“As often as I can, which isn’t as often as I like. And the season seems to get shorter every year.”
“Are we going for a sail?”
“That’s my plan.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know a mast from a jib.”
“I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry.” He motioned for her to step closer. “Here, let me help you board. We wouldn’t want you to wind up bobbing around in Lake Michigan in that gown.”
He surprised her with a smile as he said it, reaching out for her waist to help her aboard. She rested her hands on his shoulders, transfixed by the rare smile and offering one of her own in return. Neither of them saw the photographer until they heard the unmistakable whirring of a camera’s motor.
“Oh, no! Stop!” Catherine cried, bringing up her hands to shield her face.
Stephen’s exclamation was far more graphic. And from his murderous expression she thought he might hop back onto the deck and dump the guy in Lake Michigan, camera and all.
“Get below,” he called, pushing her in the direction of the cabin.
The man snapped off several more frames before Stephen managed to shove off from the dock. But Catherine had a feeling the first shot, the one of Stephen smiling as his hands spanned her waist, would be the one that graced the cover of whatever publication the guy worked for. She could only imagine what the accompanying copy would say, especially if the camera angle had also caught her smiling back.
Stephen might prefer sailing, but he used the boat’s motor to take them out to open waters. Lake Michigan’s vastness was the perfect place to hide in plain sight from the paparazzi. They could hear and see any approaching watercraft long before anyone aboard could click their picture.
She came above deck when she was sure they were safely out of range of even a telephoto lens, and settled onto one of the white padded benches near the wheel where Stephen stood. Just for a moment he reminded her of a pirate. He had shed his suit coat and black tie, and opened the collar of his white shirt, exposing more golden-brown skin. His cuffs were rolled to the forearm. The look on his face was one of relaxed satisfaction. Where he had looked debonair in a tuxedo, now he simply looked dangerous.
Arranging the folds of her gown around her on the bench, she thought it a pity that her own clothing was not so easily converted to casual. She had taken off the veil and tried to bustle her gown without much success. But at least she had finally shed those crippling shoes.
They were still using the boat’s low-horsepower motor, which made their progress relatively slow. The motor was only intended for days when the wind failed to co-operate. That wasn’t a problem on this evening. She had little doubt that if they had hoisted the sails they would have been halfway to Michigan by now. The wind was strong, breaking small white-caps in the water around them. It ruffled Stephen’s dark hair, and it was probably wreaking havoc with the intricate style she’d spent the better part of the morning with a hairdresser to achieve.
“Ever sail before?” he asked.
“Once, as a child, in a small boat my uncle owned. I remember watching the sail tilt almost parallel to the water.”
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
She recalled only terror and an upset stomach. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Well, it’s not for everyone.”
“But it suits you,” she said. And it did. He didn’t look quite so remote with the wind making his hair dance and excitement lighting up his dark eyes.
“I opened the champagne.” He motioned to the small table in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what they had to toast, and she said as much, but he merely shrugged. “There are glasses in the galley, first cupboard on the right, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”
When she stood to fetch them she stumbled on her dress. Even as her fingers curled around the rail she felt his hands grip her waist, spanning it as he had when he’d helped her board. He turned her slowly and she caught the subtle scent of his aftershave.
“Steady now.”
“If only Vera Wang would make a gown suitable for sailing,” she quipped, suddenly ill at ease.
“If you want to take it off, I have something a little more comfortable you can wear.”
Had the line come from Derek’s mouth it would have been accompanied by a wolfish grin. Stephen merely waited patiently for her reply, no ulterior motive seeming to lurk in his steady gaze. Yet none of her discomfort left.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
He cut the motor and lowered the anchor before following her below deck, where he gave her the grand tour in under a minute. The cabin had two sleeping quarters, a tiny stall of a bathroom, and a main area that functioned as both kitchen and living room.
“It’s small, but efficient,” he said as if reading her mind. “And, unlike Derek, I don’t need an entire crew to take her out.”
That distinction would be important to him, she decided.
He opened the door to the bathroom and pulled a white terry-cloth robe from a hook on the wall. Handing it to her, he said, “I don’t think my clothes will fit you. But this should do, even though it’s bound to be too big, too.”
When he started to leave, she cleared her throat. “Stephen. I…need your help.”
He turned slowly, and her breath caught. Limned in the light that streamed from above deck, he seemed otherworldly. And she was about to ask him to help her out of her clothes.
“The buttons.” She motioned over her shoulder. “I can’t undo them by myself.” With a rueful laugh that she hoped would lighten the mood, she admitted, “It took the assistance of two of my bridesmaids to get into this thing.”
He said nothing, merely nodded. She turned as he approached, glad to present him with her back, since she felt suddenly awkward and shy. Perhaps that was because her groom should have been the one to help her out of the dress. Indeed, the exercise could have been considered foreplay.
Stephen obviously didn’t consider it to be any such thing. He worked in silence, and swiftly, considering his hands were large and the pearls small and slippery.
At the base of her spine, however, he paused, lingered. And she thought she understood why.
“It’s a birthmark.” The words were barely above a whisper. With a self-conscious laugh, she admitted, “And the reason I’ve never worn a bikini in my life.”
She could have sworn she felt a fingertip gently trace the large heart-shaped freckle that marred her lower back. But then he was handing her the robe.
“Come up when you’re ready.”
He stopped to retrieve two wineglasses from one of the cupboards in the small galley and then he was gone. Alone, Catherine expelled a breath and tried to find a rational explanation for her shaking hands and pounding heart.
He was sipping champagne when she came above deck, wearing his robe. As he had predicted, it was much too large for her. At five-seven, she hardly considered herself petite, but it dwarfed her frame, hanging nearly to her ankles. Beneath its hem, her bare feet peeked out.
“I poured you a glass.” He motioned to a seat across from his. On the small table between them sat the champagne bottle and an amber-filled flute. He raised his own and sipped again. She sat as well, pulling the robe tightly around her knees, and did the same.
“This can’t be how you intended to spend your evening.”
He shrugged. “The same could be said for you.”
“No.” She smiled sadly. “I thought I’d be Mrs. Derek Danbury by this time, listening to the musicians my mother