Marcus

salt air.

Twisting the shirt in her hands, she moved to the small cabinet next to the berth and picked through his selection of bedtime reading: a dog-eared paperback by Tom Clancy, two Horatio Hornblower books that she recognized from the ship’s library and a book on antique tools. Beneath the books, Eden found a stack of magazines and flipped through them. “Wooden Boat, Science Digest, The New Yorker,” she read, happy to see there were no girlie magazines. But when she reached the bottom of the pile, Eden froze. “The National Inquisitor.”

Her heart twisted in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. The headline was splashed across the top half of the cover. “Eden’s Sexcapade Caught on Tape.” Below the headline was the horribly grainy photo of her and Ricardo locked in a steamy embrace, the same photo that had appeared in the European magazines. She knew it was her. The Cartier watch was a dead giveaway.

Strange how she’d reached the level of celebrity where she’d become known by her first name only. There was no mistaking who they were talking about. There was only one Eden stupid enough to get herself mixed up in such a mess.

She slowly sat down on the edge of the bunk. What was Marcus doing with this? Had he picked it up at the grocery store yesterday? If he had, then that meant her father probably knew all about it by now. Tears of humiliation pressed at the corners of her eyes.

She’d come looking for clues about him and instead found everything he needed to pass judgment on her, all the sordid little details of her past, regurgitated once again for the public to savor. A sob welled up in her throat and she hurried out of the cabin, his shirt and the tabloid still clutched in her hands.

“Why the hell did he have to be here?” she muttered as she strode back to her stateroom. She’d wanted to spend some time alone, to figure out how to deal with the mess she’d made of her life. And now, because Marcus Quinn was here, she’d be forced to explain it all to him-a complete stranger!

Well, she certainly didn’t owe him any explanations. And if he came looking for them, then she just wouldn’t be here to make them. Eden grabbed her bags from beneath the berth and tossed them onto the bed. She didn’t bother to fold her clothes. The sooner she got off the boat, the better.

But as she stuffed her underwear into the suitcase, Eden realized that she couldn’t get off the boat with her belongings unless she threw her suitcases overboard and floated them back to the dock. Marcus had taken the dinghy.

She wasn’t about to ruin a custom-made set of Goyard. She loved her luggage. Over the past few years, it had been the only constant in her life, and balanced against the humiliation of seeing Marcus again, she’d definitely choose to save the luggage rather than save face.

Eden grabbed a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt and tugged them on. It was always best to dress down when she traveled. With sunglasses, a hat and a wrinkled linen jacket, she had about a twenty-percent chance of going unnoticed. She would head back to Manhattan, get a suite at the Belleville and hide out for a few days until she figured out her next move.

It wasn’t the Ritz or the Four Seasons or the Peninsula, but she’d be safe there. The staff at the trendy Hotel Belleville were perfectly discreet, and she loved the Frette bathrobes and the French breakfasts and the handsome Italian concierge who always did his best to make her laugh. And the hotel was usually off the tabloid radar.

Once she was dressed and packed, Eden dragged her luggage up to the cockpit. She was nearly finished when she heard the dinghy approach. Marcus waved at her, but Eden didn’t respond, watching him from behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. He tied the dinghy behind the boat and crawled up the swim ladder, swinging a gallon of varnish up onto the deck.

He saw her luggage and stopped, a frown creasing his brow. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked, stepping into the cockpit.

Eden avoided his gaze. In fact, she avoided looking at him at all, avoided his broad shoulders and his narrow hips, his thick hair curled at the nape of his neck and his deep blue eyes. Even now, in the midst of her hurt and humiliation, she ached to touch him.

“I’m leaving,” she murmured. “I was just waiting for you to get back with the dinghy.”

“Life on board gotten a little too boring for you?” he asked.

She heard the sarcasm in his voice and it cut deep. Of course that’s what he’d think. He’d assume she was ready to jet back to Europe and throw herself into the middle of another scandal. “It’s just time to leave,” she said.

“Does this have anything to do with what happened last night?” Marcus asked. “Because I realize it didn’t mean anything to you. And that’s all right. We were just…scratching an itch.”

“It’s nice to know that you think of me as an itch,” she said. “It’s better than a slut or a whore.”

He blinked, taken aback by her candor. “What are you talking about? I never-”

“Oh, be honest, Barney. You can tell me what you really think of me. Everyone else seems to have an opinion. I bet the clerk at the grocery store thinks she knows me well enough to comment. And the guy at the gas station, I’m sure he has a few choice words.” Eden reached down and grabbed the copy of the Inquisitor from the front pocket of her tote, then tossed it at him. “I found that in your cabin. I’m sure it was much more entertaining than the Tom Clancy novel.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you spent money on that. I would have told you the truth for free had you asked.”

“I didn’t buy that,” he said.

“Oh, are they giving them away on every street corner? I shouldn’t be surprised. Hometown girl gone bad. Makes an interesting story.” Eden grabbed her bags and hauled them to the stern of the boat, then struggled to crawl down the swim ladder to the dinghy. But the weight of her suitcase set her off balance and she nearly lost her grip on the ladder. An instant later, Marcus grabbed the bag and pulled it back on board.

“Give me my suitcase,” she said. “I want to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he said.

Eden stared up at him for a long moment. In truth, she didn’t want to go for so many reasons. The prospect of facing the public was terrifying to her. The photographers would hound her twenty-four hours a day. People would stare and point and laugh-and then they’d have the nerve to ask her for an autograph or a photo. Eden wasn’t sure she possessed the energy to get through it without falling apart at the seams.

But the prospect of staying with Marcus was even more difficult to bear. He’d look at her differently now. He’d wonder whether what they shared was something she’d shared with other men. He’d question her motives every time she touched him. And in the end, distrust and jealousy would set in and everything good would be ruined.

“Give me my luggage,” she said.

Marcus shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Fine. Then I’ll leave without it. Once I get settled, I’ll send for it.” She jumped off the bottom of the ladder into the dinghy, then sat down in the back of the little fiberglass boat and stared at the outboard. She’d ridden in the dinghy in the past, but someone else had always ferried her back and forth to the ketch.

She reached for the starter cord and gave it a yank, but it snapped back and nearly pulled her shoulder out of joint in the process. She pulled again, but the same thing happened. Tears threatened and Eden swallowed them back. She stood up, prepared to swim back to shore, but his voice stopped her.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” he said.

Eden drew a shaky breath and looked up at him. “What?”

“What I read in that tabloid. I know that’s not you, Eden. At least not all of it. And maybe the rest is what was you, last week or last month or last year.”

“Three years ago,” she said.

He nodded. “That’s a long time ago.”

“You don’t know me,” she said.

“I realize that. But that could change…if you stayed.”

“Are you asking me to stay because you want to sleep with me?”

Marcus chuckled and shook his head. “Are you under the impression that all men want to sleep with you?”

“No,” she said, a reluctant smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “The gay ones don’t. And probably most of the guys over seventy don’t. But the rest do. They may not admit it, but they would if presented with the opportunity.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you, Princess?” Marcus said, holding out his hand.