the same as she remembered: ocean spray and coconut. That scent had haunted her for months after she’d left Weeping Reef, and any time she smelled a hint of coconut it would thrust her right back onto that dance floor with him.
Her hip bumped against his with each step. The hard muscles of his arm pressed around her shoulder, making her insides curl and jump.
‘It’s not my personal boat. My company owns it.’
‘Your company?’ Chantal looked up, surprised.
Brodie was not the kind of guy to start a company; he’d never had an entrepreneurial bone in his body. In fact she distinctly remembered the time Scott had threatened to fire him for going over time on his windsurfing lessons because his students had been having so much fun. He had a generosity of spirit that didn’t exactly match bottom-line profits.
‘After I left Weeping Reef I bummed around for a while until I got work with a yacht charter company off the Sunshine Coast. It was a lot of fun. I got promoted, and eventually the owners offered me a stake in the company. I bought the controlling share about a year ago, when they were ready to retire.’
‘And now you run a yacht tour company?’
He nodded as their conversation was interrupted by a loud shriek as they strolled onto the marina. The girls had clearly got into the champagne and were dancing on deck, with an amused Scott watching from the sidelines. Willa waved down to her and motioned for them to join the party.
Chantal’s old doubts and fears crept back, their dark claws hooking into the parts of her not yet healed. She was not the person she claimed to be, and they would all know that now. They would know what a fraud she was.
Her breath caught in her throat, the familiar shallow breathing returning and forcing her heart rate up. She had a sudden desire to flee, to return to the dingy bar where she probably looked as if she belonged.
She didn’t fit in here. Not with these classy girls and their beautiful hair. Not with Brodie, who’d made a success of himself, and not with Scott, whom she’d betrayed.
She sucked in a deep breath, her feet rooted to the ground. Panic clutched at her chest, clawing up her neck and closing its cold hands around her windpipe. She couldn’t do it.
‘Chantal?’ Brodie looked down at her, his hand at the small of her back, pushing gently.
She bit down on her lip, shame seeping through her every limb until they were so heavy she couldn’t move. Why did you come? You’re only setting yourself up to be laughed at. You’re a failure.
‘Come on.’ Brodie grabbed her hand and tugged her forward. ‘We don’t want to get left behind.’
BRODIE WANTED TO look anywhere but at Chantal, yet her dancing held him captive. Her undulating figure, moving perfectly to the beat, looked even more amazing than it had at the bar. In casual clothes, with her face relaxed, her limbs loose, she looked completely at ease with the world.
Unable to deal with the lust flooding his veins, he’d caved in and had a beer. The alcohol had hit him a little harder since he’d been abstaining the past few weeks. But he needed to dull the edges of his feelings—dull the roaring awareness of her. He’d hoped the uncontrollable desire to possess her had disappeared when he’d left the reef. However, it had only been dormant, waiting quietly in the background, until she’d brought it to full-colour, surround-sound, 3-D life.
When they’d first stepped onto the yacht Chantal had hesitated, almost as if she wasn’t sure she should be there. But Scott had given her a friendly pat on the shoulder and a playful shove towards the girls. They’d brought her into the fold and she’d relaxed, dancing and giggling as though she’d been there all night. Every so often Brodie caught her eye: a quick glance here or there that neither of them acknowledged.
‘You should get out there and dance with her.’ Scott dropped down next to him, another beer in his hand.
Brodie’s eyes shifted to Scott and he waited to see what would come next. He’d harboured a lot of guilt over the way things had ended between them at Weeping Reef—not just because he’d hurt Scott, but because he’d hurt Chantal as well.
‘Come on, man. You know there’s no hard feelings.’ Scott slapped him on the back. ‘We talked about this already.’
‘It’s not your feelings I’m worried about.’
‘Since when do you worry about anything?’
Brodie frowned. People often took his breezy attitude and laissez-faire approach to mean he didn’t care about things. He knew when Scott was teasing him, but still…
‘Some things are meant to be left in the past.’ Some people were meant to be left in the past… especially when he couldn’t possibly give her what she deserved. Not long-term anyway.
‘You sound like a girl.’ Scott laughed. ‘Don’t be such a wuss.’
He was being a wuss, hiding behind excuses. Besides, it was only a dance. How much harm could it do?
Keep telling yourself it’s harmless—maybe one day you’ll believe it.
Brodie pushed aside his gut feeling and joined the girls. Loud music pumped from the yacht’s premium speakers and the girls cheered when he joined their little circle. His eyes caught Chantal’s—a flicker of inquisitive olive as she looked him over and then turned her head so that she faced Amy.
He took a long swig of his beer, draining the bottle and setting it out of the way. Moving closer to Chantal, he brushed his hand gently over her hip as he danced. She turned, a shy smile curving on her lips. She wasn’t performing now—this was her and only her. Green eyes seemed to glow amidst the smudgy black make-up… Her tanned limbs were moving subtly and effortlessly to the beat.
‘Want a refill?’ Brodie nodded to the empty champagne flute she’d yet to discard.
She hesitated, looking from the glass to him. Was it his imagination, or had Willa given her a little nudge with her elbow?
‘Why not?’ She smiled and followed him into the cabin. The music seemed to throb and pulsate around them, even at a distance from the speakers. But that was how music felt when she moved to it. It came to life.
‘I’m sad to say this yacht is bigger than my apartment.’ She held out her champagne flute. ‘Well, my old apartment anyway.’
Brodie reached for a fresh bottle of Veuve Cliquot and wrapped his hand around the cork, easing it out with a satisfying pop. He topped up her glass, the fizzing liquid bubbling and racing towards the top a little too quickly.
She bent her head and caught the bubbles before they spilled. ‘You’re a terrible pourer.’
He watched, mesmerised, as the pink tip of her tongue darted out to swipe her lips. Her mouth glistened, tempting and ripe as summer fruit.
‘I’m normally too busy driving the boat to be in charge of drinks. But I’ll make an exception for you.’
