Chapter One

Marilen Case meandered toward the gangway leading onto the yacht Swashbuckler. Large and white, the boat loomed above her like a fantastic, improbable castle. Layered like a wedding cake, it was topped with a stack, dotted with portholes and trimmed by shiny teak rails.

Hauling an overstuffed duffel bag, she negotiated the gangway and stepped aboard. Her new espadrilles squeaked on the wooden decks, varnished so perfectly that the Bermudan sun bounced off them, hitting her square in the eyes.

Squinting, she regarded the wheelhouse. It rose high above her like a piece of heaven, with access restricted to the secret club of very wealthy people who could afford to own something as extraordinary and wonderful as a yacht.

“Don’t just hang around down there,” a man’s light tenor voice said to her from St. Peter’s gate. “Come on up. We won’t bite.”

Someone else laughed. “Unless you say please.”

Looking up, she narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun, which haloed the blond hair of one of the men. “Come on,” he said again. Yes, she liked his voice a lot. “And leave the bag,” he added.

She dropped her canvas duffel onto the deck and gripped the ladder’s rails with uncertain fingers. Wishing her denim capris weren’t quite so snug, she climbed the seven or so rungs onto the bridge.

Inside, the view of Hamilton harbor was even better than on deck. She gaped at the orderly rows of yachts, sailboats, Zodiacs and other craft that crowded the wharf. Loud seabirds floated on the mild breeze, occasionally dropping to the dock to quarrel with their cousins over a scrap. The clear air of morning held the scents of sea, sky, and raw fish. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” someone commented. She turned her head sharply. A dark man in a grubby white apron grinned at her.

“Sailors,” Marilen muttered.

The men in the wheelhouse roared with mirth at her expense. “Aye, matey,” one of them said with an exaggerated accent.

She rolled her eyes, trying to affect disdain. “Too corny. Which one of you is Captain Freeman?”

“I’m Free,” said the blond man in his pleasant, light tenor. He leaned one hand on a built-in desk cluttered with maps and charts anchored by an assortment of coffee mugs. To his left, a computer screen showed a screensaver of tropical fish swimming over a reef. An empty beer bottle sat on the computer’s open CD port.

She extended her right hand. “I’m Marilen Case.”

He took it, but didn’t release her immediately, as she’d expected. Instead, he held on, keeping her close. “Marilen Case! The same Marilen Case who’s called me at least ten times in the last week?” He inspected her up and down, his gaze lingering on the neckline of her green polo shirt.

Pulling away, Marilen ground her teeth. Damn Blair!

He went on, “The Marilen Case who cross-examined me over E-mail about my birth, my childhood, the registry of this ship, its layout, and the antecedents of my crew?”

“Whoa.” She held up her hand, wishing she’d had the opportunity to get her chewed nails manicured. “When you meet my employers, you’ll understand. I’m only their little slave.”

He scrutinized her, blue eyes laser sharp in a suntanned, angular face. She glared back. No wonder he was so snotty. In her experience, good-looking men often were unbearably arrogant. This one thought he could get away with wearing torn, faded jeans with an aloha shirt open to his waist.

She had to admit he could get away with it, could maybe get away with anything. He had a face and a body few women—and a lot of men—couldn't resist.

Marilen raised her gaze back to his cool eyes and said, “If you’re not too busy, could you show me around? It’s my job to make sure that the rooms—”

“Cabins,” he said.

“Uh, accommodations are appropriate.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to see my pedigree first? Or maybe my genetic code?”

“Cute. Very cute.”

He grinned at her, white teeth a bright flash against his dark skin. His blue eyes twinkled, as if he enjoyed some secret joke. She refused to let him charm her. She had bigger fish to hook and land. Besides, Free’s bleached hair with darker roots meant he spent a lot of time in the sun. He’ll probably get skin cancer before he’s forty, she told herself. And look at those wrinkles!

But she liked those wrinkles, she decided, while descending the ladder after him on the way to the cabins below. She thought his crow’s feet very appealing, testimony of a good-humored character. Hah! snorted the cynical side of her personality. He gets those crow’s feet from squinting, not laughing.

She ignored the stares of the men peeking down at her from the wheelhouse. Her fault. She’d known the damn capris were too tight, and now they’d become a total nuisance, sticking to her thighs in the humidity.

However, Nathan had said he liked these capris, and Marilen did everything she could to please Nathan. She hoped that he’d pop the question during this trip. All the ingredients would be present: romantic cruise, swimming together to explore reefs, long good-night kisses.

If he didn’t, she’d walk. She had to. At twenty-seven, with few marketable skills except as a gofer, she needed to get married. Fast, before she hit the dreaded three-oh and became fat, wrinkled, and ugly.

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From the book Triangle By Sue Swift
Imprint and series: Five Star Expressions.
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