hour later they arrived at the Belmont Yacht Club, a small and exclusive marina just north of the city. Catherine had been to the club a number of times with Derek, who docked his fifty-four-foot cabin cruiser there, and her own family retained a membership, even though their yacht had been sold when the stock market plummeted, taking a good portion of their heavily invested fortune with it. But she hadn’t realized Stephen also boated. He corrected her immediately when she made the observation aloud.
“I sail.”
That surprised her even more. Of course, sailing would suit someone as quiet and self-contained as Stephen, but his parents, as well as Derek’s father, had died in a sailing accident on this very lake when the boys were barely out of diapers.
He helped her from the limo, and then spoke to the driver as she tried to smooth out the crumpled silk of her dress.
“Meet us back here around one.” Handing the man a sizable tip, he added, “And if anyone asks, you never saw us.”
He grabbed the champagne that had been chilling in an ice bucket in the back of the limo and started for the waterfront, leaving her with little choice but to follow him. Along the way they passed a couple of bikini-clad young women, coming in from a lazy day spent out on the lake.
“Congratulations!” one called. To her companion she murmured, “I wonder which boat they’re going to be rocking?”
And Catherine realized how it must look: Stephen in a tuxedo; she wearing her wedding finery. It was as if they were a couple, setting out for a romantic sunset cruise on Lake Michigan to toast their nuptials and kick off their honeymoon in style.
He must have realized it, too. His gaze swerved to hers, held for a lingering moment, but he said nothing.
Several slips down from Derek’s luxurious cruiser, he swung aboard a graceful sailboat. It was much smaller than Derek’s yacht, which took a five-man crew to operate. But at thirty-eight feet, it could hardly be considered little.
Standing on the dock, Catherine said, “What do you call her?”
“La Libertad.”
The foreign name rolled from his tongue, sounding like poetry, and he stared at her afterward. His gaze seemed defiant, although she couldn’t have said why.
“That’s Spanish for freedom, right?”
“Freedom.” He nodded.
“She’s a beauty. Do you take her out often?”
“As often as I can, which isn’t as often as I like. And the season seems to get shorter every year.”
“Are we going for a sail?”
“That’s my plan.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know a mast from a jib.”
“I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry.” He motioned for her to step closer. “Here, let me help you board. We wouldn’t want you to wind up bobbing around in Lake Michigan in that gown.”
He surprised her with a smile as he said it, reaching out for her waist to help her aboard. She rested her hands on his shoulders, transfixed by the rare smile and offering one of her own in return. Neither of them saw the photographer until they heard the unmistakable whirring of a camera’s motor.
“Oh, no! Stop!” Catherine cried, bringing up her hands to shield her face.
Stephen’s exclamation was far more graphic. And from his murderous expression she thought he might hop back onto the deck and dump the guy in Lake Michigan, camera and all.
“Get below,” he called, pushing her in the direction of the cabin.
The man snapped off several more frames before Stephen managed to shove off from the dock. But Catherine had a feeling the first shot, the one of Stephen smiling as his hands spanned her waist, would be the one that graced the cover of whatever publication the guy worked for. She could only imagine what the accompanying copy would say, especially if the camera angle had also caught her smiling back.
Stephen might prefer sailing, but he used the boat’s motor to take them out to open waters. Lake Michigan’s vastness was the perfect place to hide in plain sight from the paparazzi. They could hear and see any approaching watercraft long before anyone aboard could click their picture.
She came above deck when she was sure they were safely out of range of even a telephoto lens, and settled onto one of the white padded benches near the wheel where Stephen stood. Just for a moment he reminded her of a pirate. He had shed his suit coat and black tie, and opened the collar of his white shirt, exposing more golden-brown skin. His cuffs were rolled to the forearm. The look on his face was one of relaxed satisfaction. Where he had looked debonair in a tuxedo, now he simply looked dangerous.
Arranging the folds of her gown around her on the bench, she thought it a pity that her own clothing was not so easily converted to casual. She had taken off the veil and tried to bustle her gown without much success. But at least she had finally shed those crippling shoes.
They were still using the boat’s low-horsepower motor, which made their progress relatively slow. The motor was only intended for days when the wind failed to co-operate. That wasn’t a problem on this evening. She had little doubt that if they had hoisted the sails they would have been halfway to Michigan by now. The wind was strong, breaking small white-caps in the water around them. It ruffled Stephen’s dark hair, and it was probably wreaking havoc with the intricate style she’d spent the better part of the morning with a hairdresser to achieve.
“Ever sail before?” he asked.
“Once, as a child, in a small boat my uncle owned. I remember watching the sail tilt almost parallel to the water.”
“Exciting, isn’t it?”
She recalled only terror and an upset stomach. “I thought I was going to die.”
“Well, it’s not for everyone.”
“But it suits you,” she said. And it did. He didn’t look quite so remote with the wind making his hair dance and excitement lighting up his dark eyes.
“I opened the champagne.” He motioned to the small table in front of her. She couldn’t imagine what they had to toast, and she said as much, but he merely shrugged. “There are glasses in the galley, first cupboard on the right, if you wouldn’t mind getting them.”
When she stood to fetch them she stumbled on her dress. Even as her fingers curled around the rail she felt his hands grip her waist, spanning it as he had when he’d helped her board. He turned her slowly and she caught the subtle scent of his aftershave.
“Steady now.”
“If only Vera Wang would make a gown suitable for sailing,” she quipped, suddenly ill at ease.
“If you want to take it off, I have something a little more comfortable you can wear.”
Had the line come from Derek’s mouth it would have been accompanied by a wolfish grin. Stephen merely waited patiently for her reply, no ulterior motive seeming to lurk in his steady gaze. Yet none of her discomfort left.
