Kat Martin - Against the Storm

He helped her aboard, then went back to examining one of the lines that hoisted the sail.

He had stripped off his cotton knit shirt and jeans, leaving him bare chested in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. With his back to her, she couldn’t help checking him out. His skin was a smooth golden-brown and rippling with muscle. His legs were long and corded. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere to be seen.

She couldn’t resist a couple of shots of such a gorgeous man at work on his boat, but at the rhythmical click of the shutter, Trace turned. Broad, solidly muscled shoulders, a chest banded with sinew and lightly furred with dark hair, and a six-pack stomach…

She felt that funny lift again, only a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “I guess you really were a Ranger.”

He just shrugged. “There were times being in condition meant the difference between life and death.”

“You’re not a Ranger now,” she reminded him.

“Old habits die hard.” He lowered a pair of wraparound sunglasses over those whiskey-brown eyes. “You ready?”

She looked at him standing there with his legs splayed, his gaze on the horizon, and had the oddest feeling he was as much a Ranger now as he ever had been. The breeze gusted just then, rattling the ship’s rigging. The Gulf stretched in front of them, blue and beckoning.

“You bet I’m ready.”

Trace tossed off the lines and Maggie settled herself on one of the blue canvas cushions. Rowdy took a place beside her. His ears perked up as the boat began to move, anticipation clear on his little doggy face. Trace manned the wheel and the boat eased away from the dock.

“You’ll have to earn your keep, you know.” He flicked her a glance. “I’ll need you to bring up the fenders and tend the dock lines, maybe take a turn at the wheel. You’ll have to remember to duck when we come about, and of course you’ll need to watch for pirates.”

She laughed, gave him a smart salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Trace grinned. They settled themselves for the trip, the hull slipping smoothly over the water until they reached the open ocean, then the wind picked up and the boat heeled over. The stiff breeze tugged at Maggie’s curls, blowing them across her face, so she dragged the heavy red mane into a ponytail held in place with a small hair elastic.

“I’ve been sailing only a couple of times,” she said. “I went out with a friend when I was in college.”

“Michael Irving?” It was a casual question, yet she thought Trace had just morphed back into a detective.

“A friend in my art history class. Her dad owned a forty-two-foot Catalina.”

“Nice boat.”

“Beautiful. So is yours. You really take good care of her.”

Trace seemed pleased. “I do my best.” He leaned back in the seat behind the wheel, his dark glasses hiding his thoughts.

The sun beat down so warmly she decided it was time to shed her own clothes. “I’m going to change. It’s just too nice a day not to get some sun.”

“Help yourself.”

She disappeared below and came up a few minutes later in a red-and-white-striped bikini. The suit wasn’t exactly modest, but it wasn’t over-the-top risqué, either. She wore a loose-fitting white gauze shirt over it, but that didn’t hide much. Though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, she could feel his very thorough inspection, burning like a laser.

“I guess you like to stay in shape, too,” he said a little gruffly.

She did. Very much so. And she was way too glad he noticed. “I ride my stationary bike in the mornings. I lift a few weights to build bone strength, and I play racquetball whenever I get the chance.”

“Is that so? We’ll have to have a match sometime.”

“You like to play?”

His gaze moved over her again. “Oh, yeah, I like to play.” But his drawl had deepened and she was no longer sure he was talking about raquetball.

They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the wind and the sea, and the gulls darting back and forth at the stern. When they approached a group of sportsmen fishing for tarpon, Maggie grabbed her camera and went to work. One of the men had hooked up to a real monster, and just as she focused, the fish jumped spectacularly into the air. She caught the shot, snapping a series of photos in milliseconds.

She laughed joyously as the tarpon plunged back into the sea. “My God, did you see that?”

Trace lifted his ball cap and settled it back on his head, a habit she had noticed when he was wearing his cowboy hat. “I sure did. Looks like you got a couple of great photos there.”

She replayed the digital images. “Oh, this makes my day.”

“Just being out here makes mine.”

Maggie agreed. It felt so good to be out on the water, the boat sliding over the surface. They ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches she had brought, but ignored the Diet Cokes. Instead, Trace cracked open a bottle of chilled chardonnay, poured it into two stemmed glasses, and they toasted the perfect day.

Relaxed, Maggie removed her cover-up, put on some sunscreen, stretched out on the cushions and let the warmth of the sun seep through her. With so little sleep last night, she must have dozed off. The sun had moved toward the horizon and Trace was turning the boat when she awakened.

“Time to go home,” he said.

Maggie felt a twinge of disappointment. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“After last night, you needed the rest.”

She inhaled a deep breath of the salty air. “It’s been wonderful.”

Trace seemed to share her mood. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. We can spend the night if you want. Two staterooms down there. You wouldn’t have to worry about your virtue.”

She was surprised to discover she was tempted, but then sighed. She hardly knew Trace Rawlins, and it was never smart to get involved with someone who worked for you. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to get back.”

“Not a problem.” Wheeling the sailboat expertly through the opening into Clear Lake, he turned toward the marina and his slip at dock A. Easing the vessel neatly into its berth, he tossed a line over the side and pulled the boat in close, then tied it in place.

They’d been out of cell phone range when they were at sea, but now Trace’s iPhone started ringing down in the galley, where he had left it so it wouldn’t fall into the water.

He hit the ladder, reached out and grabbed the phone, pressing it against his ear as he returned to the deck.

“Rawlins.” The caller talked for a while and the lines of Trace’s face went hard. “How’d it happen?”

More conversation, then a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Neither do I. I’m on my way.” Trace hung up the phone and began to pull his jeans on over his swimsuit. “Looks like spending the night wouldn’t have worked for me, either.”

“What’s going on?”

“One of my clients turned up dead. The police think he killed himself. I don’t.”

Maggie slid her pants over her bikini bottoms and adjusted the gauzy cover-up, tying it up around her waist. “You’re saying it was murder?”

“Could be.”

She slipped on her sandals. “I guess finding a murderer tops catching a stalker.”

Trace shook his head. “One has nothing to do with the other. By the time we get home, your alarm system will be installed. As far as the creep goes who’s been bothering you, you hired me to do a job and that’s what I intend to do.”

“What about the murder?”

He gave her a hard-edged smile. “Ever heard of multitasking?”

Maggie didn’t doubt he could handle both cases. One glance at the dark look on his face and she felt sorry for the guy who had murdered his client.

“Besides,” Trace continued, “if Hewitt was murdered, I already know who did it.”