Rock the Boat: A Griffin Bay Novel (4 page)

He moved past her, so close that the cuff of his t-shirt grazed her bare arm. She could feel a momentary flash of heat emanating from his body, and the harbor breeze lifted his smell, warm and spicy with a faint musk that set her heart to pounding.

Davis climbed the ladder and made a few tentative steps across the deck of the
Coriolis
. He moved with the slightly hunched posture of one who’d never been on a boat before. Unused to the slight rocking and the hollow sound of the teak planks beneath his feet, all of Davis’s arrogant bearing vanished. He looked uncertain, maybe even a little nervous.

Jordan seized her opportunity. She stepped up the ladder with all the natural command of the captain she was. The
Coriolis
was her domain, and no cocky rock star was going to put her out of her element. Not even if his voice was smooth as black silk and the smell of his hard, toned body made her knees weak.

She was in charge here—of the boat, the crew, her future and her fate. Davis Steen had better remember that.

.4.

I
n the first hour of his sailing adventure, Davis had already picked up so much boat lingo that he felt like an old salt. The two big, wooden poles sticking up from the middle of the boat were called
masts
—but of course he knew that from his pre-seafaring existence. Only a perfect idiot would have made it to his thirties without knowing what a mast was. But as Jordan Griffin and her two-person crew worked the ropes and sails like a well-oiled machine—Jordan calling out orders as she minded the ship’s big, spoked steering wheel—his nautical vocabulary expanded.

No, those weren’t ropes. They were
lines
. And the wheel was apparently called the
helm
.
Gaff
and
stay
,
rudder
and
keel
, he savored the enchanting language of sailing as Jordan, Storm, and Emily went about their business with brisk efficiency. There was a rhythm to this language that Davis, as a lifelong musician, couldn’t help but appreciate. There was a rhythm, too, to sailing itself—the timing and grace with which the crew angled the huge white sails, catching the wind just so; the perfect, mathematic intervals of bobbing waves, as steady as a metronome’s beat.

Of course, he was still a total newbie. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, he found this whole sailing thing a little intimidating. There was a lot of water below the boat, stretching down to depths he couldn’t imagine. The thought of what might be lurking below the surface gave him a mild case of the creeps. He tried to ignore all the unknown possibilities.

“We’ve got a nice following wind,” Jordan called to her crew.

“Wooo!” Storm shouted in reply from the front of the boat.

The wiry, tousled young crewman stood far from Davis’s perch in the sunken cockpit, not far from Jordan and the helm. Davis was trying his best kick back with an unconcerned expression, but even though he found the boat’s gentle up-down motion soothing as it breasted across the low waves—and even though he was picking up the lingo—he was still painfully aware that he was out of his element. Way,
way
out.

Storm, on the other hand, darted along the boat’s impressive eighty-five-foot length with the confidence and inborn aptitude of a squirrel leaping from tree branch to tree branch. Davis watched Storm fiddle with some sort of line running from the front-most mast.

“Let’s raise the mainsail,” Jordan called.

Storm joined Emily where she stood beside an orderly collection of lines locked in metal cleats. “Ready?” he asked, and the blonde girl nodded.

As each began to haul on their lines, the long pole connected horizontally to the mast—the boom, as Jordan called it—began to wiggle loosely.

“Keep your head down,” Jordan said to Davis. “This thing is going to fly right over you, and believe me, it’s no fun getting hit.”

Davis gave Jordan a dry look from behind his shades. God, she was hot—slim and leggy, and her tight blue tank top revealed plenty of sun-kissed, perfectly smooth skin. It revealed some cleavage, too, between those cute, round little breasts. Her coffee-brown hair was done up in a wind-tangled ponytail, pulled out through the rear loop of a black ball cap that read
Griffin Bay, WA
in hot-pink embroidery. Davis had noticed her graceful, athletic body the moment he’d stepped off the float plane. Jordan’s hotness had been a welcome treat, the only thing to brighten his mood since he had woken up to Tyler’s obnoxious buzzing at his condo door that morning.

And when he’d checked her out at close range…
Wow
. Her long face with its delicate features and her level, dark-eyed stare gave Jordan a serious expression that teetered on the edge of “stodgy librarian,” but the sternness was totally undone by the scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. And her full, pink lips—they lent Jordan a totally different look. Once the boat was underway, Davis had found himself staring at her mouth more times than he could count. He was far more captivated by her lips than by the beauty of the San Juan Islands. He couldn’t stop wondering what they would feel like pressed against his own mouth—or in a variety of other places.

But sexy as Jordan was, she was all business on her boat. Maybe she was all business
everywhere
; Davis had no way of knowing. All he could say for sure was that something about her no-nonsense, hard-nosed demeanor annoyed him—almost as much as her beauty attracted him. Maybe Jordan’s businesslike manner simply reminded him of Tyler.
God knows, Tyler is enough to annoy anybody
. Davis tapped his toes against the boat’s wooden deck, giving in to a nervous rhythm as he got a little more honest with himself.
Just maybe
, he felt the same envy for Jordan Griffin as he felt for his manager. After all, this young woman was hardly more than a girl—she couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, tops—and here she was, the captain of her own boat, running her own business, at the whim of neither manager nor record label.

Or maybe his vague sense of irritation stemmed from something else entirely. Save for that one moment on the dock, when Davis had tripped her up with his stupid insinuation and sent her stammering, Jordan had completely ignored him, save for the few times when professional courtesy demanded she speak to him. Not so long ago, Davis would have had a girl like Jordan falling into his lap—and his bed. If there was one thing Davis could do better than making music, it was making a woman wet. But for all the desire Jordan showed for him, Davis might as well have been a bucket of fish heads.

Maybe I’m losing my edge with women, too. Maybe Tyler’s right, and I’ve aged out of this lifestyle
.

The thought depressed him. Suddenly he wanted to be anywhere else but in Jordan’s proximity. Thinking to check out the view from the front of the
Coriolis
, he stood—totally forgetting the captain’s warning.

“Look out!” Jordan shouted.

She dodged away from the helm and grabbed Davis by the back of the neck. For one heartbeat he thought,
Yes! My edge is back!
And he felt a cocky grin spread across his face. Then Jordan wrenched him down with all her strength, just in time for the boom to miss both their heads by mere inches. The breeze of its passage tugged at Davis’s hair, and in its ponderous movement he could sense its incredible weight.

“Shit!” he gasped. Then he chided himself.
Remarkably uncool
.

“Oh my God!” Emily shrieked. “Davis, are you okay?”

“He’s fine,” Storm said. “Focus! Get the gaff up!”

The crew continued hauling on their lines until the four-cornered sail raised. It caught the wind with a thump as resonant as a bass drum and the
Coriolis
leaned with the powerful new propulsion.

Shaking—and trying desperately to hide his shaking—Davis sank back into his seat.

“Don’t do something like that again,” Jordan said, returning to the helm. “You almost got your head split open.”

Davis was too rattled to come up with an effortlessly cool retort. “I know,” he muttered.

“You have to listen to me. I’m the
captain
. That
means
something on a boat, you know.”

“Aye aye,” Davis said, smirking.

Jordan stared at him fiercely over the rim of her shades. Then he caught just a flash of a smile in her brown eyes. It was fleeting, and quickly suppressed… but it was definitely there.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jordan said, calm and collected now, the thin, toned muscle in her arm jumping as she held the helm’s wheel firmly in place. Those lush lips twitched again in an effort to hide her smile. She called out to Storm: “Let it out more.”

The crewman responded by loosening one of his lines; the boom swung farther out until the mainsail was almost perpendicular to the mast. Its reach was impressive; it blocked the sun, casting the cockpit—and Jordan—in soft, blue-green shade.

Something about Jordan in that moment stabbed Davis with a painful, fleeting memory of Christine. Maybe it was the way she looked, so confident and totally in her element. Maybe it was the cool-colored light on her skin, reminiscent of the lights of the stage. Davis recalled how Christine would wait backstage at every concert, the curves of her body oddly, ethereally lit by the spots and footlights. The whole time he played, as the crowd screamed his name, he was conscious only of Christine standing in the wing of the stage, watching him, waiting for him…

Only she wasn’t waiting for him after all. And these days she smiled at Mark while the news sites hailed the meteoric rise of Can’t Never, and The Local Youths faded out of the light.

Ever since that terrible night two years ago when Davis had let himself into Christine’s apartment and heard the unmistakable sound of her crying out in ecstasy—ever since that moment when he’d found her plunging and gasping over another man’s body—and since that terrible, red-hot, hateful moment when that man had sat up in a panic and revealed himself as Mark, one of the few people in this world whom Davis considered a friend…

Christine hadn’t left Davis in peace since that night. He had broken it off with her then and there, of course, and cut Mark out of the band. But his every waking thought was plagued by Christine. Like a ghost—like that half-seen vision backstage—she had haunted his mind, his music, those quiet moments when Davis had tried to escape his pain. Christine was there every night in his dreams, mocking him with her presence, presenting to him that body he could never touch or hold again.

Christine had hung at the edge of Davis’s thoughts with every breath, every heartbeat. Every moment… until he met Jordan Griffin. Until he set foot on this boat.

And that tiny smile Jordan worked so hard to conceal… Davis was doing something good to Jordan, too, even if she was resisting it.

So I haven’t lost my edge—not with women, anyway. Not yet
. As far as Jordan was concerned, Davis was still a sexy rock star with a hot body and irresistible charm. Music might be another matter—it remained to be seen whether he had lost his edge where his career was concerned. But if this foxy little sea captain thought he was worth one of those tiny, almost-not-there smiles, then maybe there was hope for Davis after all.

I’ll win you over, Captain
, he thought as he watched Jordan test the resistance of the helm. Smiling with satisfaction, she took her hands off the wheel. The helm didn’t budge. The
Coriolis
, tilted on its white hull, sailed straight and true with the cooperative breeze.
I’ll win you over and make you admit just how bad you want me. I’ll prove I’ve still got what it takes—just see if I don’t. Davis Steen isn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot
.

.5.

T
hey made it to Stuart Island just as the sun was mellowing, sinking in a comfortable, orange-and-pink glow toward the west. The
Coriolis
, sails furled, coasted through the narrow mouth of Reid Harbor and slowed about halfway down the long, skinny length of the bay. At Jordan’s signal, Storm kicked on the engine, then made his way to the bow to manage the anchor. The anchor splashed down and the
Coriolis
casually reversed, drawing gently backward until the anchor chain was taut and secure.

“Well, here we are,” Jordan said to Davis. “Home sweet home for the night.”

The rock star stood up rather hesitantly. Jordan suspected he was still wary of the boom, even though the mainsail had long since been furled and the boom and gaff secured. She could read his uncertainty in his tense shoulders and darting glances, but she couldn’t help but admire his persistent air of unconcern. He was determined to make the whole crew think he felt right at home on the water.

Davis stared down the length of Reid Harbor and cut a few quick glances at the cradling, pine-carpeted arms of Stuart Island that surrounded them. It was shaping up to be a beautiful evening. The sky held a certain golden glow that promised a stunning sunset to come. At the far end of the harbor the glass-smooth water was dotted with boats at anchor, distant and small. But close at hand, the
Coriolis
rested alone. Its two tall masts made wavering reflections in the gently rippling water.

“Home sweet home?” Davis said. “Aren’t we pulling into some resort town for the night?”

“Of course not! You’re sleeping on the boat.”

Emily, through with securing her lines, stepped down into the sunken cockpit. “You’ve got the best berth in the place—a private cabin below. The bed’s really comfortable, and you’ve got a great view through your own porthole. You’ll love it!”

Davis’s mouth pressed into a skeptical line. “Sleeping on a boat? Who does that?”

“We do,” Jordan said, doing her best to mask her annoyance with a smile. “And now you do, too.”

This was the first client she’d ever had who didn’t actually
want
to be on a boat. She figured that was apt to make him ten times more unbearable than her usual customers.
Good thing his manager paid me ten times the usual rate
. But now she wondered if it would be compensation enough.

Davis squinted at the far end of the harbor. “Is there a town down there?”

“Nope,” Jordan said. “There’s nothing on Stuart Island but a state park and a few homes. That’s it. No town.”

“Why?” Storm asked. “Is there something you need?”

Davis shrugged. “I thought a bar would be nice. A few drinks, or maybe a lot of drinks. Some music. You know, a
good time
.”

“We’re all from Griffin Bay,” Emily said with an apologetic laugh. “We’re practically a different species from you big-city types. I’m afraid anchoring out and sleeping on a boat is the only form of good time our species knows.”

“Come on, you can’t really mean that.” Davis turned the full force of his charm on Emily, giving her a slow, velvety smile. His words practically purred at her, and Emily’s face flushed as red as the sunset to come. “Music makes you feel alive—gets your blood pounding. And a few drinks will let down all your inhibitions.” He left poor, flustered Emily alone and turned his smoky, smoldering stare on Jordan. “
All
your inhibitions. Right? Surely even you down-home Griffin Bay types know what I mean.”

Held by his intensely blue eyes, Jordan’s stomach flopped as if she’d ridden a boat over a massive swell. Emily had chided her for being too rigidly in control, but for the briefest moment she wondered what she might do if she let all her inhibitions go—and she didn’t like what she saw in her mind’s eye. The first thing she’d do would be to run her hand along Davis’s face—feel the scratch of his overgrown stubble against her skin.

Nope
, she told herself firmly.
No. Absolutely not. Not happening. Ever
.

She had a job to do. One last job. She was going to get through the next ten days with Davis on her boat, and then she’d be done—free to build a new future. She was not going to get distracted by a man.
Especially
not a client. Jordan was a professional—God knew she’d worked harder, doubly hard, to prove to her cynical, sometimes bigoted clients just how professional she was as a very young female skipper.

But you haven’t had a boyfriend since high school
, some sneaky little devil-voice whispered in her head.

It was true. Once Jordan had found her focus—her dream—she’d barely had time for boys, and certainly had made no time for romance now, as a grown woman. Jordan was no virgin, but her teenage fumblings hadn’t wowed her, even back then. She had always been so driven to make her business succeed that she’d spared no thought for sex.

But Davis, with his slow smile and resonant voice, might change all that in a blink… if she let him. If she didn’t maintain her boundaries. He embodied every stupid cliché of a rock star, she told herself angrily: cocky, self-absorbed, and unspeakably, forcefully attractive.
Ugh. How unoriginal
.

Jordan climbed up out of the cockpit and busied herself with an unnecessary inspection of the lines. If she was going to keep herself aloof from Davis’s charm, she needed to maintain her annoyance with him.
That shouldn’t be hard. Just remember that he’s ten times worse than your worst client. There’s nothing attractive about rich, demanding pricks.

She began working on her defensive mantra right away. Who
was
this guy? Who arrived at a stunning anchorage like Reid Harbor—the kind of scenic wonderland most people only dream of visiting in person—and instantly thought of seeking out loud music and booze? Emily had chided Jordan back at the marina for her need to chill out and relax, but Davis Steen was clearly the one with the relaxation deficiency. And anybody who couldn’t slow down and appreciate the natural beauty of the San Juans was nobody Jordan wanted to waste her time or her thoughts with.

When both her anger and her attraction were under control, Jordan straightened from the lines and said lightly to Davis, “I had quite a conversation with Tyler, your manager.”

Davis looked up from the cockpit warily. “Oh yeah?”

“He said he sent you on this trip so you could unwind. Get some relaxation. Find some peace and quiet so you could think clearly.”

Davis shrugged and gave another of his low, rumbling laughs. He crossed his arms in what was probably an unconsciously defensive gesture, but somehow the posture only made him look cooler—casual and confident, his arrogant self-assurance beaming out from him like heat from the sun. Jordan couldn’t help but notice how his folded arms accentuated the shape of his muscular chest and his golden-tanned biceps.

He really is hot
, she thought dismally. Dark hair, blue eyes, a little masculine scruff around the jaw, and a strong, lean body—Davis was exactly the kind of guy she had always found attractive.
Too bad he’s so revoltingly out-of-touch
.
I mean, really. Who gets to Stuart Island and just wants to party?

“So I think,” Jordan continued, “you’ll have to find ways to enjoy yourself the Griffin Bay way. On a boat.”

Davis frowned. “Hey, man. I’m a paying client. I hired you. I think that entitles me to a say in what we do and where we go.”

“Wrong,” Jordan said. “Tyler hired me.
He’s
the paying client. And believe me, he paid me
well
to be sure you chilled out and took it easy. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tyler—that’s none of my business. But I do know he hired me for a specific purpose: to carry you off to some peaceful places.
Quiet, relaxing
places. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

Davis stepped up from the cockpit and moved close—just a little too close, so Jordan could smell his warm, spicy smell and feel the nearness of his body.

“Well you’re very…
professional
,” Davis said quietly.

Jordan’s heart pounded in her ears; she swallowed hard, and cursed herself for doing it. Davis noticed; his mouth quirked in a self-satisfied smile.

He knows what he’s doing to me
, Jordan realized.
He’s
trying
to turn me on. On purpose! It’s all a game to him
. Another box ticked on the checklist of rock star clichés: using girls and getting some kind of sick power trip out of it.

Not me
, she promised him silently, narrowing her eyes.

If Davis thought he could crack through her single-minded focus, he was in for a real wake-up call. Jordan’s drive and professional detachment were legendary—and her commitment to running her business the right way hadn’t waned, even while she considered giving Sea Wolf up. She wasn’t going to fall into some arrogant rock star’s trap. Even if he was the sexiest man she’d ever seen—even if her hands still tingled with the desire to feel the rough scratch of his face. Davis Steen was the worst: Jordan had already decided on that, and his attempts to make her lose her head over his hotness only proved how right she was about him.

She stepped coolly away from Davis. “I
am
professional,” she said. “You can ask my crew.”

“True,” Emily said, and Storm added quickly, “Confirmed.”

“When I’ve been paid to do a job, I do it,” Jordan went on. “So you’re going to see some of the most beautiful sights on Earth from the deck of my boat. You’re not going to party; you’re not going to go wild. You’re going to have a relaxing vacation, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

Davis’s slow smile curled. She wanted to jab those two intense, captivating blue eyes with the vee of her fingers. And she couldn’t look away from those eyes, either—no matter how she scolded herself to ignore his appeal.

“Am I?” Davis asked. “Going to enjoy it?”

Jordan glanced down at his chest, his arms, and even across the distance between them, even over the brisk, salty breeze of the harbor, she caught his intoxicating smell. She inhaled it more deeply than she’d intended.

“Yes,” she said decisively. “Just see if you don’t.” And she made herself turn away.