Wife By Deception. Donna Sterling

family friend had a safe trip back to Terrebonne Parish. If anyone could calm a distressed baby, it was Joey. She’d have her smiling in no time.

      Wishing he could be there to see it, Mitch swept his gaze distractedly over the neat back deck of the shrimp boat. “Are we ready to go, Remy?”

      “Mais, oui, Cap’n.” A frown etched deep grooves in his forehead. “Da boat’s ready, yes, but…”

      “And your deckhands found transportation home?”

      “Dey went out wit’ another boat last night. But—”

      “Then fire up the engine while I get the rest of our, uh, crew.” Mitch turned away, deliberately ignoring the protest he knew Remy would make about leaving the dock today. He was in no mood to argue. And since Mitch was acting as captain on this trip, Remy would concede to his wishes.

      Mitch himself would breathe a lot easier when he had his wily prisoner safely offshore…on his turf, so to speak. She couldn’t cause much trouble out there.

      As he disembarked from the boat and strode back toward the van, though, he suddenly wasn’t too sure of that. She probably could cause trouble if she put her mind to it. She obviously had depths to her character that he hadn’t seen before.

      Maybe it was time to change his strategy in dealing with her. Maybe he should follow her lead and play the game her way. If she believed herself to be winning him over, she’d be less likely to try something rash at sea. After all, if hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, he didn’t want to court that fury while captaining the Lady Jeanette.

      He’d simply have to hide his scorn. He’d treat her with the respect he’d show any woman—under normal circumstances—and engage her in conversation. He’d even play along with her amnesia tale if she persisted in it. Maybe he could get her talking. The more he knew about her life since she’d left him, the better prepared he’d be in court. And, of course, the more she talked, the better chance he had of tripping her up in the lie.

      Before they reached port in Terrebonne Parish, he’d give her plenty of rope to hang herself.

      KATE NOTICED a subtle difference in him the moment he returned to the van. It had to do with the open, friendly way he met her gaze as he settled into the back seat beside her and the warmer tone of his voice when he addressed her. “The boat’s ready. The weather’s holding out. The sea is calm. We should have a pretty smooth start to our trip.” He almost smiled at her. Though his mouth didn’t actually curve, the very end tilted slightly upward. His new amiability was enough to make her gape at him. “Let’s go.”

      Darryl muttered something agreeable in the front seat, gathered things together and climbed from the van.

      Kate scooted across the seat toward the door, her mind reeling. She’d barely recognized Mitch without his usual hostility and coldness. He seemed years younger, and a thousand times more…civilized. What had caused the change in his demeanor? Maybe the fact that they’d soon be out to sea, and on their way to “his neck of the woods.”

      Regardless of what had caused the difference, she devoutly welcomed it. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she’d been longing for a break from the anger directed at her. She simply wasn’t used to being treated with hostility. Even if his pleasantness went no deeper than common courtesy, she welcomed the comparative warmth like a flower starving for sunlight.

      When she reached the doorway where Mitch stood, Kate peered at him to see if she’d imagined the softening in his attitude. This time, he smiled. A slow, lazy smile—one that bracketed his mouth with deep dimples and emphasized the vertical cleft in his square chin; one that lit golden highlights in his eyes, like sunshine glinting on a dark green sea.

      Kate roused herself from a sudden stupor to realize her heart was pounding and her breathing had stopped. Good heavens, his smile transformed him. He had to be one of the most handsome, sexiest men she’d ever seen—all rough-hewn masculinity, sun-bronzed flesh, contoured muscle…with a breathtaking smile, yet. Even the laugh lines fanning from the corners of his green eyes added a rugged appeal.

      “I’ve been a little…brusque, haven’t I?” he said.

      Still dazed from his smile, she blinked, unsure she’d heard him correctly.

      The smile mellowed into one of thoughtful contrition. “Camryn, I’m sorry for how I treated you today. I shouldn’t have been so…rough. I guess I overreacted.”

      Astonishment left her momentarily speechless. He was apologizing. When she found her voice, all she thought to utter was “Y-yes.”

      “We have a serious matter to settle, but there’s no reason we can’t act civilized while we settle it.”

      “Civilized,” she repeated, nodding in wholehearted agreement and tenuous relief. Surely a man who looked you straight in the eye and apologized with such sincerity wouldn’t take you out on the high seas and murder you. Or drag you in a try-net. Would he?

      With a satisfied nod, he reached out and settled his hands on her upper arms.

      The unexpected contact startled her. Was he going to seal their presumed truce with a hug, or a kiss? A dizzying heat rushed through her at the thought.

      His callused hands swept down her arms, brought her wrists together…and held them fast in one large palm while he reached beside him for the handcuffs. “I know you don’t like being cuffed,” he said in the same warm, amiable tone in which he’d apologized, “but it’ll only be until we leave port and clear the channel.” The cuffs locked around her wrists with an annoying click.

      That effectively dispelled her stupor. “I thought you said we were going to act civilized. Do you call this civilized?” she demanded, lifting her bound wrists for emphasis.

      “Until I know you won’t try to escape, I have to take precautions.” He somehow managed to make that seem reasonable. “Once we’re at sea, I’ll release you.”

      Annoyance stirred in her, and she wondered if he’d keep that promise. “I won’t try to escape. I want to see the judge as much as you do.”

      “Good.” He flashed her another smile, and she noticed the whiteness of his teeth against the bronze of his skin, and the golden highlights in his hair. Before she knew what he was about, he hooked his hand around her waist and scooped her up into his arms.

      “I can walk!” she protested.

      “No need.”

      She glared at him, resentful of the handcuffs, distrustful of his new friendliness and flustered by his physical closeness. With iron-strong arms, he held her tightly against his chest as he carried her. He smelled of sea salt, the summer Gulf breeze, exotic places and clean male sweat—an intensely masculine scent, somehow. Enticing.