was buzzing from exhaustion and stress. He hadn’t slept, really slept, since before his uncle died, or that’s how it felt. His neck was stiffer than dried rope, his eyes gritty.
His intent was to crash, long and hard-but not until he’d checked on Cate. She’d been on his mind nonstop, above, beyond and below anything else going on. Still, first he needed to stop at his cabin. Just hiking around the boat had given him a cold dose of wet sea, so he figured he’d drop off his wet jacket and shoes in his cabin before knocking on hers.
He unlocked his door, and before even stepping in, sensed immediately that something was odd.
He closed the door, stood still. No sound intruded in the silence. The Alaskan eternal twilight should have provided more ambient light, even this late, but the gloomy rain clouds had darkened the skies. His cabin was a muzzy charcoal, wasn’t going to get better until his eyes adjusted.
Quietly, he peeled off his wet jacket and heeled off his deck shoes, every sense still on red alert, trying to identify the “something” that was off. The instinct of danger overwhelmed his senses, hitched his breathing. After everything that had happened, he was prepared for anything. Or he told himself he was.
But it seemed…his gaze narrowed as his vision finally adjusted to the darkness…it seemed that his accelerated heart rate was responding to an entirely different kind of danger than any he could have anticipated. The “odd” thing, he identified, was the lump in his bed. The small, long lump under the blankets.
Slowly, he reached for his belt, unlatched it.
“If that’s Goldilocks,” he said lowly, “I’m not sure if you’re in the right bed.” The pants followed the belt to the floor; then he yanked the pullover over his head. “Were you looking for the big bear, the medium bear or the just right bear?”
“It is Goldilocks, and I’m only interested in the big bear.” The voice was as small as the body.
“Well, damn. You’ve got the right one then.”
But he wasn’t totally up for joking, even as he lifted the first layer of sheet and blanket and slid in. She shrieked, not the most seductive sound he’d ever heard. Possibly his skin struck her as ice-cold, at least compared to her nice, warm body. But he wasn’t actually trying to lay hands on her, only to tuck her in tight around the neck, make sure there were no air leaks.
“Listen, Ms. Trouble. I want you here. I want you sleeping here, because it’s a better bed, and I know you’re safe, and I want you next to me. But that’s it. You were not only hurt, you put out another 500 percent day. You need rest. And you’re going to get it.”
She edged up on an elbow, undoing all that meticulous tucking and safekeeping he’d done. “Yeah, right,” she murmured, and then pounced.
He was going to mention that he’d never met a woman he couldn’t seduce. He was going to also add that even his ex-wives never had a complaint about his lovemaking. That he’d always taken the lead, because he was damned good at taking charge-and taking charge of giving a woman pleasure was one of his favorite skills. Furthermore, women liked it slow. Which he knew. And catered to.
But my God. He couldn’t get anything said. Hell. He couldn’t even get a thought to stick in his head long enough to consider saying it.
She swarmed him-took him over, took him under-with warm, liquid kisses. With hands that kneaded and teased and took. Her hands seemed intent on learning any and everything that could conceivably rile him beyond sanity.
Brazen fingers strayed over his chest, then down, past his abdomen, finally closing over him as if she owned him, which at that moment, she did, lock stock and barrel. She squeezed tight, then stroked and explored some more. Above ground zero, a brazen tongue discovered his Adam’s apple, his earlobe, his mouth, after which she took her kisses lower. Those lips of hers snaked down at the same speed as her hands.
She disappeared under the covers.
Not a good sign.
Harm was beyond worried-about his good men, about his one rotten apple. About her. About trouble he’d brought on this boat. About Fiske. About failing his uncle and his uncle’s legacy.
But for the first time in hours, in days-possibly in his entire life-he could allow some of that responsibility to slip.
Conceivably, he didn’t really have a choice.
She took him in. Some way, somehow, for him she kept turning into the eternal woman. He knew that was idiotic thinking, but that was the whole range of emotions she invoked in him. Everything was about her and her boundless capacity for giving, for feeling, for being.
Like now. She teased him with her mouth, her tongue, her fingertips. Then twisted around before he could retaliate, and rubbed against him, with her breasts, her pelvis. She laughed with her low throaty whisper…then tickled a fingernail down his ribs…then slicked up his torso with her whole body like a cuddling cat…then sat on him, straddling his hips, weaving side to side, feeling the heavy hard shape of him, but not just joining. Just offering an engraved invitation. Over and over.
Until he’d had it.
She knew how to get a man in a rage, that was for damn sure.
By the time he scooped her beneath him, he didn’t know or care what his own name was, didn’t care if he lost everything he owned, didn’t care if he never had another thing. As long as he could have her. Then. Right then.
Yet he impaled her with a tender, slow slide, wanting both of them to feel the possession, the possibilities. The soar from there clutched them both…then set them free.
She called his name on a long, soft sigh, both of them holding tight long before the spasms of pleasure had eased. Finally, he sank back, pulling her on top of him. Her skin was as slick as his, her breathing as ragged as his.
He smiled, even in the darkness. And kissed her until she dropped off into a deep sleep.
In the middle of the night, he found her curled around him like a scarf, draped every which way, tucked up everywhere she could touch. Yet she suddenly reared up on her elbows, and said out of nowhere, “No.”
“No what?” Apparently, he’d been stroking her back, just a light caress, nothing that was meant to wake or trouble her.
“No, you’re not going to have insomnia tonight. You think I wasted all that energy and effort seducing you just so you could spend another night worrying? How are you going to think if you don’t get some rest? Now that’s it. Go to sleep.”
“I think it’s possible,” he marveled, “that the only bossier person than you…happens to be me.”
Her cheek nuzzled back against his shoulder. “Don’t divert the issue. Suck it up and go to sleep.”
“You think you seduced me, huh?”
“I know I did.” Her voice was very sleepy, very smug.
He tried to understand it-how he could conceivably have fallen in love with such an impossible, contrary woman. She was full of herself and irrepressible and listened to no one. She was a hopelessly free spirit.
He was completely the opposite.
It was easy to recognize their differences. It was impossibly hard to believe he’d never see her again, once they landed in Juneau.
Murder and mayhem were cupcake-size problems by comparison.
Being with Cate was a problem he had to solve-before it was too late.
Cate slipped out of bed while Harm was still sleeping. She tiptoed from the room, carrying her clothes, determined not to wake him. She knew how exhausted he had to be. After a fast shower, she headed top deck.
She could see Hans had already pulled anchor, was installed in the pilothouse, sailing full bore toward Juneau. She popped open the door. “You need coffee?”
“I’d die for a cup,” he said. “How’s the head and bruises?”
“Colorful. And I confess I’m creaking a little this morning.” She was stiff, so darned if she could imagine why her mood was sky-high. “Do we know how Ivan is?”
“Mad as a hornet. I don’t know what got to him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he took an emetic. He looked a shade paler than death this morning, but he’s alive. Tried to get up. Couldn’t. I do think he’ll be all right, but don’t think we’ll see him for a while yet.”
