Twelve Nights Of Temptation

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

One (#u2d7a2707-8c40-5f23-89e2-f85e074b259d)

A banging on Tasha Lowell’s bedroom door jarred her awake. It was midnight in the Whiskey Bay Marina staff quarters, and she’d been asleep for less than an hour.

“Tasha?” Marina owner Matt Emerson’s voice was a further jolt to her system, since she’d been dreaming about him.

“What is it?” she called out, then realized he’d never hear her sleep-croaky voice. “What?” she called louder as she forced herself from beneath the covers.

It might be unseasonably warm on the Pacific Northwest coast, but it was still December, the holiday season, and the eight-unit staff quarters building had been around since the ’70s.

“Orca’s Run broke down off Tyree, Oregon.”

“What happened?” she asked reflexively as she crossed the cold wooden floor on her bare feet. Even as she said the words, she knew it was a foolish question. Wealthy, urbane Matt Emerson wouldn’t know an injector pump from an alternator.

She swung the door open, coming face-to-face with the object of what she suddenly remembered had been a very R-rated dream.

“The engine quit. Captain Johansson says they’re anchored in the bay.”

This was very bad news. Tasha had been chief mechanic at Whiskey Bay Marina for less than two weeks, and she knew Matt had hesitated in giving her the promotion. He’d be right to hold her responsible for not noticing a problem with Orca’s Run’s engine or not anticipating some kind of wear and tear.

“I serviced it right before they left.” She knew how important this particular charter was to the company.

Orca’s Run was a ninety-foot yacht, the second largest in the fleet. It had been chartered by Hans Reinstead, an influential businessman out of Munich. Matt had recently spent considerable effort and money getting a toehold in the European market, and Hans was one of his first major clients. The last thing Whiskey Bay Marina needed was for the Reinstead family to have a disappointing trip.

Tasha grabbed the red plaid button-down shirt she’d discarded on a chair and put it on over her T-shirt. Then she stepped into a pair of heavy cargo pants, zipping them over her flannel shorts.

Matt watched her progress as she popped a cap on top of her braided hair. Socks and work boots took her about thirty seconds, and she was ready.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“What?” She didn’t understand the question.

“You’re ready to go?”

She glanced down at herself, then looked back into the dim bedroom. “I’m ready.” The necessities that most women carried in a purse were in the zipped pockets of her pants.

For some reason, he gave a crooked smile. “Then let’s go.”

“What’s funny?” she asked as she fell into step beside him.

“Nothing.”

They started down the wooden walkway that led to the Whiskey Bay Marina pier.

“You’re laughing,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“You’re laughing at me.” Did she look that bad rolling straight out of bed? She rubbed her eyes, lifted her cap to smooth her hair and tried to shake some more sense into her brain.

“I’m smiling. It’s not the same thing.”

“I’ve amused you.” Tasha hated to be amusing. She wanted people, especially men, especially her employer, to take her seriously.

“You impressed me.”

“By getting dressed?”

“By being efficient.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t quite sexist...maybe...

She let it drop.

They went single file down the ramp with him in the lead.

“What are we taking?” she asked.

“Monty’s Pride.”

The answer surprised her. Monty’s Pride was the biggest yacht in the fleet, a 115-footer, refurbished last year to an impeccably high standard. It was obvious what Matt intended to do.

“Do you think we’ll need to replace Orca’s Run?” She’d prefer to be optimistic and take the repair boat instead. Monty’s Pride would burn an enormous amount of fuel getting to Tyree. “There’s a good chance I can fix whatever’s gone wrong.”

“And if you can’t?”

“What did the captain say happened?” She wasn’t ready to admit defeat before they’d even left the marina.

“That it quit.”

It was a pathetic amount of information.

“Did it stop all of a sudden?” she asked. “Did it slow? Was there any particular sound, a smell? Was there smoke?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You should have asked.”