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

“Masturbation?” Dec asked. “Are you askin’ about self-gratification, Ian Quinn? Well, you know what the church says about that. It’s a sin. And besides that, it’ll give you warts, pimples and, if you do it too much, your willy will dry up and fall off and you’ll be turned into a wee girl.”

“I’m not going completely cold turkey,” Ian said.

Dec glanced over at Marcus, then back to Ian. “Well, I suppose we can make one exception to the rule.”

Ian gave his brothers a satisfied nod. “And if I’m going to do this, there better be something worthwhile at the end.”

“A naked woman in your bed isn’t enough?” Dec asked.

“I’m talking money. Let’s put a bet down. We all toss in a thousand bucks. The person who lasts longest after the three months takes the pot.”

“And if you don’t last three months?” Marcus asked.

“Then you throw another thousand in before you’re allowed to break the pact,” Ian said.

Marcus weighed the odds. Hell, he had the best chance of the three of them. And he could use the money. He’d gotten only a small advance from Ross to tide him over until the job was done. And he’d already spent the money he’d gotten for the sloop. “I’m in,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose, so that’s incentive enough.”

“I’m in,” Ian said. “And I intend on winning this bet. I can easily do without women for three months.”

“Game’s on,” Declan said.

He glanced at Marcus, and Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. Dangling from it was the old medallion they’d found in the stable on their grandmother’s estate. It had become like a sacred relic to the three of them. Whenever one of the brothers needed good luck or a charm to swear upon, Marcus brought out the medallion.

“The minute one of us breaks the pact, we call the other two and confess,” Dec said. “The money goes in the pot and the game continues until there’s just one guy left.”

Marcus spit in his hand, then clutched the medallion tight. Ian did the same, then clasped his brother’s hand. Dec followed suit and slapped his hand on top of theirs.

“We meet once a week and we discuss what we’ve learned from our observations,” Ian suggested. “Here’s topic number one just to get us started. Why do women like shoes so much? And given the choice, would a woman prefer a new pair of shoes over a night in bed with either one of you?”

Marcus pondered the question for a long moment. Ian was right—he hadn’t a clue. But he’d have plenty of time to think about his answer once he got on board Trevor Ross’s yacht. He’d also have time to figure out just how he’d spend his brothers’ money.

A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT filtered through the porthole and warmed Marcus Quinn’s face. He slowly opened his eyes, and for a few seconds he was transported back to his childhood, to those days spent playing in the stable at Porter Hall.

He rolled over in the narrow berth and grabbed his wristwatch from the small shelf above his head. Wiping at his bleary eyes, Marcus tried to focus on the time, ignoring the dull ache in his head. “Eight-thirty,” he murmured, sinking back into the pillows.

He’d been out with Ian and Dec last night, playing darts and pool at their favorite pub. For some strange reason, the pub had been filled with beautiful girls, an odd occurrence for a Sunday night and a place that usually didn’t attract much of a female crowd. Unable to handle temptation, they’d ended up back at Ian’s place, playing poker until well past two and discussing their observations on women.

The ketch rocked gently in the water as the waves slapped against the hull. Stretching his naked body beneath the sheets, Marcus closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, the movement of the boat lulling him back toward sleep. He’d been living on board for over a week now and the boat was beginning to feel like home.

He raked his hands through his rumpled hair. But it wasn’t home, it was work. And there was plenty to do today. Marcus swung his legs over the edge of the berth and glanced down at his morning erection, just another reminder that proper relief would be limited to his own devices. He had thought the bet would be easy for him. Marcus had never been a Casanova. But now that he wasn’t allowed to have sex, that’s all he could think about.

He dug through his clothes scattered over the opposite berth in the crew cabin, searching for something clean to wear, then gave up. It was about time to check out the small laundry room aft of the engine room—right after he started a pot of coffee. Marcus wandered sleepily down the narrow companionway, past the two spacious guest cabins.

From the time he could stand on a deck Marcus had loved being on the water. His earliest memories were of his father standing in the wheelhouse of the Mighty Quinn, the family swordfishing boat. Padriag Quinn had sold his interest in the boat to Marcus’s uncle Seamus to help pay for his wife’s medical bills. After bouncing around from boat to boat, grabbing whatever berth he could during the summer season, Paddy had been forced to accompany Seamus south for the winter to bring in more money.

The three-month summer visit became nine years as Emma Quinn valiantly battled cancer and her husband took any job he could find. Marcus’s older brothers, Rory and Eddie, had worked part-time jobs, scraping together enough to contribute to food and rent. His sisters, Mary Grace and Jane, had taken care of the house and their mother.

Even with everyone contributing, things had gotten so bad while the younger boys had been gone, Paddy had sold the family home in Boston and moved them to a tiny cottage in Bonnett Harbor, Rhode Island. There, he’d worked for a boat-repair business on the western shore of Narragansett Bay when he wasn’t fishing, a business he later took over from the elderly owner.

On the very day he and Dec and Ian had returned from Ireland, Marcus had wandered around the boatyard, searching for a solitary spot to regroup. He’d found the old boathouse in the farthest corner of the property and, inside, a small wooden sloop that had been left to ruin. Over the next year, he’d slowly restored the boat, and from that moment on he’d known he was destined to work with his hands—to carve beautiful brightwork and to design sleek wooden sailboats that looked pretty both in and out of the water.

A few years at Rhode Island School of Design were followed by another two years working at IYRS, a school for yacht restoration, setting him on the path to opening his own business. He’d built his first boat while still at IYRS. The twenty-three-foot wooden day-sailer took three months, and by the time he’d finished, Marcus had had three more commissions and enough money to hire two employees. Now, with the possible investment from Trevor Ross, things would start to look up.

Marcus glanced around the spacious lounge of Victorious as he passed through, his feet brushing against the cool teak sole of the boat. The ketch was a designer’s dream, an inspiration for Marcus’s future projects. He enjoyed discovering all the interesting nooks and crannies of the vintage yacht, examining the expensive restoration work. Just the maintenance costs of keeping a wooden boat afloat were ridiculous, but then Ross had money to burn.

As he turned the corner into the galley, Marcus stopped short, the breath leaving his chest. A woman, dressed only in lacy black panties, was bent in front of the icebox, that brief scrap of fabric riding up the curves of her backside. She was dripping wet, water puddling around her feet, her long hair plastered to her back.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, deciding if he ought to step out and throw on some clothes or stand his ground. He didn’t want to give the stowaway a chance to escape. Brushing aside his modesty and ignoring his slowly fading erection, Marcus braced his hands on either side of the door, then cleared his throat. She straightened, then turned and faced him, her face registering mild surprise. Her gaze slowly raked the length of his body, resting a long moment in the area of his crotch. “Good morning,” she murmured, a smile twitching at her lips.

She didn’t seem to be concerned about his lack of clothing—or hers, for that matter. He tried to avoid looking at her breasts, but he couldn’t help himself. Her body was perfect, long-limbed and slender, with a tiny waist that flared out to lovely hips. His eyes drifted back to her breasts, lingering there for just a moment, and he wondered how it might feel to touch her, to cup each sweet breast in the palms of his hands. Damn, he really didn’t need this now, not when he was doing his best to avoid thinking about perky breasts and curvy backsides.

“Are you finished?” she asked. “Or would you like to take a closer look?” She held up her arms and slowly turned in front of him, offering him yet another glimpse of her backside.

Marcus’s gaze darted back to her face, taking in the wide green eyes, high cheekbones and lush mouth now curved in a wry smile. Hell, this was every man’s dream, the stuff of fantasies, stumbling on a nearly naked woman. Marcus swallowed hard. If he didn’t find something to cover his crotch, she was going to see exactly what kind of effect she was having on him.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and hurried toward his cabin.

“Is there coffee?” she shouted, poking her head out of the galley.

Marcus cursed softly as he dug through his clothes, looking for a clean pair of boxers. In the end, he tugged on baggy surfer shorts and made a quick stop at the head to brush his teeth. When he returned to the galley, she was still rummaging through the cabinets in the same state of undress. He groaned inwardly, wondering why she hadn’t taken the chance to put on some clothes.

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Coffee,” she muttered impatiently. “Is it too much to ask that you start a pot of coffee in the morning?”

He stepped inside, moving past her. Her body brushed his, her breasts soft against his chest. He focused on the coffee, determined not to let her rattle him. The bag of beans was tucked behind a canister of sugar. Marcus pulled it out and dumped a healthy measure of the beans into the grinder. As the grinder whined, he glanced over his shoulder to find her perched on the counter, her hands braced at her sides, her long legs crossed at the ankles. He fought back an impulse to reach out and touch her just to make sure this wasn’t all just a very vivid wet dream.

He dumped the ground coffee into a filter, then popped it into the coffeemaker, grateful for any distraction. After grabbing the pot, Marcus passed it over to her, and she filled it with water from the tap. They both watched until a stream of coffee began to drip into the pot. Then she reached behind her back and found two coffee mugs.

“I can’t wait,” she murmured, nudging his shoulder with the cups.

He filled her mug and handed it back to her, keeping his attention firmly fixed on the coffee. “How did you get on board?” he asked.

“I swam,” she said. “I left my clothes and my bags on the dock. Maybe you could take the dinghy over later and get them for me?”

“Yeah,” Marcus muttered. “Right.” She had some nerve. He should be throwing her back in the drink. But it wasn’t every day he got to enjoy the company of a naked woman, especially a woman who seemed more comfortable out of her clothes than in them.

“You’re new,” she said. “You’re a bit older than the boys Daddy usually hires. Are you here to take over for that old barnacle Captain Davis? Please tell me he’s finally retired to the Crusty Old Sailors’ Home. Or was he swallowed by some accommodating white whale on his last cruise?”

Marcus bit back a curse as he poured himself a cup. Daddy? Aw, bloody hell. The only person she could be talking about was Trevor Ross, which meant that the naked woman sitting behind him—the one he’d been drooling over—was his future business partner’s daughter, Eden Ross.

Pictures of her as a little girl hung in the master cabin. But the rest of the world knew her from her tabloid exploits. She looked different in person, without the clothes and makeup and celebrity hair. Her skin was smooth and flawless, with a tiny sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose, and her hair was a much darker blonde when it was wet. She looked almost wholesome. No, this was not the same girl who jetted around Europe, dated princes and attended Paris fashion shows.

“You’re Eden,” he said flatly. “And you are?”

He turned and faced her, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “The new barnacle.”

She giggled at the answer, and to Marcus’s surprise, the sound sent a rush of heat through his bloodstream. “So I should call you Barney?” she asked, holding out her hand.