they were going to see and do, nothing of business or outside life.
And they all sucked up to Harm. Would he like this, would he like that? Had he done this, would he like to do that? They piled it on so thick, Cate didn’t figure a shovel could get through it.
Eventually, though, they’d leveled lunch, including a complete annihilation of her peppermint cookies. By then, she’d already leaped up twice to serve coffee and tea, and finally sank back in the chair to enjoy a cup herself, when she abruptly realized the table had gotten quiet. She glanced up, suddenly aware the whole group was staring at her. “What? What?”
“We’re in love with you,” Yale said.
“Completely. All of us,” Purdue contributed, with serious passion in his voice. “We want to be with you. Forever. All of us.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I know. That’s what they all say. And if you think you liked lunch, wait until dinner.”
Cate never left a galley-never left any kitchen-until the counters shone like mirrors, but after that she sneaked away for a break. Since the rain stopped, the men had been freely wandering around the boat, but after that she moved with the stealth of a thief. Once the rain stopped, the men had been wandering freely around the boat, but none of them had discovered the upper-upper deck over the pilothouse yet.
It was all hers.
Although no one would ever know it-it was forbidden-she’d been sleeping up here every night unless it rained. At night, it was colder than a well-digger’s ankle, but she didn’t care, didn’t care that the narrow white deck was slick with rain right now. She leaned on the rail, just breathing in the breathtaking view. Damn, but this really was Alaska.
Mountains speared up from the endless sea. A watery sun painted the water with the sheen and depth of black diamonds. Tufts of emerald-green softened the craggy land masses, and pines reached tall enough to touch the sky. She spotted an eagle, then another, perched high and regal, reigning over their kingdoms. The air was so fresh it stung her lungs. Something leaped in the water…something bigger than she was. She snuggled deeper into her old Sherpa fleece and inhaled the peace.
Sometimes, rarely, she remembered the god-awful time when her parents died, the fire, the night she and her sisters lost everything they’d ever known or loved. Lily and Sophie dwelled on it more than she did. Cate still experienced the loss in nightmares…but moments like this reminded her what enabled her to build a life alone, no matter what it took.
The big yacht barely made a sound as it skimmed through the water. Everything around her was extraordinarily quiet, extraordinarily huge. A person seemed awfully small in a landscape this isolated, this totally wild. The smells, tastes, sights and sounds were all exotic, all breathtaking.
She was still savoring the scenery when she suddenly heard voices below. Loud voices. Angry voices.
She held her breath, listening, confused as to where the sounds were coming from-inside the boat, for sure, but not as close as the pilothouse or galley. Maybe from the dining room or salon just beyond that. She wasn’t close enough to make out any specific words, but the nature of conversation filtered through. Two men were talking.
Incorrect thought, she decided. They were fighting.
And they weren’t just a little angry with each other. From the tone, from the nature of voices, they were both furious. Rage-furious. Vicious-furious.
She gulped, then gulped again. She told herself that people argued all the time. Some people fought nice; others fought mean and loud. And men sometimes used anger like fiber, just a way to clear out their systems, an easy purge.
But the way her pulse rate was suddenly hiccupping-as if adrenaline was shooting up her veins-she knew this wasn’t likely some impassioned argument about politics or ball scores. Something was wrong, really wrong.
A thump indicated that something was thrown. Then…more loud voices. Then nothing.
A spank-sharp wind slapped her cheeks as she barreled down the ladder. In the next life, when she got around to growing up, she wasn’t going to interfere in other people’s business-ever. But right now she was afraid that thump meant someone had been hurt, and could need help.
That was stupid thinking, she knew. Even if the fight had turned physical, dangerous, she was the last person who had the power to stop it. The problem was, she might well be the only outside person who’d heard it. And the other problem was that she’d never had a brain when someone could be hurt. It was a genetic flaw. Back in school, she’d see a kid hounded by a bully and she’d hurled herself onto the bully’s back, come home bruised and wincing.
She should have learned.
She slid open the door to the salon-and found nothing, except for a chunky book about Alaskan birds on the carpet. It was definitely a sacrilege, in her view, to throw such a gorgeous book, but there was no other sign of a struggle, no blood, nothing.
Shaking her head, she stalked through the dining room into the galley. The argument had made her uneasy, oddly shaken.
Cooking was the answer. Cooking was always the answer. The galley was her nest; she already knew every nook and cranny. Although it was still too early to start dinner prep, she could at least start messing around.
If she couldn’t quiet her nerves, she could at least concentrate on food.
Her theory on the dinner menu was that the guys would need absorbers. It was the first night out, so men being men, they were likely to drink. She’d thumbed through her recipes, looking for food that was easy on the stomach, not too heavy, and settled on pasta puttanesca. The wine choice was still a question, but she’d about decided on a Montenegro.
Ivan had given her a separate budget for the dinner wines. He’d been stingy, but she knew her wines and how to stretch a dollar. The reds from Provence were predictably good…
The galley door suddenly slid open. She must have jumped five feet, even though she could have sworn she’d completely calmed down.
“I know. You’ve got a rule about intruders in your galley. But I was hoping you might have a bandage.”
Harm stood there with a hand over his neck where she could see blood between his fingers.
“What on earth did you do? Get in here!” Men. Such idiots. She pulled open a drawer, grabbed a clean white towel, then pushed his hand away when he failed to remove it fast enough. That close to him, her hormones gave an instantaneous buck, which she tried to ignore. “Who taught you to shave? Attila the Hun? These days we use razors instead of axes.”
“I just figured I’d try to look more civilized before dinner. But it seems I packed an old razor because the blade sure seemed dead.”
“You think?” There were no chairs in the galley, just a stool wedged under the counter-which she pulled out and motioned him to sit in. Impossible for her to get a good look at his neck if she was stuck balancing up on tiptoes.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I just couldn’t stop the bleeding.”
She edged between his legs, took a good look at the cut, then reached above his head for the first-aid kit. “I know it’s nothing. But you’re still getting antiseptic, and yeah, a bandage. Did the blade have rust on it?”
“I don’t think it was that old.” And then, when he saw where she was reaching, he muttered, “Good grief.”
She grinned. Her first-aid kit did rival a complete trauma unit. “Yeah, I know. But the thing is, I’ve got a collection of knives that would make a gangster proud. When a girl works with knives for a living, she unfortunately tends to get cut once in a while, so naturally I’m prepared.”
Instead of sounding reassured, his voice took on a punch of panic. “Wait a minute. What are you going to do?”
She had to chuckle. Only then… She looked at him. She’d stepped between his legs to get a better view and angle on his cut. There was nothing odd about that. It was only now, she realized, that her outer thigh was grazing his inner thigh. And her palm cupped the side of his face, not unlike how a woman would cup her lover’s face for a kiss. And his eyes were on hers, her eyes on his, with enough electricity to crackle up a fire or two.
Where the patooties had that come from?
“Hmm,” she said, and stepped back fast.
The instant she let up pressure, unfortunately, the scrape on his neck immediately started bleeding again. It needed to be cleaned. Then she had to wait until the moisture dried before applying antiseptic. That had to dry
