you ready?’ she called, preparing to toss a second rope.
With his stiff leg he could only move at half her speed. The second she turned her back he limped as fast as he could to get into position before she could see him lurching like a drunk.
‘Here it comes,’ she warned him, in a voice that was both light and musical, yet which somehow crested the howl of the wind.
Catching the rope, he secured it. It appeared fate had a sense of humour, sending an attractive girl to the island when he could least handle the action. Resentment swept over him as he watched her darting nimbly about the deck. When his brother’s fiancée had called to warn him the wedding planner was on her way he had accepted his self-imposed exile was over, but to have some lithe young girl call time was insulting. He had come down to the dock to meet the principal of the events company—someone older and sophisticated, with a keen sense of style—not some kid in jeans and a hooded top with long dark hair hanging in sodden straggles down her back. Was his brother’s wedding of so little importance they’d sent some underling?
‘Well caught!’ she yelled, having fired another rope at him.
Well caught? There had been a time when nothing physical had been beyond him, but then his horse had rolled on him during a polo match, shattering the bones in his leg. It had been pinned in half a dozen places. He had been back on a horse and training rigorously, but it was more than a year since the accident and he had yet to regain the subtleties of sensation required for the top class game, leaving his future in polo uncertain.
‘No harm done,’ the girl yelled as she leaned over the rail to check the hull for damage.
‘It could have been a costly mistake,’ he roared back. ‘You’ve been lucky this time.’
‘Lucky?’ She laughed.
He felt a surge of interest, but in his current state that was soon snuffed out. She could take a look around the island and report back to Holly, but the moment the wind dropped she was history.
No one had said planning a wedding on a remote island would be easy, Maxie reasoned, dashing spray out of her eyes. And time was of the essence, the bride had insisted. No wonder, Maxie had thought when she’d seen a photo of the groom. She had always known organising a high-profile event on a tiny island would be fraught with difficulties, but she hadn’t bargained on being met by a man who made her heart beat nineteen to the dozen. She had always loved a challenge, but as a scholarship girl at an upscale school, with a home life that could best be described as chaotic, she’d made a choice early in life to remain safe on the outside looking in while other people enjoyed the arrangements she made for them.
Safe? Pulling back from the rail, she took a few steadying breaths before preparing to disembark. Nothing was safe here—especially the hard-eyed man on shore.
‘Watch your step,’ he barked as she started her perilous crossing of the narrow plank.
‘I will,’ she called back tensely, wondering why he didn’t come to help her if he was so concerned.
Oh, stop fussing. She could manage. She was fine. This commission was every wedding planner’s dream, and she had no intention of starting out by falling in the sea. A big society wedding between Ruiz Acosta, a fabulously wealthy Argentinian polo player, and Holly Valiant, a celebrity agony aunt who had made her name by writing a column based on living with Ruiz, would have readers hanging on Holly’s every word. Having tamed the playboy, Holly was about to marry him—and the world was waiting with bated breath to see the wedding. A wedding Maxie was going to arrange. It was a commission that would take her business to the next level, and as her income supported everything she cared about this trip was going to be a success.
The man onshore had turned his attention to the skipper. Maxie had the basics of Spanish, but she fell short where colloquialisms were concerned. ‘Is he offering to help us?’ she called out.
‘Something like that,’ the elderly skipper admitted sheepishly.
I bet, she thought, hoping Señor Acosta would have more charm. She stared at him again and quickly looked away. There was something in the man’s eyes that said he had the sort of experience no woman with any sense would choose to get close to. And Maxie had plenty of sense. Though she was lousy at relationships, Maxie conceded with a shrug. Her ideal date was a civilised chat in a civilised restaurant with a civilised man—not a walk on the wild side with a barbarian with an earring and tattoos. She couldn’t deny the man’s edgy good looks had stirred something inside her, but he was food for her fantasies and nothing more.
‘Are you from the bridal agency?’ he demanded in a deep, husky voice.
‘That’s right,’ she confirmed, halfway across the sloping plank. ‘Could you give me a hand?’ She had stopped in the middle of the plank, uncomfortably aware of the turbulent water churning greedily beneath her feet. If he’d grab her suitcase she could hold the guide ropes with both hands.
‘Try walking tall,’ he suggested. ‘Look where you’re going instead of looking down …’
Thanks very much. She’d take her chances with the fishes. But when he turned his irritation on the skipper she’d had enough. ‘If you have anything to say, you can say it to me,’ she insisted in Spanish. ‘I chartered the boat, and I made the decision to sail to the island.’
His gaze darkened. ‘You speak our language?’
‘I would have recognised your tone of voice if you’d been speaking in Ket … a language spoken only in Central Siberia,’ she muttered to herself—but he heard her.
‘If you’re so clever you should have more sense than to persuade an old man to bring you out to the island in a storm.’
Addressing his next words to Fernando, he spoke in a very different tone. ‘You look chilled to the bone, Fernando. You will stay in the guesthouse until the wind drops. I’ll have Maria come over with hot food and clean linen for you.’
‘Si, Señor Acosta, y muchas gracias.’
Señor Acosta? Maxie groaned inwardly. ‘So you’re Diego Acosta?’
‘Correct,’ he confirmed.
The ironic twist to the firm mouth might make her senses roar but this wasn’t the best of starts. Acosta might look more like a dangerous pirate than an international polo player, but his co-operation was crucial as he part-owned the island. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Señor Acosta,’ she said as she stepped with relief onto the shore.
Ignoring the hand she had extended in greeting, he turned away.
Diego Acosta wasn’t sophisticated and he wasn’t charming. He certainly wasn’t her usual type of wedding contact, who looked to Maxie for guidance. The idea of this man looking to anyone for direction was a joke.
‘Give me your bags, Fernando,’ he called out in Spanish, staring out to the boat over her head.
Diplomacy was an essential part of her skill set, Maxie reminded herself. She had dealt with plenty of difficult characters in the past—starting her training on her father, who had been a Class One bully when she was younger, before illness had reduced him to a shell. She had learned how to handle him and she would learn how to manage Diego Acosta—though she would have to be
