LITMIR.BIZ

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Mr. Winslow.”

      “But—”

      He cut her off by turning his back and resuming the climb, Mrs. Colpepper’s continuing diatribe as monotonous as the thumping slap of the boat’s stern paddle.

      Besides the wheelhouse, there were two cabins on the top deck, including his own. The cabin on the left opened to reveal a dark room, the event consultant’s shipside office. As he flipped on the light, he called Megan’s name. Empty.

      The other cabin—his cabin—was locked. Since he hadn’t locked it, Megan must be holed up inside. He patted his pocket for the key, realizing at last that it was in his other jacket...which was behind the door with the distraught bride. This left him no alternative but to knock.

      “Who is it?” she said at once as though she’d been standing on the other side of the door, waiting.

      “It’s Captain Vermont,” he said sternly, not at all amused she’d chosen his private quarters in which to take sanctuary.

      “Please, just go away,” she said.

      “Can’t do that,” he told her.

      “Why not?”

      “Open the door and we’ll talk.”

      “No.”

      “There are over a hundred people out here wanting to see you,” he told her.

      “Well, I don’t want to see them,” she replied immediately.

      “Just talk to me, then,” he said.

      A long pause was followed by, “Are you alone?”

      He looked down the empty passageway. “For the moment.”

      “Can’t you just steer the boat back to Portland and leave me be?” she pleaded.

      “Maybe I can, but I’m not going to,” he informed her.

      Another long pause, then the door opened. Megan made no movement to step aside so John could enter.

      “May I come in?”

      “What do you want?”

      He tapped the brass plaque attached to the mahogany door and said, “This is my cabin.”

      Biting her lip, she said, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

      John looked under her arm and saw Foggy Dew stretched out in the sunshine, licking an extended leg, her bulging middle attesting to the fact that she’d managed to hold on to the kittens. “Is the cat—”

      “She’s fine. She’s almost dry.”

      “But you’re scratched,” he said, nodding at her right arm. He didn’t mention what she looked like—how the tears had reddened her eyes, how the designer dress was now tattered and torn, stained with blood, cat hair and river water, how the flowers in her hair had slipped down to just above her left ear. Heck, none of these things detracted from the winsome beauty that was her birthright. Again, he noticed her high cheekbones and the flawless texture of her skin, the wispy blond strands that curled around her hairline, the cupid’s bow shape of her lips, lips absolutely begging to be kissed. John felt a deep jolt. Where in the world were these kind of thoughts coming from?

      She stared down at her arm as though aware for the first time that rescuing Foggy Dew had extracted a toll.

      He cleared his throat. “Come across the hall and I’ll find the first-aid kit. I know Mrs. Colpepper keeps it in her office. We’ll get you fixed up.”

      “It’s not necessary, it doesn’t matter.”

      He tried a different angle to budge her. “I know your mother and your fiancé want to see you. You go to Mrs. Colpepper’s office and I’ll escort them—”

      “I don’t ever want to see Robert Winslow again,” she stated firmly. “He’s a jerk.”

      Was it really possible this was the first time she’d noticed what a creep the guy was? Remembering he was not a counselor but a captain, he mumbled, “I, uh, happen to know there’s a certain amount of...of strain associated with getting married...”

      She was shaking her head and new tears were puddling in her eyes. “I thought I could talk to them. I know I’m being evasive, but I need time to think. I just can’t face them all right now—you tell them for me, okay?”

      “Miss Morison—”

      “Please,” she added, and with an apologetic shrug, slowly closed the door again, leaving John Vermont high and dry and out of a cabin.

      He pounded a fist against his leg as he strode down the passageway, determined to find a new captain for this ship pronto. “Damn weddings,” he swore beneath his breath.

      

      An hour later he gave up trying to restrain Megan’s fiancé, figuring that by now she’d probably had second thoughts and was ready to come out and talk...and give him back his cabin.

      “Meg? Listen to me. Open the door and let me in.” Winslow’s voice was cajoling.

      John stood across the passageway, leaning against a bulkhead, arms crossed, watching.

      “No,” she said.

      John shook his head. He was beginning to suspect that nothing short of dynamite was going to blast that woman from his cabin, certainly not this bozo’s entreaties. Despite his fervent wish she’d leave, he had to admit a certain amount of admiration for her tenacity.

      “I will not go away,” Winslow said. He’d stripped off the tuxedo jacket but still wore the black slacks, the white shirt and the suspenders, all of which had dried, to a point, as had his hair, but his shoes squeaked when he moved. While his voice was still persuasive, his appearance had taken a definite nosedive. He didn’t look quite so smug now.

      Running a hand through his damp hair and lowering his voice, Winslow talked to the door. “You’re acting like a child,” he said, his voice as smooth as an oil slick. “You know that, don’t you, Meg? Like a little child, running away, scared and silly. Your behavior is embarrassing me and your family. Heck, it was just a stupid animal, and besides, the big brave captain rescued it, so what’s the harm? Now, come out here. Open the door.”

      At his side, John’s hand rolled into a fist, almost ready to give Winslow the thump on the head he’d been asking for. He was unclear whether his desire to beat the tar out of this guy had to do with the degrading way he addressed Megan, his total disregard for animals, or the jab at himself. But the door stayed shut and retreating footsteps behind it announced clearly that Megan had moved back into the room, ending this conversation.

      Winslow turned, his sour expression growing even more surly when he found John staring at him. “I hear you own this tub,” he growled.

      John nodded.

      “Then redeem yourself a little and open the door. You must have a key.”

      John smiled. “Actually, I don’t.”

      “Then break the lock—”

      “And do what, Mr. Winslow? Drag the lady out by her hair? Dump her in the river like she dumped you? Make her walk the plank, keelhaul her, put her in shackles and lock her in the brig?”

      For once the man seemed at a loss for words. He moved a few steps away, then turned back and glared at John. “I’m not through with you yet, Vermont! I have friends in high places.”

      “Good for you,” John said as he pushed himself away from the wall and opened the door to the bridge, anxious only to return Ruby Rose to shore and get these people off his boat.

      

      Megan closed the drapes and flicked on a lamp. For the first time she caught sight of herself in the long mirror, and she winced. Without pausing to think,

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