Catch of the Year (2 page)

“Yeah, that's where you have to go.”

Not looking promising. The familiar tension began to squeeze, winding, winding.

“Please tell me I'll still make the eleven-thirty ferry.”

“No chance. It's already full.” She kept her gaze on him. “If you're lucky you'll maybe get on the three-thirty.”

All these parked people were already ahead of him. This wasn't Starbucks, where he could practice his urban skills, get to the front without appearing to jump the line, then smile at the girl so she served him right away.

“Otherwise?”

“Otherwise, you should be able to catch the seven-thirty. That is, if it isn't already fully booked. They take reservations for the evening crossing.”

While he was struggling to deal with the disturbing idea he might not get to Manitoulin until night, she leaned down to speak more confidentially.

“If you don't get a place,” she said, “come and find me at the pub. I can offer you a bed.”

He winked at her and put the car in gear. “Thanks.”

As soon as he'd parked the convertible, he closed his eyes.
Breathe, Paul, breathe. Go with the flow. Forget uptight. Live in the moment.

Nearby, a young couple were doing just that. With their van comfortably camped in the sparse shade of a large conifer, they sat on lawn chairs, chatting happily and drinking pop.

But he couldn't do it. Simply sit there and wait? Impossible.

He pressed the button to release the convertible top and drummed his fingers on the dash until the covering was in place. A quick check told him his beloved guitar was safe. He'd wrapped it in the navy bath sheet he used as a swimming towel and stashed it carefully behind the bucket seats. A smattering of folk songs and a guitar to play them on were the only legacy he'd received from his footloose father. Ever since Woodstock, where Paul had been conceived, his dad had been in and out of his life until one day, soon after his son's fifteenth birthday, he'd taken off and had never been seen again. His mom had gathered herself together and made a new and successful life for herself, but the teenaged boy had been hit hard by the abandonment.

Once the car was securely locked, Paul unfolded his tall frame, slid his sunglasses onto his nose, and set off to discover how many cars were ahead of him. After a few brisk strides, he paused.
Stroll. You have to stroll. Remember, you're on vacation.
Continuing at a slower pace, he did his best to appreciate the sunlight glistening on the trees. He even listened for birdsong. What he felt were the rays searing his bare arms below the cut-off sleeves of his gray tee shirt. What he heard were the aggressive lyrics and relentless rhythm of a rap song.

His step speeded up.

At the head of the line, he found another marshal, this time a young man.

“Tell me, what are my chances of getting on the three-thirty ferry?”

“Not bad.” The guy twirled his small baton. “As soon as this lot's loaded we'll be moving you into the next car park, say in ten minutes or so. Then you'll know.”

Paul thanked him. Doing his best to tamp down his frustration, he strode along the rows.

Twenty minutes later, he was back in his car. In sync with the other drivers ahead of him, he stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine, enjoying its purring sound and not forgetting to check the gauges. The outside temperature indicator already read eighty-six degrees. Crawling forward, the convertible joined the snail parade. Row by row, starting with the motor homes and big RVs, the vehicles drove onward, closer to the harbor. There, they'd wait to board the next ferry. In four hours' time.

Paul paid the ferry fee at a little white booth at the entrance of the next parking lot. Another young woman instructed him how to line up.

“Second row to your left.”

Okay, this is not so bad,
he thought, turning the steering wheel with an open palm and taking his place next in line. As he reached forward to switch off, he heard the low growl of an engine. Senses alert, his hand lingered on the keys.

A large motorcycle rumbled into the front of the empty row next to him, its rider black clad and rather puny. Surely not the guy who'd left him in the lurch? That bastard was probably sailing out of the harbor at this very minute. As if to add a taunting confirmation, the ferryboat gave a rude honk.

Paul climbed out and leaned against the car. Eyes narrowed, he watched the biker swing a leg over the saddle and stand up.

After fumbling with the strap and catch, off came the helmet to reveal smudgy-with-gel, short, spiky, dirty blond hair. Six, small, silver rings crept up the curve of his ear and glinted as he moved.

Something niggled at Paul. He watched more closely.

Next to be removed were the leather chaps with their long fringes. Those he'd seen before, fluttering insolently in the breeze. He did a quick check of the helmet, now hanging over the handlebars. There was the sign of the Twins. Shit, this
was
the son of a bitch who'd left him in the lurch.

Paul straightened, his gorge rising. So far his relaxing vacation was proving every bit as stressful as a day at work. Folding his arms to prevent swinging punches, he slumped back against the car and continued his observation of the biker's impromptu striptease. Narrow shoulders, a concave curve to the waist, wider than expected hips … . Was it possible that what he'd taken to be a “he” was in fact a “she”?

Why not? And, more importantly, what had he done to scare her off?

Underneath the leather trousers, the biker wore a pair of tiny, tight, white denim shorts. Emerging from these, in a long stretch to her boots, were shapely, tanned legs. Shock with a side dish of appreciation reached right down to his groin — an area of his anatomy that had been increasingly depressed recently. No question of it now. His inhumane, uncaring biker was a woman! And not only was she of the feminine gender, but she reminded him strongly of someone, though for the life of him he couldn't think who.

The chick continued her innocent strip. She drew the sleeve of the shape-disguising jacket down one arm, then pulled her other arm out. At last she shrugged the garment away from her shoulders to reveal a cropped, form-hugging tank top in tomato red, which very satisfactorily displayed a cheeky set of boobs. Man oh man. How fortunate his eyes weren't prone to pop out of his head.

Nearly noon now. The day was heating up nicely. And so was he.

Again his mind insisted there was something familiar about this woman. Nah. He didn't know any biker chicks. More was the pity. Some wild-child sex would probably do him more good than a wussy fishing trip. Especially as he knew zero about fishing.

He knew zilch about biker chicks, but a lot about women. At least, he used to, in the days when he was at art college, before he became so fixated on getting ahead in the world. Then he joined an agency out west, switched some time later to a fancier outfit in Toronto where he soon became swamped by overwork. His doctor's threat had brought him up short. He didn't want to die young, not when he was convinced there was a lot of living to do out there.

The woman turned to pack her garments away in the saddlebags. As she bent forward, Paul examined her shadowed profile, the straight nose with just a small tilt at the tip, her mouth, with its pouty lower lip. Slowly she straightened. The sunlight fell directly over her and lit her features. She lifted her head.

Then he saw her face.

His jaw dropped. If he wasn't mistaken, the biker chick was the very remote, intimidating, and intelligent slave driver, Ms. Jade Jellicoe.

His boss.

No. Totally impossible. The always-immaculate, dressed for success, ever proper and correct Ms. Jellicoe, marketing director, always so concerned about bean counting at the expense of artistic creativity, would never disport herself in this fashion … . Or would she? Intrigued, Paul noted that this woman didn't look
quite
the way his boss normally did. Apart from the casual clothes, the hair was more funky. Was that only because she'd messed with the style? At work she wore it longer, sleeker. Although, come to think of it, she might have had it cut yesterday, in preparation for the long summer weekend. On the other hand, maybe she had a twin sister?

Now she was pulling off her boots and shoving her feet into sneakers. Paul's gaze traveled down her legs. He liked a trim ankle and these were almost as neat a pair as Jade's. He was very familiar with those because he took every opportunity to admire them. But there was a difference. The golden skin of this woman's right ankle was adorned with a tattoo depicting three stars and a crescent moon.

Okay, so most likely it wasn't his boss — unless the tattoo was one of those temporary adornments. Besides, the whole picture didn't sit right. Motorcycle? Tattoos? Spiky hair? Totally out of character for prim, uptight Jade Jellicoe. Paul drew in a breath, pushed out his chest, and made a decision. Somehow, somewhere between here and South Bay Harbor, he'd find out exactly who this babe was.

In fact, bearing in mind he had four full hours of sixty minutes each to while away, a little low-key confrontation might be fun. Except, right now she was exchanging words with a two young girls.

He waited until they'd moved off with a couple who he presumed were their parents, pushed himself away from the car and strode forward.

• • •

Jade cast one glance at a glowering Paul, seized her fanny pack and hightailed it for the main ferry building. The same sick panic she'd felt before sent her into a clammy sweat. Footsteps crunched ominously close behind her. She quickened her pace, pulled open the glass door, then immediately released the handle. With luck it would shut before he got to it, granting her a few seconds' grace. A blast of heat hit her as it opened again. He was almost on her!

She had to get away!

Fortunately a haven waited just ahead. Taking a sharp turn, she shoved open the swing door of the women's washroom and let it slam behind her.

Inside, she leaned against a pillar, breathing fast. For the second time this morning, blind instinct had taken over.

What on earth was she going to do? Pretend she wasn't herself? Which would be kind of close to the truth.

The faint smell of chlorine engulfed her. At the sinks, she ran her hands appreciatively under the stream of cool water, then held them beneath the blasting dryer until she was afraid her skin would show signs of too-rapid aging. Not even in the interests of avoiding Paul R.G. did she want to emerge looking like a tortoise.

After that she primped, applied another layer of sunscreen to her already slathered skin and made sure her hair was spiked into neat triangles. That took a while. She leaned forward and made a kissy-kissy face at herself, wiggling her bum. A little girl came in, took one look at Jade, and giggled. She scuttled into a stall, quickly locking the door, but that did little to stifle the sounds of her mirth.

Jade was about to search out her lipstick and eyeliner when she paused.
Think Serendipity, forget Jade.
Spending time on her appearance was what she did on workdays. At all other times she reverted to being Serendipity, offspring of flower children and the Age of Aquarius. Jade, the modern, driven, career woman was left behind in the city.

This weekend was important, hers to enjoy, and she wasn't going to allow the unexpected encounter with Paul R.G. to spoil it. If she didn't manage to shake him off, she'd simply be Serendipity, not Jade, and let him deal with that however he wished.

She emerged from the washroom and spotted him lurking. He may be tall and lanky, but he was a long way from being skinny enough to hide behind a wire carousel displaying a selection of postcards and pamphlets. She watched him pick out a postcard and examine it more closely. This was her chance. Slinking as quietly as she could, she escaped out the side door.

A few yards ahead of Jade, a family of German tourists wandered toward the wharf-side restaurants. Earlier, in the line up for the ferry, the two teen-aged daughters had responded to her comment on the beautiful day with a few struggling words.

Why not attach herself to the small group?

She smiled at them. “Hi. Are you going for something to eat?”

The father and mother exchanged puzzled looks. Then the mother said politely, if somewhat cautiously, “To eat.
Ja.
”

“Maybe I can help you order. You know, talk to the waiter, whatever.”

Despite the German family's surprise, she stuck with them. When they sat down on white plastic chairs on the restaurant patio, she did the same. The sick-yet-excited feeling in her gut made her rebel at the thought of food. She'd simply help the Germans with their order, get a glass of water, and keep a beady eye on Paul R.G. If he wandered off, she'd know he'd given up on pursuing her.

She caught a glimpse of him, not far away. One foot up on the guard railing, hands in pockets, he stood looking toward the hill on the other side of the harbor. The breeze plastered his tee shirt to his long torso. That familiar jolt of attraction hit her and along with it, a fantasy. Maybe he had his eyes on the bakeshop and was imagining sinking those pearly teeth of his into a pastry or a succulent slice of pizza. Jade's mouth began to water. All these weeks of repressing her lust were having their revenge. Big time.

A catamaran with tall sails glided smoothly toward the quay. Jade's practiced eye took in the length and estimated it to be a forty footer. All the while, she kept Paul in her peripheral vision. He was watching the crew lower the sails and maneuver into a berth. Maybe he was imagining taking off on a sailing trip. She could just see him on a yacht, cap perched jauntily on his head … .

After struggling to make conversation and maintain her welcome with the tourists in what was an increasingly heavy task, she registered Paul had finally moved on. Ignoring the grumblings of her stomach, she swallowed the last of the melted ice in her plastic glass and stood up, ready to forget all about him.