and lowered the anchor before following her below deck, where he gave her the grand tour in under a minute. The cabin had two sleeping quarters, a tiny stall of a bathroom, and a main area that functioned as both kitchen and living room.
“It’s small, but efficient,” he said as if reading her mind. “And, unlike Derek, I don’t need an entire crew to take her out.”
That distinction would be important to him, she decided.
He opened the door to the bathroom and pulled a white terry-cloth robe from a hook on the wall. Handing it to her, he said, “I don’t think my clothes will fit you. But this should do, even though it’s bound to be too big, too.”
When he started to leave, she cleared her throat. “Stephen. I…need your help.”
He turned slowly, and her breath caught. Limned in the light that streamed from above deck, he seemed otherworldly. And she was about to ask him to help her out of her clothes.
“The buttons.” She motioned over her shoulder. “I can’t undo them by myself.” With a rueful laugh that she hoped would lighten the mood, she admitted, “It took the assistance of two of my bridesmaids to get into this thing.”
He said nothing, merely nodded. She turned as he approached, glad to present him with her back, since she felt suddenly awkward and shy. Perhaps that was because her groom should have been the one to help her out of the dress. Indeed, the exercise could have been considered foreplay.
Stephen obviously didn’t consider it to be any such thing. He worked in silence, and swiftly, considering his hands were large and the pearls small and slippery.
At the base of her spine, however, he paused, lingered. And she thought she understood why.
“It’s a birthmark.” The words were barely above a whisper. With a self-conscious laugh, she admitted, “And the reason I’ve never worn a bikini in my life.”
She could have sworn she felt a fingertip gently trace the large heart-shaped freckle that marred her lower back. But then he was handing her the robe.
“Come up when you’re ready.”
He stopped to retrieve two wineglasses from one of the cupboards in the small galley and then he was gone. Alone, Catherine expelled a breath and tried to find a rational explanation for her shaking hands and pounding heart.
He was sipping champagne when she came above deck, wearing his robe. As he had predicted, it was much too large for her. At five-seven, she hardly considered herself petite, but it dwarfed her frame, hanging nearly to her ankles. Beneath its hem, her bare feet peeked out.
“I poured you a glass.” He motioned to a seat across from his. On the small table between them sat the champagne bottle and an amber-filled flute. He raised his own and sipped again. She sat as well, pulling the robe tightly around her knees, and did the same.
“This can’t be how you intended to spend your evening.”
He shrugged. “The same could be said for you.”
“No.” She smiled sadly. “I thought I’d be Mrs. Derek Danbury by this time, listening to the musicians my mother hired slaughter ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ I can only imagine how upset she and my father are right now.”
“I’ll apologize for my cousin’s poor behavior.”
She sipped her champagne, enjoying the warmth it spread through her system. “Why should you? It’s not your fault.”
“No,” he agreed. “But he’s a fool. You made a beautiful bride, Catherine.”
The compliment came as a surprise, as he didn’t seem the sort to issue one easily. And so it warmed her, or perhaps that was just the champagne.
“Thank you. It was the dress. Who wouldn’t look good wearing Vera Wang?”
“It was more than the dress,” she thought he said, but the wind stole his words. Or maybe that was just what her bruised ego needed to hear.
The waves lapped against the boat’s hull, rocking them gently. The rhythm and the wine made her sleepy, but she kept up her end of the conversation, even when he steered it to politics, business practices and current events. They were safe topics, and far more interesting than the usual polite small talk she’d encountered from men, who apparently thought because she wore a bra it meant she couldn’t read a newspaper.
It was growing dark, and nearly half of the champagne was gone, but she held out her glass when he presented her with the bottle. After he’d filled it halfway, she said, “If we were at the reception you’d offer a toast.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t the best man.”
For some reason she wanted to dispute his words. In the end she said, “But as a Danbury surely you would have been expected to speak? What would you have said? I’d like to know.”
“I would have wished you every happiness,” he replied solemnly, dutifully. And she believed him.
“And now? What is there to toast now?”
She’d asked the question before, but this time Stephen had an answer. Holding up his glass, he said, “La Libertad.”
The word rolled slowly from his tongue, the R a seductive purr that raised gooseflesh on her arms and left her to wonder whether he meant the sailboat that had spirited her away from reality or her near-brush with matrimony.
“La Libertad,” she repeated, her accent not nearly as perfected. She swallowed the last of her champagne and settled her head back against the cushions. Closing her eyes, she said, “I like the sound of that.”
Chapter Two
FROM the window of his office, high in the Danbury Building, Stephen watched a sailboat slice through the choppy waves on Lake Michigan. He envied those on board, wishing he could be out there as well, harnessing the wind, outrunning old demons. Soon, too soon, August would give way to September, and then summer to autumn. Not long after that the world would become dormant, La Libertad would be put into storage, and ice would make Stephen’s favorite place inaccessible for the next several months.
Unbidden came the memory of Catherine Canton, and the way she had looked wearing his bathrobe on that sultry July evening when they had hidden from the paparazzi aboard La Libertad.
They’d talked for a few hours, before he’d sailed the boat to port and taken her home. In that time they’d finished the bottle of champagne, and he’d glimpsed the woman beneath all the polish and panache. In addition to her dry sense of humor she possessed a quick wit. She was far smarter, far deeper, far more interesting than he had given her credit for being.
Debutante. The label no longer fit quite so neatly. Or perhaps his admittedly biased definition had changed. Before that night he’d written her off as beautiful, but shallow. But a shallow woman did not keep up on current events, or follow politics. Nor was she merely a fashionable woman, more interested in weekly manicures and facials than substantive issues. She knew designers and followed the latest clothing trends, he was sure, but she also understood branding, and in a brief conversation aboard a sailboat, relaxed by sparkling wine, she’d shown
