Stranded With The Captain. Sharon HartleyЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER TWO

      JAVI JERKED AWAKE at the sound of laughter drifting through the open hatch. He reached for his service weapon, senses instantly on alert.

      He released the gun when he realized where he was and that a group of obviously inebriated people were making their way down Spree’s dock. Illuminating his watch in the dark, he cursed. 1:00 a.m. Damned inconsiderate of these jerks to make so much noise this late on a dock full of live-aboards, some with families.

      He gazed through the hatch at stars twinkling in the dark sky. Could these drunken revelers be his charterers? He heard male voices, but maybe the ladies had hooked up and invited new lovers to spend the night on Spree.

      Why not? They were on holiday.

      “There she is,” a woman said with a touch of admiration. “That’s our Spree.”

      “She’s got beautiful lines,” said a male voice.

      “Shh!” another woman said, trying to whisper but utterly failing.

      Laughter. More whispers and ineffective shushes. Javi resisted the urge to go up top and see what was going on. After several minutes of conversation and a mention of someone needing to get to bed, he heard goodbyes.

      A clumsy thud sounded overhead in Spree’s cockpit, followed by giggles and more shushing. Footsteps clomped down the companionway steps as his charterers descended into the main saloon. Fortunately, he’d already closed the door to his quarter-berth cabin. They spoke in subdued tones, at least making an attempt to be quiet, although the occasional laugh broke through.

      Reminding himself these women were on vacation and that he’d given them permission to stay aboard tonight, he waited for them to settle in their bunks.

      As their hushed conversation continued, he caught mention of an ex-husband they all considered the devil incarnate. Javi wondered which one the ex belonged to, but doors closed, indicating they’d entered their cabins. Faint voices reached him from the master suite shared by Joan and Debbie. Irish, the redhead with the porcelain skin, had opted for the smaller cabin with bunk beds.

      The ache in his thigh jerked him back to the present. He’d done what strengthening exercises he could do without a gym, and maybe he’d overdone the reps to compensate. He was seriously pissed about how long his recovery was taking. Two months in from the shooting, and he still wasn’t a hundred percent.

      The worst thing wasn’t the pain. The worst thing was the boredom. But he only had four more weeks before he’d be cleared to return to active duty. Four never-ending weeks. God, he missed the job.

      Although boredom wasn’t what he anticipated for the next week. Frustration from these clueless women sounded about right.

      Spree rocked gently at the dock as he stared through the hatch at a dark sky full of millions of stars. That subtle motion brought back memories of the many happy years aboard Ganesh, a forty-five-foot wooden yawl, his home until college. He and his brother, Roberto, been homeschooled by his mom and dad as they cruised around the world, often hooking up with Marlin at foreign ports. It’d been a hell of an education from far more than textbooks.

      Until it all came crashing down on their heads. Javi closed his mind to history that wasn’t quite ancient enough.

      This charter had gotten off to a rocky start, and it was his fault because he didn’t like change. Mandatory visits to the Bureau shrink after the shooting had revealed that lovely quirk. Dr. Moonface claimed it was because he had a controlling personality. Maybe she was right. As a result of his irritation, the charterers considered him an evil troll, no doubt on a par with the evil ex.

      One of the reasons he’d allowed them to sleep aboard tonight was to enable an early start. The channel in this marina was tricky at low tide, and he wanted to take advantage of the morning high tide. But considering their late night of partying, he doubted any of the ladies would be up before noon. More change.

      He’d do better tomorrow, work hard to control his reactions and make them feel welcome. He was supposed to be a gracious host, not a pain in the ass. Marlin depended on repeat business.

      As he drifted off, soothed by the rhythm of the boat, Javi decided to fix the women brunch for their first day. Pancakes and bacon. That ought to work. The aroma of frying bacon would rouse the dead. The contract specified they did their own cooking, but in his experience women appreciated a food offering.

      * * *

      JAVI WOKE TO the shrieks of seagulls greeting a boat returning to port. He heard the quiet rumble of a motor, and Spree rocked from the wake. He suspected this was the Growler, who came in from her night of fishing around 6:00 a.m. Through the overhead hatch, he watched coral-tinged clouds drift, reflecting the sunrise.

      Morning had always been his favorite time of day. The world remained calm, the day ahead unknown and the temperature cool. At home, he’d be lacing up his shoes for an early run. But a return to jogging was still weeks away.

      He rolled out of his bunk and pulled on khaki shorts and the light blue T-shirt with Spree’s logo he’d wear for the next week, determined to be a welcoming, proper captain today. When he entered the main saloon, as he suspected, none of his charterers were yet awake. Working quietly, he fired up the butane stove and prepared a pot of coffee.

      He poured himself a cup and he set out three unbreakable coffee mugs for the women. Grabbing a towel, he hurried up the stairs. He’d take a hot shower in the facilities provided by the marina—the last good shower for a week. He’d check with the Growler, too. If she had a good night, the captain might share extra mahimahi, which would provide a fresh fish dinner for the charterers.

      Javi came to a startled halt in the cockpit where he discovered the redhead fast asleep, her long hair loose and splayed out along the fiberglass bench. She wore shorts and a T-shirt that read Green Gully Orchids. He enjoyed a long look at how her shirt strained against what appeared to be perfect breasts. His gaze drifted appreciatively down her long, toned body. Nice legs, too.

      Under different circumstances, no question he’d make a play to get this one in his bed.

      But Irish was a charterer, which made her totally off-limits, a hard rule no charter captain dared break or risk disaster. His role for the next week had to be the friendly yet distant professional.

      Besides, these women already hated him.

      She lay with her knees curled to her chest, her body language indicating she was chilled, so he placed his towel over her body and went below to grab another one for his shower. He’d thought all three had gone to their bunks, but maybe she’d been too drunk to make it to her cabin last night.

      On his return, when halfway up the stairs, he spotted Irish sitting up and yawning, the towel around her shoulders.

      She nodded at his cup. “Is that coffee?”

      “Absolutely.” Perfect opportunity to play the good captain. “How do you take it?”

      She smiled sleepily. “Just a little cream, please.”

      He returned and handed her a fresh mug.

      “Thanks,” she said, and took a cautious sip.

      “You’re welcome.” Javi sat across from her. “Something amiss with your cabin?”