sigh and said, “Fine.”

Relief whisked through her, followed quickly by a surge of indignation. Why did she care what he thought of her anyway? It wasn’t as if he were what she’d expected. What had Tyler said about his old law school buddy? “Smart guy. Summa cum laude at Yale…”

This was what a summa cum laude from Yale did with his life? She’d assumed “running the cruise” meant from some skyscraper in New York City or wherever such types operated their investments. Not “running the boat,” as in, sailing it, cleaning it, docking it.

And the man wasn’t exactly dressed like the captain of a boat. His white T-shirt and cutoff jeans said Rebel with a capital R. So maybe he was handsome in a who-cares-what-the-rest-of-the-world-thinks sort of way. His dark blond hair had streaks of light in it. And his eyes were blue, like sea water.

She put a stop to her observations. She’d had enough of handsome men to last her a lifetime. Karl had been handsome. GQ. Drop-dead. Turn-your-knees-to-water handsome. He was also a slug.

The man with the city-block-wide smile jogged back down the dock, his expression expectant when he called out, “You two get everything squared away?”

With his return came the realization that, unfortunately, she needed Cole Hunter and his less-than-cruiselike boat. Her disappearance would give Karl time to cool off and accept the fact that where their farcical and now dead marriage was concerned, she would be the one to have the last word. And she really, really wanted the last word. “Yes, I think so,” she said.

Harry Smith sent a victory fist into the air. “Great. You don’t know what you’re in for, Miss Winthrop!”

She somehow suspected that he was right.

She waited while the two men held a huddle a few yards away, their voices low and hushed. Ignoring them, she stared off into the distance, concentrating on the sounds of sails snapping into line, laughter ringing from a yacht headed out of the harbor, a black French poodle barking from its guard post aboard an enormous catamaran.

The conversation behind her built to a crescendo. Harry Smith’s voice carried a note of appeal, while Cole Hunter’s rumbled resistance to whatever his friend was suggesting. Finally, the captain took the distance of the dock between them in a few swift strides, commandeering her two suitcases without saying a word. Her heart leapt into her throat. She shot after him, protesting, “That’s all right. I can carry those.”

But he kept walking, long, marked strides that said a good deal about his level of agitation. She slowed her pace and drew in a calming breath, reassuring herself that he had no idea what was inside the bag.

Even so, she frowned at his back. She didn’t care if the man was Tyler’s friend. He was rude. And she had a feeling that before this so-called vacation was over, she would tell him so.

She followed him down narrow stairs, through a doorway barely wider than her own body and into a cabin the size of a large closet.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” he said abruptly, plopping her two suitcases down by the bed.

With him in it, the room seemed Alice-in-Wonderland small. It was neat and clean though, the bed crisply made, the air tinted with the remnants of furniture polish.

“Anything you need?” he asked, obviously anxious to go.

“A pitcher of iced tea and a sandwich would be nice,” she said, infusing the request with politeness.

His smile said you’re kidding right?

Actually, she wasn’t. She hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. Something told her she should let this one go though.

“Dinner’s at seven,” he said and turned to leave.

“Captain Hunter?” she called out.

He ducked back inside the doorway with a look of restrained impatience. “Yes?”

“The other passengers. When will they be arriving?”

“Couple hours,” he said.

“Oh. Good, then,” she answered, reassured to know she wouldn’t be sailing off alone into the sunset with Captain Grump and his sidekick.

After he left, she sank down on the bed, her stomach rumbling. Was she crazy? Maybe she should just get off the boat now. Maybe she should have stayed and confronted Karl. Taken the lizard to court and let him explain to a judge where the million dollars in his closet had come from. But she hadn’t relished the idea of handing out a chunk of her father’s already depleted funds in legal fees. Besides, Karl would need a little time to come to grips with the fact that he’d have to find some other means of financing Tiffany’s decorating habit.

And, too, she told herself, spending the next ten days on a boat headed through the western Caribbean could only be so bad. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about Karl finding her. For now, at least, that was all she cared about.

FROM THE CORNER of the deck, Cole watched the lovely Ms. Winthrop struggle with the tarp he’d asked her to fold.

He could have done it himself. He hadn’t needed to call her up from her cabin to do it, but he was holding out the hope that she’d change her mind and leave before the rest of the passengers arrived. He didn’t have a good feeling about this woman.

Not to mention that Harry’s matchmaking antennae had been on high alert since the moment he set eyes on her. He was certain God had finally taken pity on poor sex-starved Cole Hunter and sent him a woman no man could resist.

A breeze caught the end of the tarp and jerked one end of it from her grasp. Her dark navy pullover had started to cling to her arms and shoulders in wet patches. Sweat glistened on her forehead and upper lip. Several strands of blond hair had escaped the barrette at the back of her neck and stuck to her cheek.

He crossed the deck and reached for one end of the canvas. With a pointed look at her navy shirt, which now clung to her skin in some interesting places, he said, “By the way, dark colors draw the sun.”

CHAPTER THREE

Man has a thousand plans, heaven but one.

—Chinese Proverb

CLEARLY, HE THOUGHT she was an idiot.

Folding a tarp. As though the boat would have sunk if she hadn’t accomplished the task posthaste. She patted the final edge into place and managed an even reply, “Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

From the other end of the dock came a lilting, “Yoo-hoo!”

Two older ladies with bluish, salon-set hair walked toward the boat, both wearing excited expressions. Behind them, a black-capped chauffeur wheeled a cartload of luggage. One of the women waved coral nails in their direction, the color picking up the floral background of her silk jumper. “Captain Hunter?”

He studied the two women through narrowed eyes. “Could I help you with something?”

“I certainly hope so. Is this the Ginny?”

He nodded once, answering reluctantly, “It is.”

“Oh, good, Lily, we’re in the right place,” she said with an enthusiastic smile to the woman beside her.

“We’re the Granger sisters,” they said in unison.

Kate risked another look at Cole Hunter, whose set expression clearly indicated his passenger list was not turning out as he had expected.

She, on the other hand, was beginning to enjoy herself.

“I’m Lyle,” the talkative one said. “And this is Lily.”

The captain cleared his throat. “I thought you were…from your e-mail, I assumed you were husband and wife.”

The quiet one said, “Oh, dear. We do confuse people don’t we, Lyle?”

“Lily couldn’t say Lyla as a child, and Lyle just stuck. I hope this won’t make a difference with our accommodations. We expected to share a room. We’re totally prepared for our share of tough living, Captain.”

Kate watched with an undeniable stab of satisfaction as he eyed the mound of trunks being wheeled down the gangplank by the chauffeur. “Ladies, if you’re planning to bring all that luggage, I’m afraid we have a problem.”

“Oh. I suppose it is a tad much, isn’t it?” Lily said, one finger to the side of her face. “But I can never decide what to bring, and Lyle thought we’d probably have room for it—”

“I’m afraid Lyle was wrong,” he said grimly.

Lily’s face fell. “Well, then—”

“Now, now, dear,” Lyle said, patting her sister’s shoulder. “You’ll just have to eliminate a few things. No big deal, really.”

At her reassurance, Lily brightened. “Of course, I will.” She began instructing the chauffeur to open the trunks so that she might remove the most essential of items.

Essential appeared to include a glittering gold evening gown, black dinner suit and a pair of satin pumps. Obviously, Lyle and Lily hadn’t been any more aware of the itinerary than Kate had.

Captain Hunter excused himself then, avoiding her gaze and telling the Granger sisters he’d be back as soon as he located some Aspirin.

While Lyle and Lily continued rummaging through their trunks, a man made his way down the gangplank. Somewhere near mid-fifties, his graying hair was slicked back in a past-era wet look. His bottle-thick glasses glinted in the sunlight. He wore a tweed jacket over a white shirt buttoned to the throat. A young woman, basically a female version of him, followed behind. She, too, wore a tweed jacket over a sensible cotton blouse and an equally sensible below-the-knee brown cotton skirt. Her eyes were also hidden behind oversize glasses, her hair pushed back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband.

“Ah, excuse me,” the man said. “Have we found the Ginny?”

In Captain Hunter’s absence, Kate shaded her eyes with one hand and said, “Yes, you have.”

“I’m Professor Lawrence Sheldon. And this is my daughter Margo.”

“I’m Kate Winthrop,” she said, beginning to feel as if she had landed on the Minnow. She wondered if she would get to be Ginger or Mary Ann.

“Is Captain Hunter here?” the professor asked.

“He went for some Aspirin,” she said, trying not to smile. “I think he’s developed a headache.”

WITH THE ARRIVAL OF Kate Winthrop this morning, Cole had somehow known nothing about this trip was going to go as planned. Just to further illustrate his point, no sooner had he shown the Sheldons to their separate rooms than the younger brother of his one and only crew member, Jim, appeared on the dock, waving frantically.

The boy came bounding toward him, his running shoes squeaking against the wood. He skidded to a stop beside the Ginny, his chest working for air. “Hey, Mr. Hunter!”

“What’s up, Jess?”

“Jim can’t make the trip,” the boy said, squinting against the sun in his eyes. “He’s got appendicitis.”

“Is he all right?” Cole asked, recalling how Jim had said he didn’t feel great just before they got into Miami yesterday.

“He’s gotta have surgery. He said to tell you he feels bad for standing you up.”

Cole shook his head. “Tell him not to worry. Thanks for letting me know, Jess.”

“Sure.” The boy turned and took off again, waving as he went.

With a sigh, Cole wondered if he should just ditch the trip altogether. If things were getting off to this kind of start, what would the next ten days bring?

The group was a recipe for disaster.

He threw a glance back at the Ginny, where the passengers mingled on deck, echoes of laughter drifting his way. His gaze went around the circle, landing first on Kate Winthrop, who didn’t look as though she’d done a cumulative day’s worth of work in her life.

Lyle and Lily Granger were both dressed in requisite orange life jackets, the nylon black belts cinched tight around their ample waists—he was guessing now neither of them could swim—and can’t-wait-to-get-started smiles.

Last, but not least, Dr. Sheldon and his daughter, Margo, both of whom had already quoted Tennyson three times at last count since their arrival. An admirable talent, granted, although he had no idea how that would help them pull their weight on his boat.

He glanced at his watch. This late in the day, his options were few. He could stay in port overnight while he found someone else to crew, or he could ask Harry to go along.

This particular option came with its own set of drawbacks. But if Sam called with news of Ginny, he needed to be able to leave the boat with someone he trusted. Despite his numerous idiosyncrasies, Harry knew his way around anything that sailed the ocean.

It looked like it was Harry or nothing.

“I DON’T NEED flowers or anything, but a pretty please wouldn’t hurt.” Harry sat in a chair on the deck of his boat, enjoying himself immensely.

“Do you want to come along or not?” Cole asked.

“Hold on, now,” Harry said. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Anything wrong with a guy needing to feel like he’s wanted?”

“Harry, I’m not kidding—”

“You’re doing the pressed lip thing again. You should watch that, you know. It could result in a permanent wrinkle—”

Cole started backing up. “You know what—”

Harry smiled. “You just take yourself way too seriously, man.”

“I’ve got a boat full of people waiting for me to take them on a ten-day vacation. I can’t do it without your help. That seems fairly serious to me.”

Harry tipped his head, conceding the point. “Okay, okay,” he said, raising a hand. “I’ll go. So what’s the plan?”

“We’ll leave around five o’clock this afternoon. Can you make that?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Great. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Harry grinned. “Hey, I kind of like the idea of you owing me one.”

“Just don’t get too fancy with the payback list.”

“I’ll keep it simple. Few bottles of Dom Pérignon. A blonde or two.”

“At least you’re predictable,” Cole said, heading down the pier.

“Do I get to bring along a girl?” he called out.

“No!”

“How ’bout the blow-up kind?”

“As long as she doesn’t bother the other passengers.”

“She’s the quiet type.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You can borrow her one night if you’d like,” he added, laughing outright when Cole ignored him. Harry watched for a moment until he disappeared around the end of the pier, still surprised that Cole had asked him to take Jim’s place.

In another world, he was fully aware that he and Cole would never have become friends. They were opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to life philosophy. Harry believed in wringing out every last drop of pleasure, happiness or satisfaction there was to be found in a given day. Cole was too busy letting life wring him to reverse the process.

The way he saw it, Cole Hunter needed to get back to the business of living. Granted, he got dealt a crappy hand with the ex-wife, but there was nothing like bitterness to turn a man into someone he didn’t recognize when he looked in the mirror.

He ought to know. He’d nearly taken that road himself. Being left at the altar by a woman who admitted she’d only agreed to marry you for your money could do that.

A fresh-faced blonde with legs that ought to be illegal appeared at the end of the pier, waving. “Hey, Harry!”

“Stella,” he said, recognizing her from a club in South Beach where they’d met two nights ago. She was just his type. Pretty as a peach. And young enough not to be anxious about plotting a future for the two of them. “Come aboard.”

“I was hoping I could find you,” she said, walking along the dock to his boat with the willowy sway of a Ford model. “Was that your friend Cole I just passed?”

“Yeah. He didn’t try to pick you up, did he?” Harry asked, smiling.

“I don’t think he noticed I was female,” she said, giving him a hug.

“The shame of it. Did I mention he has a few issues?”

“You mean he’s not girl crazy like you?” she teased.

“Is that what you call it?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“Cool,” he said, perking up.

She shook her head. “I’ve been warned. And here I am, anyway.”

“Here you are,” he said.

She lifted a shoulder and smiled. “You did offer me a tour of your boat, didn’t you?”

He struggled to place the memory, found it well-hidden in the haze left by the multiple Mojitas he’d consumed on the night they met. “’Course I did,” he said.

She glanced behind him, her gaze widening, impressed. “Wow, this is like a yacht or something.”

“Or something,” he said.

“You live on here full-time?”

He shrugged. “I try not to get too hung up on the rich boy guilt thing.”

“Such a waste of time,” she said.

“I’m glad we agree.”

“So, how about that tour?” she said, smiling in a way that made him wonder how he’d make it over to Cole’s boat by five o’clock.

“I was raised in the South,” he said. “And we don’t believe in disappointing ladies.”

“How convenient for me,” she said.

He held out a hand to lead her aboard. “Where would you like to start?”

“I think I’ll leave that up to you.”

“You are accommodating, aren’t you?”

“I try,” she said.

Cole might be right about fruit not lasting. But Harry would argue that it sure was sweet while it did.

FROM THE DECK of the Ginny, Kate’s cell phone blinked No Service. She decided to make a quick run for the pay phone she’d seen earlier by the marina office.

Once there, she dialed in her credit card number, then waited for voice mail to pick up. She considered the fact that Karl might be able to have someone track her through the card she’d just used, then brushed away the worry. Within a couple of hours, she’d be long gone from here.

At the first blast, she held the phone away from her ear.

“Kate, where the hell are you?”

Karl. Back earlier than she’d anticipated and not pleased. She couldn’t help smiling to herself as he continued. “How dare you break into my house? I found one of your little security code notes. I want that bag back with every dollar that was in it, and I mean now!”

The receiver slammed in her ear. Over her dead body he’d be getting it back.

A second message played. Karl again. This time, a little less hostile. More like his old persuasive self. “Come on, Kate. This is ridiculous. I need that suitcase, or something very bad is going to happen. Let’s meet and talk, okay?”

Right. He could sit there and wait for her to show up.

Three more messages from her ex-husband played, the next two still pleading, the final one vintage Karl. She’d never heard him so angry. Or desperate. Perfect. She liked that combination. It sounded good on him.

The last message was from Tyler. Who sounded worried. “Kate, Karl has called here four times in the last hour. He wanted to know where you were. He threatened to call the police. Maybe you could give him a ring.”

The machine beeped, sounding the end of the calls. She hung up. If Karl wanted to call the police, fine. She’d be happy to hear him offer up an explanation as to where the cash hidden in his closet had come from.

She turned then and headed back to the Ginny. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for the boat to leave. Even if it was a faded second cousin to her original expectations, all the right ingredients were there. Sun, blue sky, nothing but open water. How bad could it be?

THE SETTING SUN trailed pink fingers of light across the water as they headed away from Miami.

Harry had arrived at the Ginny in the wildest Hawaiian print shirt Cole had ever seen. He was an immediate hit with the passengers, especially the Granger sisters who tittered—if that was still a word—their appreciation when he complimented their matching sundresses.

One thing was for sure. With Harry around, boredom would not be an issue.

A half hour out, Cole handed the wheel over to him, and headed to the galley with a string of red snapper he had removed from an on-deck cooler. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned the corner and narrowly avoided a head-on with Kate Winthrop.

At the sight of the fish in his hand, she let out a startled yelp and flattened herself against the wall behind her.

“Sorry,” he said, unable to resist dangling the line in front of her. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She drew in a deep breath. “You didn’t.”

He held the fish a little higher, putting them directly in her line of vision. “Harry could use an assistant in the kitchen. You can cook, can’t you?”

“Of course,” she said a little too quickly.

“Good. You can start in the morning. Harry will show you where everything is.” He tossed the words out like a lure on the end of a fishing pole. A challenge of sorts.

She took it, hook, line and sinker. “I’ll be glad to start with those if you’d like. Snapper’s one of my specialties. Those are snapper, aren’t they?” she asked, giving them a sideways perusal.

“Yes, they are,” he said, surprised. He glanced at her well-manicured nails. “You spend a lot of time in the kitchen, huh?”

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “Gloves. They work wonders.”

“I’ll certainly try to remember that,” he said, backing away.

“Sure you don’t want me to fry those up for you?” she asked, confident now.

“We’ve got it covered for tonight. I’ll tell Harry to count on you in the morning.”

“Great,” she said and headed up the stairs.

CHAPTER FOUR

Between the wish and the thing, life lies waiting.

—Proverb

WHAT WAS SHE thinking?

Standing on deck with the breeze brushing her cheeks, Kate had a sudden, ridiculous urge to laugh. Here she was with her feathers ruffled because Cole Hunter had assumed she couldn’t cook. Unfortunately, he was right. And she really hoped the other people on this boat were big fans of cereal.

She found a chair, deciding to take in the sunset getting ready to drop into the ocean. A stiff breeze blew across the open water, and the boat swayed gently from left to right like a child’s cradle.

Her stomach tipped slightly, but the sensation was fleeting. She was probably just tired from the trip. She’d driven straight through from Virginia to Florida with little more than stops for the ladies’ room and a gallon of coffee to keep her awake. That and the thought that Karl might be somewhere behind her kept her foot on the gas pedal.

Margo Sheldon came over and offered Kate a bottle of mineral water, her smile less than certain.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” she said.

“Thanks.” Kate waved a hand at the chair beside her. “Sit down, please.”

Margo sat on the edge, smoothing a hand across the Bermuda shorts that had replaced the dark skirt and stockings she’d had on earlier. The tweed jacket was also gone, but she still wore the white cotton blouse buttoned all the way to her neck. She pushed her thick-lens glasses up on her nose. Two seconds later, they slid back to their original position, forcing her to look over them more than through them.

“It’ll be interesting to see what comes of that,” Margo said, nodding in the direction of the grill and the string of fish now waiting to be cooked.

Her voice was at odds with her looks. It had a nice husky quality to it. Kate twisted the cap off the bottle and took a sip. “Yes, it will.”

Margo sent a covert glance at the two men huddled over the grill like two cowpokes over a campfire. “Interesting duo, don’t you think?”

Kate rubbed her thumb across the side of her water bottle. “That word would apply, yes.”

“My father arranged this trip, so I really had no idea what to expect, but—”

“It’s not exactly what you thought it would be?” Kate finished for her. “Me, either.”

They were silent for a minute or so, neither of them elaborating on what it was they had expected.

Margo’s gaze rested on Harry’s shoulders, and Kate wondered at the hint of longing on the woman’s face. There was no ring on her left hand, so Kate assumed she wasn’t married. She was on vacation with her father, who from all appearances, might fail to be the life of the party in most social settings. She had smooth, pretty skin, and her eyes, now and then visible above her glasses, were a soft blue. Her clothes and hairstyle made her look older than she probably was. Kate sensed a loneliness in her that made her want to reach out to her, even though she didn’t know her. “Tell me about your work,” she said.

Margo looked up in surprise, as if it wasn’t often that anyone wanted to hear her talk about herself. But she began to speak. And Kate listened.

IT WAS AN unusual turn of events. Margo was much more accustomed to being the listener than the one listened to.

She could not recall the last time she’d felt comfortable enough with a stranger to pass along personal information more relevant than “Yes, the bus stop is a quarter block away.” She once overheard one of her physics students say that she would have made a perfect Jane Austen character, buttoned-up as she was. She was fairly certain there was no compliment to be found in the assessment, although she didn’t mind the reference. She loved Pride and Prejudice and would have switched places with Elizabeth Bennet in a heartbeat.

But her life was in the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth, and therein lay the difficulty. She was an odd fit.

This was something that could not be said of Kate Winthrop.

She fit. In this century. This Caribbean movie set backdrop. The cover of InStyle magazine would not be a stretch.

It was this that made her wonder then why they’d spent the past forty-five minutes talking as if they had a bevy of shared interests to unearth. Most amazing was the fact that she really listened. Margo was far more used to the glazed-eye response she normally got from strangers. Admittedly, the finer points of quantum physics didn’t exactly make for mainstream conversation. But it was what she knew.

When she began to get a little too detailed about the specifics of what she did every day, Kate—unlike most people who simply looked at their watches, announced they had some to that point forgotten emergency and flew off to take care of it—steered her toward the personal. What was it like to be a woman in a field once monopolized by men? Did she ever want to do something different? Were there any cute guys who taught at Harvard?

This was the question that tripped her up, caused her to sputter her last sip of iced tea.

“Are you all right?” Kate asked, sitting up and patting her on the back with several resounding thwacks.

“I—yes,” she said, coughing again and clearing her throat.

“Was it something I said?”

“Ah, no. It’s just not a question I’ve been asked before.”

“Why not?”

“Well,” she said, stalling. “I’m not exactly an expert on the subject.”

“Because?” Kate posed, raising an eyebrow as if Margo had just thrown her an impossible to process piece of information.

“That’s just not my area of expertise,” she managed, wiping the spattered tea from her white shorts.

“Is there anyone who can claim to be an expert on the subject?” she asked. “Men are shape-shifters. No sooner do you think you have one variety nailed, than they morph to something different altogether.”

Margo laughed, surprising herself. “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not much for dating.”

“The pickings are slim in Cambridge then?”

“For someone like me, I guess so,” she said, adjusting her tone toward unconcerned and falling a notch or two short.

Kate studied her for a long moment. “So tell me. Who are you, Margo Sheldon?”

She’d been asked this question before. By teachers. Career counselors. But never in this situation. Never with what would make her interesting to a man as the subtext. “I have no idea,” she said in a moment of brutal honesty.

“Well,” Kate said. “Doesn’t this trip just seem like a perfect opportunity to find out?”

“HEY, SORRY I was late this afternoon,” Harry said, pulling a spatula from beneath the grill on deck.

Cole turned on the gas, then backed up a step as it poofed to life. “Didn’t have anything to do with that blonde who walked you to the boat, did it?”

“Maybe a little something,” Harry said, somehow managing not to gloat.

“And what’d you promise her?”

“There’s the beauty of it. I didn’t promise her anything. And she was okay with that.”

“You don’t think she was a little young for you?”

“I didn’t notice,” Harry said.

“Was that a Barbie backpack she was carrying?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “She wasn’t that young.”

“So what do you talk about with someone her age?”

“Actually, some subjects are intergenerational.”

“Even when you’re two or three ahead?”

“Ah, come on now. I’m not that far a stretch.”

“Let’s put it this way. If you two were an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, you’d be the dad and she’d be the daughter.”

“Ouch.”

“Those arrows of truth have sharp points, don’t they?”

“Yeah, and here’s one for you,” he said. “I’d rather be living out my time on this planet than enduring it.”

“I guess that’s where our points of view differ,” Cole said, putting a fillet of fish on the grill.

Harry’s gaze snagged on Kate Winthrop and Margo Sheldon where they sat talking at the far side of the deck. “I’m beginning to think you did me a favor asking me to come along on this trip,” he said. “Two attractive gals. And we just happen to be two single, available males. Couldn’t have set it up better myself. ’Course I’m starting to think the studious one is more your style.”

From the table next to the grill, Cole picked up a knife and began to slice a loaf of bread, hitting the cutting board with even, forceful strokes. “Nix the assumptions of commingling. You’re not Hugh Hefner, and they’re not Playmates.”

“You’d let an opportunity like this pass you by?” Harry asked, amazement widening his eyes.

“How good a swimmer are you, Harry?”

“Pretty good,” he said, “but—”

“If you don’t want to prove it by doing the breast stroke back to Miami, I suggest you drop the subject.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, then wisely shut it.

IT WAS ALMOST dark by the time Harry Smith called out across the deck, “This way for the feast of your lives!”

The long, family-style table had been set up complete with a checkered cloth, real dishes and silverware. The two men had prepared quite a spread of food, platters of red snapper flanked by colorful grilled vegetables and several baskets of what smelled like fresh, home-baked yeast bread.

“A feast fit for a king,” Lily Granger declared.

“And a queen,” Lyle amended.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lily said with a laugh. “Lyle’s a women’s-libber,” she added in an exaggerated whisper to the rest of the group. “Militant about it, really.”

Kate smiled, unable to picture either of the older ladies marching in front of the White House. They all sat down and began to eat, forks and knives clinking against white enamel plates.

From his seat at the end of the table, Cole looked at her and said, “Tomorrow, we’ll get to sample some of Ms. Winthrop’s cooking skills. She’ll be helping Harry with breakfast.”

“How wonderful,” the Granger sisters said in unison, actually sounding a little jealous.

“Indeed,” agreed Dr. Sheldon, pushing his black-rim glasses back up on his nose.

“I’m sure Kate’s a wonderful cook,” Margo said.

Kate’s earlier bravado disappeared along with her appetite.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly enough, everyone sharing a little about themselves. The Granger sisters were from New York City. Neither had ever married, and they spent most of their time traveling. They’d just returned from an African safari.

Margo and her father were a little more difficult to figure out. She still lived at home and was obviously very much under his thumb. Kate saw something of herself in the other woman and wondered if she longed to break free of her father’s protectiveness.

“So tell us something about yourself, Kate,” Lily Granger said. “Is that a Virginia accent I hear?”

“Yes,” Kate said. “Richmond.”

“Beautiful city,” she said. “Lyle and I spent a summer there in our teens. Nineteen—”

“Fifty-four,” Lyle finished for her. “Did you grow up there, dear?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Winthrop,” Lily murmured. “That name does ring a bell.”

“It is familiar,” Lyle agreed, one finger under her chin as if flipping through the Rolodex of her memory.

“It’s gotten a bit chilly.” Kate pushed her chair back and stood. “I think I’ll get a sweater.”

She took her time going to the cabin, rummaging through her things for the single sweater she’d brought along. She’d just as soon not talk about her family. When you were the black sheep in the flock, it could get a little uncomfortable standing in the middle of so much white.

By the time she returned to the deck, the Granger sisters had forgotten all about her. Cole was currently in the hot seat, but he was even more sketchy with the details of his life than she had been. She knew no more about him when he’d finished than she had when he started.

After the meal, everyone lingered for a cup of coffee before retiring for the evening. They stood on the deck with a light breeze at their backs. Kate said good night first and went downstairs, taking a quick shower and then slipping on her nightgown. She climbed under the covers, only to realize she’d left her book upstairs. Hoping everyone else would be asleep by now, she shrugged into her robe and climbed the steps on bare feet.

She breathed in the fresh sea air, salty and warm, the smell now familiar and appealing. She looked up at the sky, awed by the vastness of it and the fact that it made the trouble she’d left behind seem a little less significant.

The book was where she’d left it, beneath the lounge chair she’d been sitting in earlier. She picked it up, then noticed someone standing at the railing several yards away, staring out at the dark ocean.

She recognized the rigid posture and stepped back into the shadows, not sure why she didn’t want him to see her. She should go, but something made her hesitate, take the unobserved moment to study his profile. Wavy and untamed, he wore his hair a little longer than most of the men she knew. His jaw was tight. One hand went to the back of his neck as though to smooth away some knot of tension there.

The light caught his face, and in that instant, she saw something in his expression that surprised her.

Sadness.

The emotion seemed out of place for him. And for a crazy instant, she wanted to know its origin. But then she barely knew Cole Hunter.

She backed away, her gaze lingering just a moment longer, before turning and making her way back across the deck and down the stairs.

IT WAS ONLY when he was alone that Cole let himself think about Ginny. Wonder how much she had grown, whether her voice still had the same sweet lilt to it, whether she had lost all of her baby teeth.

Each of these questions cut through him like a knife, and he closed his eyes against the instant pain.

Now, at just a little after midnight, he sat up and rubbed a hand across his eyes. He’d been sitting here for a couple of hours or more. This night was no different from most when he had to force himself to go to bed. Just as he sat up, Kate Winthrop appeared at the top of the stairs. She hesitated at the sight of him, then bolted to the side of the boat where she hung over the railing and promptly threw up.

She sank down onto the floor, head in her hands.

He walked over, pretty sure she wouldn’t welcome his concern. Her eyes were closed. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped.

“Sorry,” he said. “Seasick?”

She suppressed a moan. “Please don’t overstate the obvious.”

“How long have you been like this?”

“I just now woke up this way.”

She barely finished the sentence before she jumped to her feet and leaned over the rail again, gagging.

He went to the galley and wet a towel, returning to offer it to her along with a small bottle of pills. “Take one of these,” he said. “It won’t help for a while since you’re already sick, but it will eventually.”

He removed the lid and shook one into his palm, then held out a glass of water for her.

Hand shaking, she took it, forcing the pill down. “Can’t you just throw me overboard?” she asked.

He looked down at her for a moment, then said, “As a matter of fact, I’d be happy to.”

CHAPTER FIVE

A little help is better than a lot of pity.

—Celtic Proverb

LESS THAN TWO minutes later, Kate found herself being lowered into the water on an inflatable life raft. She’d followed his directions, letting him fasten a life vest around her, then guiding her into the dingy, not caring that she wore nothing more than a thin cotton nightgown or that her skin probably had the hue of green cheese in the moonlight. She was just too sick to care.

Once the raft reached the water, he buckled his own life vest and jumped over the side, tying the dinghy to the Ginny, then reaching a hand toward her and saying, “Come on, I’ll help you in.”

“This seems kind of crazy,” she said.

“It’s the only thing that will help until that medicine takes effect.”

Intent only on escaping the nausea threatening to consume her once more, she shimmied over the side and into the arms of a man she’d known less than twelve hours. She forced herself not to think about what might be lurking in the inky depths below them.

The water felt cool. Too lightheaded to hold on to the raft, Kate leaned against him, her back to his chest, his right arm around her waist, his left holding on to the raft. Her nightgown floated up and made a lily pad on the water, leaving her legs bare against his.

She couldn’t find the energy to protest.

“Give it a few minutes,” he said. “You should start to feel better soon, Ms. Winthrop—”

“It’s Kate,” she corrected him, perversely annoyed that he’d continued to address her that way even though she’d never asked him to do otherwise.

“You should feel better soon, Kate,” he amended, emphasis on her name.

She breathed in the cool night air, willing the nausea to recede. Eventually, it did, enough that she could open her eyes and stare up at the star-dotted sky without that same wretched feeling of sickness. “This is horrible,” she said, the words weak and barely audible.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding a shade more sympathetic than he had a few moments ago. “Never had it before?”

She shook her head. A few seconds passed before she managed, “How did you know this would help?”

“On my first ocean dive, we went out right after breakfast. Everyone on board was ill, including me. The dive master made us all get in the water even though we were too sick to move. Ended up with a sea full of cornflakes, but it worked eventually.”

Kate moaned, an unexpected bubble of laughter breaking free from her aching throat.

“Sorry for the visual.”

“At least I’m still alive enough to laugh. A few minutes ago, I was beginning to wonder.”

He chuckled beside her ear, the sound unexpected and somehow soothing. “You don’t seem the type to let a little seasickness get you down.”

As the dizziness lessened, and the nausea remained at bay, she became aware of the arm around her waist, the chest to her back, the strong legs against hers beneath the water.

Suddenly, she had the wherewithal to feel some embarrassment for her predicament. The situation felt intimate. As intimate as two people could be when one of them had just spent the last hour heaving her insides out.

Reaching for the raft, she slipped free of his arm and turned to face him. “I feel a little better now, Captain—”

“Cole,” he said.

“Captain Cole,” she corrected with a half smile.

He smiled then, too, a real smile. It beamed a shaft of awareness straight through her. Along with it came the knowledge that a sheet of paper wouldn’t fit between them in their current position. She kicked her feet to insert a little distance.

“Stay where you are,” he said. “I don’t want you fainting on me.”

Imagining herself unconscious in the ink-black ocean, she did as he said, despite her overly sensitized body. “Thank you. For helping me.”

“You’re welcome.”

The night hung dark and endless around them. They floated in silence for a long time while she battled with the desire to extricate herself from this awkward situation and the realization that getting back on the boat probably meant getting sick again. She chose what seemed the lesser of two evils and stayed where she was.

“So how do you know Tyler?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“He’s my lawyer. And friend.”

Cole didn’t say anything for a few moments. She sensed the unspoken question and said, “I’m also good friends with Peg. His wife.”

“Ah. So what made him think you wanted a vacation like this?”

She started to say she hadn’t wanted a vacation like this, but found herself being honest with him. “I actually talked him into selling me their tickets. I’m kind of at a crossroads. Some time away seemed like a good thing.”

“And is it?”

“I’ll file that under ‘remains to be seen’,” she said, a little surprised by the question. “I’ve taken up enough of your night. You don’t have to stay out here with me. If you want to get back on—”

“And leave you to the sharks?” he said.

She jerked her head up. “Sharks?”

“Just kidding,” he said. “It’s rare to see one in this area.”

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“And besides,” he added, “maybe we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot earlier, but do you really think I’d leave you out here by yourself?”

“I guess not,” she said.

“I’d be liable if anything happened to you.”

“Of course,” she said, feeling suddenly deflated by the obvious explanation.

A LITTLE OVER an hour later, Cole helped Kate back onto the boat, wondering what had possessed him to put himself in this position. She’d been sick, and his only thought had been to help her. He’d then spent a half hour in the ocean with his arm around her waist, calling himself a select range of names for getting involved. He’d never known anyone to die of seasickness, and besides if Harry had woken up and found him in the water with her, he’d never hear the end of it.

He cut the thought off there, leaving the raft in the water for now and telling himself the sooner he got her back to her cabin the better.

She unbuckled the vest and shrugged out of it. The white cotton gown was now plastered to her skin, the fabric clearly outlining the shape of her body.

He quickly averted his gaze, the night air noticeably warmer on his face.

She dropped the vest to the deck and looked up at him, folding her arms across her chest as if just realizing how revealing the gown was. “Thanks for your help,” she said. “I’ll be all right now.”

She headed across the deck and disappeared beneath the stairs. He gathered up the life jackets and put them away. That woman should come with her own set of warning labels. He’d only known her a matter of hours, and yet something told him she was trouble.

He didn’t know how he knew.

He just did.

KATE SLEPT THROUGH most of the next day, waking up around midmorning to realize she had missed her kitchen duty call. She managed to quell her disappointment and went back to sleep.

At some point during the afternoon, a knock sounded at her door, and Harry stepped inside with a tray.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. “Cole asked me to bring you this. Potato soup and crackers.”

She lifted up on one elbow, still not sure she could force anything down. Her stomach was so sore it hurt to move.

“I know it probably doesn’t sound too good,” he said, “but you really should eat it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Could you just put it on the nightstand? I’ll give it a try.”

He set the tray next to the bed. “Cole said you had a rough time of it.”

“It was pretty awful,” she admitted, dropping back onto the pillow, surprised by her own weakness. “I’m sure I left him with a lasting impression.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Harry said. “So he threw you overboard, huh?”

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