Mistletoe Not Required (6 page)

‘I want you to think about this...’ Contemplating, he slid his index finger along the top of her dress, his gaze following the freckled swells and the valley between.

She shifted restlessly against him. ‘We can’t...’

‘So tell me to stop.’ He lowered his head to nuzzle. Just a nip on that tender spot between shoulder and neck, a lingering taste where her fragrance bloomed with the heat of her skin.

She arched her neck, giving him better access, and murmured, ‘St-o-p.’

‘I’ll stop when you mean it.’ Sweeping her hair aside, he cruised his lips from the side of her neck to beneath her jaw to a neat little ear lobe. Greedy little bites that only whetted his appetite for more. ‘You taste incredible.’ He nibbled along her jawbone. ‘I want to taste you all over,’ he murmured and was rewarded with a little shiver. ‘But I’m prepared to stop at a kiss.’

She didn’t answer, obviously too turned on by his moves to speak.

‘For now,’ he finished. He smoothed her hair again, loving its silky feel and fascinated with the way the light played over its vibrant strands, turning them golden. He straightened and watched her face, animated with conflicting emotions.

‘Jett, it won’t make a scrap of difference.’ She watched him, her chin firm, her eyes resolute. ‘This race is too important on so many levels. I can’t be distracted...’

He smiled and her almost appalled gaze dropped to his mouth. Banding his arms around her waist, he pulled her closer, explored the shell of her ear with his tongue and whispered, ‘Wrong.’

She pushed at his chest. ‘No, I—’ He cut off her excuses with a kiss that started out to prove a point and quickly turned into something more.

Her mouth yielded and opened beneath his and he took instant advantage of the honeyed heat within, sliding his tongue against hers in a dance, a duel or a demand—he didn’t know which. He didn’t care. She was a feisty combination of strength and vulnerability, of seduction and naïvety, and he found her completely enchanting.

She didn’t try to push him away again, nor did she reach for him, but the fury of her heartbeat thundering against his as their upper bodies touched was the answer he was looking for.

Gathering her loosely flowing hair, he wound it around both fists and tugged her head back the better to taste her. If he was looking for surrender, he didn’t find it with Olivia. She met him will for will. Force for force. Passion for passion.

He could have her in that
aft berth
as she called it, in five seconds flat—she wouldn’t refuse him and it would be fast and furious and mutually satisfying—but even in his lust-crazed state, he knew it would also be a mistake.

Breanna was on her way and there wasn’t nearly enough time to do what he wanted to do.

With a good deal of reluctance and admirable restraint, he lifted his lips and drew back slowly, watching her. Huge glassy eyes watched him back. He was surprised to find himself as breathless as she. ‘After the race, Trouble,’ he promised, letting her hair slide through his fingers as he stepped away, ‘we’re going to finish this.’

She gave him no indication how she felt about his decision. Footsteps approaching had them drawing further apart. Olivia patted at her hair while Jett resumed his seat at the table for obvious reasons.

‘Brie.’ Olivia darted towards her as if she couldn’t wait to get away. ‘I’ve got a million things to do, so I’ll leave Jett with you.’

She turned to him, not quite meeting his gaze, residual heat in her eyes, her cheeks a little too pink, her movements a little too jerky.

‘I’ll be attending a weather briefing in the morning so I won’t see you till you board,’ she told him. ‘But Brie’ll go over the safety procedures. She’ll look after you, fill you in with what you need, get you up to speed until it’s time to leave. The rest of your gear can go with ours; it’ll be in Hobart when we arrive.’

Look after you?
Screw that. He aimed a killer smile at her, just to watch that spark come to life again. ‘Looking forward to it.’

SIX

Sydney Harbour’s deep
blue was awash with vessels of every size and shape, ferrying binocular-wielding spectators. Pleasure craft bobbed on the water from a safe distance; colourful sails billowed in the stiff breeze.

Without a specific role other than to sit in a designated spot and ‘look sexy for the cameras’, Jett used the lead-up time to appreciate
Chasing Dawn
’s all-female crew as they went about their assigned tasks. He barely felt the rocking movement beneath his feet, refused to acknowledge the tiny curl of unease beneath his breastbone.

He found the helicopter-circling media’s up-close and personal interest in the Jettsetter Chef over the top. He shrugged, uncomfortable in the neon-candy-pink T-shirt and cap, and gave a double thumbs-up to a TV crew above them. It was for a worthwhile cause, and their crew’s flirtatious glances, the gentle teasing and admiration for his support made up for it.

All the crew, that was, except for their preoccupied skipper, who obviously had more important matters on her mind.

A monster yacht cruised by, its deck crawling with male-model types standing around looking like a shoot for a men’s magazine.

If he had to be on a boat, this was the one to be on. In this case, size did not matter. Surrounded by super-fit, sun-bronzed beauties who’d each dropped by—Miranda, Flo and Samantha—and extended a personal invitation to show him the sights and tastes of Tassie. Samantha, the blue-eyed blonde, had explained how the six-person crew had been divided into watches called Wet and Wild. She’d told him he was on the Wild watch with her and Brie. She’d kind of winked when she’d said it.

He forced himself to relax and watched the action around him, cleavage, perfume, feminine voices. He loved women—loved their curves and silky skin, their scents and tastes. The way they insinuated themselves against him and made him feel like a king for however long it lasted—one night, a week. A month at most.

Five-minute warning shot. Twelve-knot breeze on the harbour. A gusty change expected later this evening.

The crew were in their positions. From his spot he got a glimpse of Olivia, her hair tucked beneath her cap, looking gloriously intense in her skimpy pink T-shirt that rode up at the back, giving him a tantalising view of flesh as she moved lightly across the deck. Her toned and tanned legs flashed in the sun and her feet were bare. He decided there was nothing sexier than a bare-footed skipper.

She’d offered him prescription-strength seasickness medication, which he’d waved away. He didn’t tell her he’d purchased an over-the-counter generic brand from a nearby pharmacy last night. Apart from that time, he’d hardly laid eyes on her since that kiss in the galley late yesterday afternoon.

An urgent commotion broke out amongst the crew, catching his attention. He heard the words ‘main power’ and ‘power winch’ and a few sailor-worthy curses.

He half rose but he caught sight of Breanna sprinting across the deck already shaking her head as if she expected him to offer his expertise. ‘Olivia knows what she’s doing.’

Of course she did.
Obviously a boat mechanic on top of everything else. Since he didn’t have a clue about boat mechanics and he’d only be in the way in addition to showcasing his
lack
of expertise, he leaned back again and watched the crew work feverishly to fix whatever the problem was.

And it would be fixed, he had no doubt. Wonder Woman was in charge. Interesting. He’d never been remotely involved with a take-charge woman.

The girls returned to their positions, problem obviously sorted. Seconds later the starter pistol cracked the air and they were off, tacking against the north-easterly wind. As they rounded the marker outside Sydney Heads, the huge and distinctive pink spinnaker sail unfurled, accelerating them to a fast rate of knots in a southerly direction down the coast.

Smooth sailing on a sparkling blue sea, fresh sea air. Roast quail and veg for dinner tonight. A single male in a boatful of gorgeous girls.

They settled in, the rhythmic motion almost hypnotic, and his mind wandered. He envied Olivia her focus and drive and dedication. She had her plan, she’d charted a path for her life and nothing was going to divert her from it.

Whereas he was drifting. Career-wise he’d been restless and unsettled for a while. He needed a change of direction, something to bring back the zing in life, to motivate him. Even if it had nothing to do with career, this sailing-cum-fundraising opportunity was a new experience. He gazed at the tilting horizon. Out here on the endless Pacific Ocean he felt as if he was on the brink of something new, different, exciting.

He’d not felt so alive in a long time.

* * *

He wished he were dead.

On deck and huddled into a spray jacket over his hoodie, Jett stared listlessly at the night’s stormy horizon lifting and sinking, up, down... Death was preferable to this washing machine on spin cycle. He swallowed several times as bile rose up his throat. Again. His quail dinner and worse—his pride—had disappeared overboard in spectacular fashion even before the change in weather had really shaken things up. He’d woken for his Wild watch and emerged from the sticky fume-filled cabin and into the fresh sea air and
bam
.

The watch was nearly over. Thirty more minutes. Then all he wanted was to be left alone to die in peace. A familiar figure emerged from below decks and began making her way towards him in the dimness. The sexy skipper. A hot tide of humiliation washed through him and he averted his eyes to the clouds scudding across the night sky. Neither wish was going to be granted, it seemed.

‘I can take over here.’ The voice of his mistletoe angel, barely audible in the bluster. Offering him the chance to slip into her still-warm bunk—the mysterious hot-bunking, she’d lured him in with—and grant his last wishes after all.

‘I’m fine.’ He huddled deeper into his hoodie, pulled it low over his sweat-damp brow to hide his malaise. ‘Go away, it’s not time yet.’

Unfazed by his curt demand, she sat down beside him. ‘The weather’s starting to ease up.’

He leaned away, super-aware that his Armani aftershave had been replaced by infinitely more unpleasant and pungent odours, and popped a peppermint in his mouth. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

‘You’re doing great, Jett.’

Her tone wasn’t sympathetic, just matter-of-fact with an injection of humour. Even in his misery, he appreciated that. ‘Glad the skipper thinks so.’ He kept his gaze down, alongside him, and saw that her long legs were tightly encased in denim but those sexy feet of hers were still bare. If he could just be sure he wasn’t going to spew in front of her... He pressed his lips together. He didn’t think he could ever face her again if that happened.

‘Talking takes your mind off the queasiness.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Okay, go ahead, ask me something.’

‘Why bare feet?’

She wiggled her toes like a kid in sand. ‘For the grip when the deck’s slippery. And bare toes can twist around ropes—I’m pretty good at that.’

Jeez, chirpy as a seagull with a hot chip. ‘You’re pretty good at a lot of things nautical.’

‘I lived on-board a cruiser until I went to high school.’

He forgot his reluctance to look her in the eye and stared at her. ‘Yeah?’

She laughed, a joyous sound, her face aglow even in the grey night. ‘It was a large cruiser. I was an only child and my parents home-schooled me while we travelled the world. They called it a living education.’

‘A fair description, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’ She pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair from her face and he realised the wind had lessened. ‘But when I reached secondary-school age and my mum’s sister was diagnosed with cancer, they sold the cruiser and bought a property out of Hobart to be near her.’ She chuckled. ‘High school was a learning curve for me; I’d never been around kids my own age before.’

She’d learned to be content with her own company. A bit like him, in a random kind of way. His gaze lifted and he saw a break in the clouds—he’d been so preoccupied he’d not noticed. ‘When did your mother pass away?’

‘Eighteen months ago.’

‘What about your dad, does—?’

‘I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. He walked out on us when Mum got sick the first time.’ She spoke without the emotion he read in her eyes, the dip he saw in her shoulders. ‘She was in remission when we bought
Chasing Dawn
together. We had hope then, that she’d make it, and we set up Snowflake, but her condition deteriorated sooner than we expected.’

‘You mentioned your aunt. Did she...?’

‘Breast cancer runs in my family. My grandmother, my cousin, and great-grandmother too, they suspect.’ She spoke matter-of-factly, her eyes on middle distance. Avoiding his.

He frowned. The familial link to the disease would surely be a concern for her, but she didn’t elaborate and he didn’t want to broach a delicate subject. ‘Why a pink snowflake?’

‘When individual ice crystals bump into others they grow into the stunning and unique shape of a snowflake. We think of ourselves as those individuals working together to create something worthwhile and beautiful. Pink because it’s raising awareness for women’s cancers.’

He looked up at the sky where a few stars peeked through and thought about what she’d said. How she’d turned something bad into something good. ‘That’s pretty special.’ He admired her for it. It also made him question his own life’s contributions—pretty damn ordinary.

‘I like to think so,’ she said on a note of cheer. ‘Thank you again for sailing with us and helping make a difference.’

‘I’ve not done much.’ Except chuck all over your lovingly polished deck.

‘Oh, but you have,’ she reassured him with abundant enthusiasm. ‘You’ve drawn attention to our foundation just by being here. I expect a huge influx of donations and sponsorships.’ Her grin was full of fun. ‘You can keep the T-shirt and cap as a thank-you.’

She turned to him at the same time he turned to look at her. She was sharing the humour, her eyes sparkling in the night’s soft grey light, her bound hair coming adrift from its plait, tendrils spiralling behind her into the wind.

And there it was again. That flare of attraction. Hot, bright, bewitching. Reciprocated.

Despite his roiling stomach, lust smouldered along his veins. With her torso covered in a padded jacket, Jett’s focus narrowed to her smiling lips—lusciously plump and unglossed.

They were still smiling when she said, ‘Your support means a lot to Brie too when clearly sailing’s not your thing.’

Nothing like mention of his sister and seasickness to douse the lust sparks. He raked fingers over his skull, discovered his hands were disgustingly shaky, like his gut. What the hell had he been thinking, telling her they were going to finish...whatever this thing was between them? He’d be lucky to get past the starting line. She valued commitment, loyalty. Stickability. Her focus and her priority were with other people.

He was a travelling one-man show.

She’d been trouble from that first glimpse. Trouble from that first kiss. Trouble from that first glide of his hand over silken female flesh.

Trouble.

So why the
hell
was he hung up on her?

‘Leave you to it,’ he muttered, pushing up and listing to one side as the boat pitched and rolled.

‘Jett. Caref—’

‘I’m f
—
’ His stomach revolted and he waved her away, hauled himself to the railing and retched pitifully over the side.

Humiliation complete.