The Invitation (Matchmaker Trilogy) (6 page)

Noah’s gaze was hard as he studied her face. She was a beauty, but cool, very cool. Her features were set in rigid lines, her hazel eyes cutting. Had he seen any warmth, any softening, he would have eased off. But he was annoyed as hell that she was along, and to have her match his stare with such boldness was just what he needed to goad him on.

“That was what I figured.” His eyes narrowed. “Now listen here, and listen good. If you repeat any of those pithy comments within earshot of my uncle, you’ll regret it.”

The blatant threat took Shaye by surprise. She’d assumed Noah to be rude; she hadn’t expected him to be openly hostile. “Excuse me?”

“You heard.”

“Heard, but don’t believe. What makes you think I’d say anything to your uncle?”

“I know your type.”

“How could you possibly—”

“You expected a luxury yacht, not a wreck of a boat. You expected a lovely stateroom, not a small, plain cabin. You expected a captain and a cook, not a professor who’s staging Halloween three months early.”

Shaye’s blood began a slow boil. “You were eavesdropping!”

His eyes remained steady, a chilling gray, and the dark spikes of hair that fell over his brow, seeming to defy the wind, added to the aura of threat that was belied by the complacency of his voice. “I was sitting below while you and your aunt chatted on deck.”

“So you listened.”

“The temptation was too great. In case you haven’t realized it yet, we’ll be practically on top of each other for the next two weeks. I wanted to know what I was in for.” His gaze dropped to her hands. “I’d ease up if I were you. Those nails of yours will leave marks on the wood.”

Shaye’s fingernails weren’t overly long, though they were neatly filed and wore a coat of clear polish. Instead of arguing, she took yet another deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Thank you for making your feelings clear.”

“Just issuing a friendly little warning.”

“Friendly?”

“We-e-e-ll, maybe that is stretching it a little. You’re too stiff-backed and fussy for my tastes.”

Shaye’s temper flared. “You have to be one of the most arrogant individuals I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. You don’t know me at all. You have no idea what I do, what I like or what I want. But I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t take to little warnings the likes of which you just issued.”

“Consider it offered nonetheless.”

“And you can consider it rejected.” Eyes blazing, she made a slow and deliberate sweep from his thick, dark hair over his faded black T-shirt and worn khaki shorts, down long, hair-roughened legs to his solid bare feet. “I don’t need you telling me what to do. I can handle myself and in good taste, which is a sight more than I can say for you.” Every bit as deliberately as she’d raked his form, and with as much indifference to his presence as she could muster, she returned her gaze to the shrinking port.

“I’d watch it, if I were you. I’m not in the mood to be crossed.”

“Another threat?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the shore. “And what will you do if I choose to ignore it?”

“I’ll be your shadow for the next two weeks. I could make things unpleasant, you know.”

“I have the distinct feeling you’ll do that anyway.” Turning, she set off smoothly for the bow.

3

V
ICTORIA SQUINTED UP
at Samson. “How much farther will we be towed?”

“Not much. We’re nearly clear of the smaller boats, and the wind is picking up nicely.”

Shaye joined them in time to catch his answer. “What happens if it dies once we’re free?”

Samson grinned. “Then we’ll lie on the deck and bask in the sun until it decides to come back to life.”

She had visions of lying in the sun and basking for days, and the visions weren’t enticing. Still smarting from her set-to with Noah, she feared that if they were becalmed she’d go stark, raving mad. “Given a reasonable wind, how long will it take to reach Costa Rica?”

“Given a reasonable wind, four days. The
Golden Echo
wasn’t built for speed.”

“What was she built for?” Shaye asked, her curiosity offset by a hint of aspersion.

“Effect,” came Noah’s tight reply as he took up a position beside her.

Her shadow. Was it starting already? Tipping up her head, she challenged him with a stare. “Explain, please.”

Noah directed raised brows toward his uncle, who in his own shy way was a storyteller. But Samson shook his head, pivoted on his heel and headed aft, calling over his shoulder, “It’s all yours. I have to see to the sails.”

Noah would have offered his assistance if it hadn’t been for two things. First, Samson would have refused: he took pride in his sailing skill and preferred, whenever possible, to do things himself. Second, Noah wanted to stay by Shaye. He knew that he annoyed her, and he intended to take advantage of that fact. It was some solace, albeit perverse, to have her aboard.

“The
Golden Echo
was modeled after an early eighteenth century Colonial sloop,” he began, broadening his gaze to include Victoria in the tale. “She was built in the 1920s by a man named Horgan, a sailor and a patriot, who saw in her lines a classic beauty that was being lost in the sleeker, more modern craft. Horgan wanted to enjoy her, but he also wanted to make a statement.”

“He did that,” Shaye retorted, then asked on impulse, “Where did he sail her?”

“Up and down the East Coast at first.”

“For pleasure?”

Noah’s eyes bore into her. “Some people do it that way.”

Victoria, who’d been watching the two as she leaned back against the rail, asked gently, “Did he parade her?”

“I’m sure he did,” Noah answered, softening faintly with the shift of his gaze, “though I doubt there was as much general interest in a vessel like this then as there is today. From what Samson learned, Horgan made several Atlantic crossings before he finally berthed the
Golden Echo
in Bermuda. When his own family lost interest and he grew too ill to sail her alone, he began renting her out. She was sold as part of his estate in the mid-sixties.”

“That leaves twenty years unaccounted for,” Shaye prompted.

“I’m getting there.” But he took his time, leisurely looking amidship to check on his uncle’s progress. By the time he resumed, Shaye was glaring out to sea. “The new owners, a couple by the name of Payne, expanded on the charter business. For a time, they worked summers out of Boston, where the
Golden Echo
was in demand for private parties and small charity functions. Eventually they decided that the season was too limited, so they moved south.”

“Why aren’t they with us now?” Shaye asked without turning her head.

“Because there isn’t room. Besides, they have a number of other boats to manage. The business is headquartered in Jamaica.”

“Why are we in Colombia?”

“Because that’s where the last charter ended. It’s a little like Hertz—”

“Noah!” came Samson’s buoyant shout. “Set us free!”

With a steadying hand on the bowsprit, Noah folded himself over the prow, reaching low to release the heavy steel clip that had held the powerboat’s line to the
Golden Echo.

The powerboat instantly surged ahead, then swung into a broad U-turn. Its driver, a Colombian with swarthy skin and a mile-wide white grin, saluted as he passed. A grinning Victoria waved back, moving aft to maintain the contact.

Shaye was unaware of her departure. She hadn’t even seen the Colombian. Rather, her eyes were glued to the spot where Noah had released the clip. The large, rusty ring spoke for itself, but what evoked an odd blend of astonishment and amusement was the fact that it protruded from the navel of a scantily clad lady. That the lady was time-worn and peeling served only to accentuate her partial nudity.

“That’s the figurehead,” Noah informed her, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I know what it is,” she answered, instantly losing grasp of whatever amusement she’d felt. “I just hadn’t seen her earlier.”

“Does her state of undress embarrass you?”

“I’ve seen breasts before.”

Insolent eyes scanned the front of her T-shirt. “I should hope so.”

Shaye kept her arms at her sides when they desperately wanted to cover her chest. She was far from the prude that Noah had apparently decided she was, but while she’d learned to control her desires, there was something about the way he was looking at her that set off little sparks inside. She felt nearly as bare-breasted as the lady on the bow and not nearly as wooden—which was something she sought to remedy by turning the tables on Noah.

“Does she excite you?”

“Who?”

Shaye tossed her head toward the bow, then watched as he bent sideways.

“She’s not bad,” he decided, straightening. “A little stern-faced for my tastes. Like you.”

“Your tastes are probably as pathetic as old Horgan’s. If he were building a boat like this today and dared to put a thing like that at the bow, he’d have women’s groups picketing the pier.”

Noah drew himself to his full height and glared down at her. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a militant feminist.”

She glared right back. “And if there’s one thing
I
can’t stand, it’s a presumptuous male. You’re just itching for a fight, aren’t you?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“The way I see it,” she said, taking a deep breath for patience, “either you’re annoyed that I’ve come along or you didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

His hair was blowing freely now. “Oh, I would have been happy enough sailing off with Samson. He’s undemanding. I’d have gotten the R and R I need.”

“Then it’s me. Why do I annoy you?”

“You’re a woman, and you’re prissy.”

Unable to help herself, Shaye laughed.
“Prissy?”
Then some vague instinct told her that prissy was precisely the way to be with this man. “Prissy.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I do believe in exercising a certain decorum.”

“I’m sure you give new meaning to the word.”

Shaye was about to say that Noah probably didn’t know the
first
meaning of the word when the sound of unfurling canvas caught her ear. She looked up in time to see the mainsail fill with wind, then down to see Samson securing the lines.

“Shouldn’t you give him a hand?”

“He doesn’t need it.”

“Then why are you here at all?”

Noah’s smile might have held humor but didn’t. “To give you a hard time. Why else?” With that, he sauntered off.

Aware that he’d had the last word this time around, Shaye watched him until he disappeared into the companionway. Then she turned back to the bow and closed her eyes. His image remained, a vivid echo in her mind of tousled dark hair, a broad chest, lean hips and endless legs. He was attractive; she had to give him that. But the attraction ended with the physical. He was unremittingly disagreeable.

And exhausting. It had been a long time since she’d sparred with anyone as she was sparring with him. Not that she didn’t have occasional differences with people at work, but that was something else, something professional. In her private life she’d grown to love peace. She avoided abrasive people and chose friends who were conventional and comfortable. She dated the least threatening of men, indulging their occasional need to assert themselves over choice of restaurants or theaters because, through it all, she was in control. Not even her parents, with their parochial views, could rile her.

But Noah VanBaar had done just that. She wasn’t sure how they’d become enemies so quickly. Was it his fault? Hers? Had she really seemed prissy?

A helpless smile broke across her face. Prissy. Wouldn’t André and the guys from the garret—wherever they were today—die laughing if they heard that! Her parents, on the other hand, wouldn’t die laughing. They’d choke a little, then breathe sighs of relief, then launch into a discourse on her age and the merits of marriage.

Prissy. It wasn’t such a bad thing to be around Noah. If he hated prissiness so much, he’d leave her alone, which was all she really wanted, wasn’t it?

Buoyed by her private pep talk, she sought out Victoria, who was chatting with Samson as he hauled up the first of two jibs. Indeed, it was Samson she addressed. “Would you like any help?”

Deftly lashing the line to its cleat, he stood back to watch the sail catch the wind. “Nope. All’s under control.” He darted them a quick glance. “Have you ladies had breakfast yet?”

“Victoria, has, but I, uh, slept a little later.”

“You’ll find fresh eggs and bacon in the icebox. Better eat and enjoy before they spoil.”

Fresh eggs and bacon sounded just fine to Shaye, even if the word
icebox
was a little antiquated. Somehow, though, coming from Samson it didn’t seem strange. Without pausing to reflect on the improvement in her attitude toward him, she asked, “How about you? Can I bring you something?”

“Ah no,” he sighed, patting his belt. “I had a full breakfast earlier.”

“How about coffee?”

“Now that’s a thought. If you make it strong and add cream and two sugars, I could be sorely tempted.”

Shaye smiled and turned to her aunt. “Anything for you?”

“Thanks, sweetheart, but I’m fine.”

“See you in a bit, then.” Still smiling, she entered the companionway, trotted down the steps and turned into the galley. There her smile faded. Noah was sprawled on the built-in settee that formed a shallow U behind the small table. He’d been alerted by the pad of her sneakers and was waiting, fork in hand, chewing thoughtfully.

“Well, well,” he drawled as soon as he’d swallowed, “if it isn’t the iron maiden.”

“I though you’d already eaten.”

“Samson has, but I don’t make a habit of getting up at dawn like he does.”

She was looking at his plate, which still held healthy portions of scrambled eggs and bacon, plus a muffin and a half, and a huge wedge of melon. “Think you have enough?”

“I hope so. I’m going to need all the strength I can get.”

“To sit back and watch Samson sail?”

“To fight with you.”

Determined not to let him irk her—or to let him interfere with her breakfast—she went to the refrigerator. “It’s not really worth the effort, you know.”