The Mighty Quinns: Marcus, Ian & Declan: The Mighty Quinns: Marcus / The Mighty Quinns: Ian / The Mighty Quinns: Declan

“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.

Reluctantly she placed her fingers in his outstretched palm. He smiled at her and suddenly her anger and humiliation dissolved. “I prefer to think of it as a good grasp of the reality that is my life.” She stepped back onto the ladder and he helped her into the cockpit.

Eden stood in front of him, her hand still tucked in his, his eyes locked on hers. She felt her knees tremble as he leaned toward her and she knew she was about to be kissed. But all her emotions had been rubbed raw, and if he kissed her, Eden knew it wouldn’t stop there. She wanted more, something to soothe the pain and make her forget. But she and Marcus had formed a friendship of sorts, a trust that went beyond their physical attraction. That’s what she needed to sustain her right now.

She stepped back, tugging her hand from his. “If I’m going to stay, maybe we shouldn’t … you know …”

“What? We shouldn’t swim after eating? Shouldn’t eat mangoes unless they’re ripe? Shouldn’t watch television in the dark?” he prompted teasingly.

“I usually rush into things without thinking,” she said. “And look where it’s gotten me. Maybe we should … take a breath? Slow down a bit?”

He considered her request for a long moment. Eden couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or indifferent. “Well, if that’s the deal, then you’d better start wearing clothes while you’re on board. No more skinny-dipping, no more topless sunbathing, no more transparent little dresses without underwear. And no more morning coffee in the nude.”

“Then you’re all right with slowing things down?” Eden asked.

“It’s not my decision,” he said. “It’s yours.”

She considered his answer for a long moment. Suddenly she didn’t want to slow down. If anything, she wanted him more than she had before he’d gotten all noble and heroic on her. “If I want to sunbathe topless, I certainly can,” Eden said.

“Then don’t expect me to keep my hands to myself,” Marcus warned.

Eden stared at him, trying to keep from smiling. She felt so alive inside when they were at odds, the anticipation of surrender enhanced by antagonism. “You forget that you only work here, Barney. This is my father’s boat and I can do whatever I please. If I want to take off all my clothes right now, I could. And there wouldn’t be anything you could do about it.”

“First, you’re usually wearing next to nothing anyway, so it wouldn’t come as much of a shock. Second, I’ve seen it all before. And finally, if you choose to do this, then be prepared to suffer the consequences.” Marcus grabbed the gallon of varnish he’d brought on board and turned toward the foredeck.

Eden stared after him. The consequences? Somehow she couldn’t quite believe that the consequences would cause any sort of suffering at all. In truth, the consequences of tempting Marcus Quinn would probably be sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

With a sigh, Eden picked up a suitcase and dragged it to the aft companionway. It was only a matter of time. And any thoughts that either one of them had about keeping their relationship platonic were simply the fantasies of two very deluded people.

MARCUS SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the foredeck, his back braced against the side of the cabin, a small slab of teak jammed up against a stanchion. He’d been working on a series of carvings for the cabinetry above the double berth in the master suite—fish and crustaceans and other underwater life. He’d been working on the crab for the past few days and was nearly finished.

A shadow blocked his light, and he glanced up to see Eden standing over him. “That’s nice, Barney,” she said.

“Thanks.” Marcus squinted against the setting sun. “You’re in my light.”

“I thought you might like some dinner. I made a salad and some sandwiches.”

He levered to his feet and brushed the wood shavings from his lap. “Yeah, I could eat.”

Their fight earlier that day had been forgotten and Eden seemed to be much more relaxed. He couldn’t say the same for himself. He found himself aching to touch her again, but then he remembered the agreement.

Hell, it wasn’t an agreement at all. Instead, it had become some sick brand of sadomasochistic torture.

It was as if they’d silently agreed it wouldn’t happen and now they were just prolonging the agony to make it more pleasurable for the both of them when it did. Marcus had spent every hour since she’d come on board thinking about stripping off her clothes and yanking her down on the bed and slowly burying himself inside her. If they didn’t consummate this relationship soon, Marcus was going to be left with no choice but to take matters into his own hands—or hand.

Marcus followed Eden back to the cockpit as he pondered their relationship. It was a word he’d avoided for so long, but there was no other way to describe what they’d been sharing. They did seem to get along—they talked and laughed all the time. And there was an undeniable sexual chemistry between them. He wanted her more than he could ever remember wanting a woman. Didn’t that pretty much define what a relationship was? Sure, it was primarily based on uncontrolled lust, but that wasn’t all bad, was it?

When he stepped into the cockpit, Marcus noticed the table she’d set, this one much less elaborate than the one last night. Candles flickered from little glass cups, and a bottle of wine had been uncorked. Eden pointed to a spot beside her at the table. He sat down and poured himself a glass of wine, then filled her glass, as well.

“Should we make a toast?” he asked.

“And what would we toast?” she asked, sliding into place next to him.

He held up his glass. “To … friendship,” Marcus said.

Eden raised her eyebrow, then shrugged. “All right. To friendship.”

Marcus took a quick taste of the wine, then dug into the salad she’d prepared. He’d never been much for lettuce, but it tasted pretty good, kind of tangy and sweet at the same time. She’d made a ham-and-cheese sandwich with the Italian bread he’d bought, but she’d sliced little dill pickles onto the sandwich, adding a taste that wasn’t all that bad.

She watched him as he ate, slowly sipping her wine and picking at her salad. “It’s good,” he said.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a useless bimbo who only knows how to shop and party.”

“That’s not what I think of you,” he said.

“I’m an expert at grilled cheese and hot dogs and that’s about it. My mother was gone a lot, so I usually ate supper with Maria, our housekeeper in Malibu. She used to make the best Mexican food.”

“I love Mexican food,” Marcus said.

“Well, I ate it, but I never learned to cook it. Another thing I’m completely mediocre at.”

Marcus grabbed his glass and sat back in his chair. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Talk about yourself in such a negative way. I know you’re not useless or a bimbo. And I know there are a lot of things you probably do very well.”

“Do you? I don’t think you really know me at all.”

“Then tell me,” Marcus said, setting his fork down. “I’d like to know more about you.”

She regarded him with a suspicious look. “You want to know about the videotape, don’t you?”

“If that’s where you want to start, then go for it,” Marcus said.

“If I’m going to tell you about the video, then you need to tell me something about yourself first.” “Ask me anything,” Marcus said. “Why do you have an Irish accent?” “I don’t,” Marcus said.

“You do. I noticed it the moment I met you. It’s there, but it’s very faint.”

“I grew up in Ireland,” Marcus explained. “My ma got sick when I was about five years old, and my da sent me and my two brothers to live with my grandmother. We were there for eight years. I had a really thick accent when I got back, but I learned to hide it. Hiding it helped me survive at school.”