Barbara Dunlop - Twelve Nights Of Temptation

“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.”

Matt shot her a look of impatience, and she realized she’d stepped over the line. He was her boss after all.

“I’m just thinking that taking Monty’s Pride is a whole lot of fuel to waste,” she elaborated on her thinking. “We can save the money if I can do a quick repair.”

“We’re not even going to try a quick repair. I’ll move the passengers and crew over to Monty’s Pride while you fix whatever’s gone wrong.”

Tasha hated that her possible negligence would cost the company so much money. “Maybe if I talk to the captain on the radio.”

“I don’t want to mess around, Tasha.” Matt punched in the combination for the pier’s chain-link gate and swung it open.

“I’m not asking you to mess around. I’m suggesting we explore our options. Monty’s Pride burns a hundred gallons an hour.”

“My priority is customer service.”

“This is expensive customer service.”

“Yes, it is.”

His tone was flat, and she couldn’t tell if he was angry or not.

She wished she was back in her dream. Matt had been so nice in her dream. They’d been warm, cocooned together, and he’d been joking, stroking her hair, kissing her mouth.

Wait. No. That was bad. That wasn’t what she wanted at all.

“I want Hans Reinstead to go back to Germany a happy man,” Matt continued. “I want him to rave to his friends and business associates about the over-the-top service he received, even when there was a problem. Whether we fix it in five minutes or five hours is irrelevant. They had a breakdown, and we upgraded them. People love an upgrade. So much so, that they’re generally willing to gloss over the reason for getting it.”

Tasha had to admit it was logical. It was expensive, but it was also logical.

Matt might be willing to take the financial hit in the name of customer service, but if it turned out to be something she’d missed, it would be a black mark against her.

They approached the slip where Monty’s Pride was moored. A crew member was on deck while another was on the wharf, ready to cast off.

“Fuel?” Matt asked the young man on deck.

“Three thousand gallons.”

“That’ll do,” Matt said as he crossed the gangway to the stern of the main deck.

Tasha followed. Monty’s Pride’s twin diesel engines rumbled beneath them.

“Is my toolbox on board?” she asked.

“We put it in storage.”

“Thanks.” While they crossed the deck, she reviewed Orca’s Run’s engine service in her mind. Had she missed something, a belt or a hose? She thought she’d checked them all. But nobody’s memory was infallible.

“It could be as simple as a belt,” she said to Matt.

“That will be good news.” He made his way to the bridge, and she followed close behind.

She had to give it one last shot, so as soon as they were inside, she went for the radio, dialing in the company frequency. “Orca’s Run, this is Monty’s Pride. Captain, are you there?”

While she did that, he slid open the side window and called out to the hand to cast off.

She keyed the mike again. “Come in, Orca’s Run.”

Matt brought up the revs and pulled away from the pier.

* * *

Matt knew he had taken a gamble by using Monty’s Pride instead of the repair boat, but so far it looked like it had been the right call. Two hours into the trip down the coast, even Tasha had been forced to admit a quick fix wasn’t likely. She’d had Captain Johansson walk her through a second-by-second rehash of the engine failure over the radio, asking him about sounds, smells and warning lights. Then she had him send a deckhand back and forth from the engine room for a visual inspection and to relay details.