The Mighty Quinns: Marcus

“After I showed him my work, we got to talking, and he’s interested in bankrolling the expansion of my business. I’ve got to find a bigger place, where I can build bigger boats. Maybe hire some new workers. Ross could throw a lot of business my way.”

“What’s his boat like?” Ian asked.

A grin curled the corners of Marcus’s mouth. “You should see her. She’s a beauty. Built in 1923. Eighty-foot wood ketch. It’s all set up so you can sail it with a crew of two. He had the cabin completely refurbished but he wants more detailing, so I’m adding some vintage carvings and I’m replicating the original figurehead. I plan to live on the boat while I work. He’s got it anchored off his place on Price’s Neck. I start the day after I put this one in the water,” Marcus said, nodding toward the wooden sloop sitting in the timber cradle.

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. “Now the man has something to say. Sometimes, Marky, I think you prefer boats to women.”

“Back to the deal, then,” Dec said.

“This has become a deal?” Ian asked.

Dec nodded. “We stay away from women. No flirting, no fondling, no nothing. Every week we get together to discuss our observations. After three months, we see where we are.”

“No sex for three months,” Ian stated.

“No women for three months,” Declan said. “Complete celibacy.”

“What about…you know…?” Ian raised his eyebrow and shook his closed fist up and down.

“Masturbation?” Dec asked. “Are you askin’ about self-gratification, Ian Quinn? Well, you know what the church says about that. It’s a sin. And besides that, it’ll give you warts, pimples and, if you do it too much, your willy will dry up and fall off and you’ll be turned into a wee girl.”

“I’m not going completely cold turkey,” Ian said.

Dec glanced over at Marcus, then back to Ian. “Well, I suppose we can make one exception to the rule.”

Ian gave his brothers a satisfied nod. “And if I’m going to do this, there better be something worthwhile at the end.”

“A naked woman in your bed isn’t enough?” Dec asked.

“I’m talking money. Let’s put a bet down. We all toss in a thousand bucks. The person who lasts longest after the three months takes the pot.”

“And if you don’t last three months?” Marcus asked.

“Then you throw another thousand in before you’re allowed to break the pact,” Ian said.

Marcus weighed the odds. Hell, he had the best chance of the three of them. And he could use the money. He’d gotten only a small advance from Ross to tide him over until the job was done. And he’d already spent the money he’d gotten for the sloop. “I’m in,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose, so that’s incentive enough.”

“I’m in,” Ian said. “And I intend on winning this bet. I can easily do without women for three months.”

“Game’s on,” Declan said.

He glanced at Marcus, and Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. Dangling from it was the old medallion they’d found in the stable on their grandmother’s estate. It had become like a sacred relic to the three of them. Whenever one of the brothers needed good luck or a charm to swear upon, Marcus brought out the medallion.

“The minute one of us breaks the pact, we call the other two and confess,” Dec said. “The money goes in the pot and the game continues until there’s just one guy left.”

Marcus spit in his hand, then clutched the medallion tight. Ian did the same, then clasped his brother’s hand. Dec followed suit and slapped his hand on top of theirs.

“We meet once a week and we discuss what we’ve learned from our observations,” Ian suggested. “Here’s topic number one just to get us started. Why do women like shoes so much? And given the choice, would a woman prefer a new pair of shoes over a night in bed with either one of you?”

Marcus pondered the question for a long moment. Ian was right—he hadn’t a clue. But he’d have plenty of time to think about his answer once he got on board Trevor Ross’s yacht. He’d also have time to figure out just how he’d spend his brothers’ money.

A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT filtered through the porthole and warmed Marcus Quinn’s face. He slowly opened his eyes, and for a few seconds he was transported back to his childhood, to those days spent playing in the stable at Porter Hall.

He rolled over in the narrow berth and grabbed his wristwatch from the small shelf above his head. Wiping at his bleary eyes, Marcus tried to focus on the time, ignoring the dull ache in his head. “Eight-thirty,” he murmured, sinking back into the pillows.

He’d been out with Ian and Dec last night, playing darts and pool at their favorite pub. For some strange reason, the pub had been filled with beautiful girls, an odd occurrence for a Sunday night and a place that usually didn’t attract much of a female crowd. Unable to handle temptation, they’d ended up back at Ian’s place, playing poker until well past two and discussing their observations on women.

The ketch rocked gently in the water as the waves slapped against the hull. Stretching his naked body beneath the sheets, Marcus closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, the movement of the boat lulling him back toward sleep. He’d been living on board for over a week now and the boat was beginning to feel like home.

He raked his hands through his rumpled hair. But it wasn’t home, it was work. And there was plenty to do today. Marcus swung his legs over the edge of the berth and glanced down at his morning erection, just another reminder that proper relief would be limited to his own devices. He had thought the bet would be easy for him. Marcus had never been a Casanova. But now that he wasn’t allowed to have sex, that’s all he could think about.

He dug through his clothes scattered over the opposite berth in the crew cabin, searching for something clean to wear, then gave up. It was about time to check out the small laundry room aft of the engine room—right after he started a pot of coffee. Marcus wandered sleepily down the narrow companionway, past the two spacious guest cabins.

From the time he could stand on a deck Marcus had loved being on the water. His earliest memories were of his father standing in the wheelhouse of the Mighty Quinn, the family swordfishing boat. Padriag Quinn had sold his interest in the boat to Marcus’s uncle Seamus to help pay for his wife’s medical bills. After bouncing around from boat to boat, grabbing whatever berth he could during the summer season, Paddy had been forced to accompany Seamus south for the winter to bring in more money.

The three-month summer visit became nine years as Emma Quinn valiantly battled cancer and her husband took any job he could find. Marcus’s older brothers, Rory and Eddie, had worked part-time jobs, scraping together enough to contribute to food and rent. His sisters, Mary Grace and Jane, had taken care of the house and their mother.

Even with everyone contributing, things had gotten so bad while the younger boys had been gone, Paddy had sold the family home in Boston and moved them to a tiny cottage in Bonnett Harbor, Rhode Island. There, he’d worked for a boat-repair business on the western shore of Narragansett Bay when he wasn’t fishing, a business he later took over from the elderly owner.

On the very day he and Dec and Ian had returned from Ireland, Marcus had wandered around the boatyard, searching for a solitary spot to regroup. He’d found the old boathouse in the farthest corner of the property and, inside, a small wooden sloop that had been left to ruin. Over the next year, he’d slowly restored the boat, and from that moment on he’d known he was destined to work with his hands—to carve beautiful brightwork and to design sleek wooden sailboats that looked pretty both in and out of the water.

A few years at Rhode Island School of Design were followed by another two years working at IYRS, a school for yacht restoration, setting him on the path to opening his own business. He’d built his first boat while still at IYRS. The twenty-three-foot wooden day-sailer took three months, and by the time he’d finished, Marcus had had three more commissions and enough money to hire two employees. Now, with the possible investment from Trevor Ross, things would start to look up.

Marcus glanced around the spacious lounge of Victorious as he passed through, his feet brushing against the cool teak sole of the boat. The ketch was a designer’s dream, an inspiration for Marcus’s future projects. He enjoyed discovering all the interesting nooks and crannies of the vintage yacht, examining the expensive restoration work. Just the maintenance costs of keeping a wooden boat afloat were ridiculous, but then Ross had money to burn.

As he turned the corner into the galley, Marcus stopped short, the breath leaving his chest. A woman, dressed only in lacy black panties, was bent in front of the icebox, that brief scrap of fabric riding up the curves of her backside. She was dripping wet, water puddling around her feet, her long hair plastered to her back.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, deciding if he ought to step out and throw on some clothes or stand his ground. He didn’t want to give the stowaway a chance to escape. Brushing aside his modesty and ignoring his slowly fading erection, Marcus braced his hands on either side of the door, then cleared his throat. She straightened, then turned and faced him, her face registering mild surprise. Her gaze slowly raked the length of his body, resting a long moment in the area of his crotch. “Good morning,” she murmured, a smile twitching at her lips.

She didn’t seem to be concerned about his lack of clothing—or hers, for that matter. He tried to avoid looking at her breasts, but he couldn’t help himself. Her body was perfect, long-limbed and slender, with a tiny waist that flared out to lovely hips. His eyes drifted back to her breasts, lingering there for just a moment, and he wondered how it might feel to touch her, to cup each sweet breast in the palms of his hands. Damn, he really didn’t need this now, not when he was doing his best to avoid thinking about perky breasts and curvy backsides.

“Are you finished?” she asked. “Or would you like to take a closer look?” She held up her arms and slowly turned in front of him, offering him yet another glimpse of her backside.

Marcus’s gaze darted back to her face, taking in the wide green eyes, high cheekbones and lush mouth now curved in a wry smile. Hell, this was every man’s dream, the stuff of fantasies, stumbling on a nearly naked woman. Marcus swallowed hard. If he didn’t find something to cover his crotch, she was going to see exactly what kind of effect she was having on him.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and hurried toward his cabin.

“Is there coffee?” she shouted, poking her head out of the galley.

Marcus cursed softly as he dug through his clothes, looking for a clean pair of boxers. In the end, he tugged on baggy surfer shorts and made a quick stop at the head to brush his teeth. When he returned to the galley, she was still rummaging through the cabinets in the same state of undress. He groaned inwardly, wondering why she hadn’t taken the chance to put on some clothes.

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Coffee,” she muttered impatiently. “Is it too much to ask that you start a pot of coffee in the morning?”

He stepped inside, moving past her. Her body brushed his, her breasts soft against his chest. He focused on the coffee, determined not to let her rattle him. The bag of beans was tucked behind a canister of sugar. Marcus pulled it out and dumped a healthy measure of the beans into the grinder. As the grinder whined, he glanced over his shoulder to find her perched on the counter, her hands braced at her sides, her long legs crossed at the ankles. He fought back an impulse to reach out and touch her just to make sure this wasn’t all just a very vivid wet dream.

He dumped the ground coffee into a filter, then popped it into the coffeemaker, grateful for any distraction. After grabbing the pot, Marcus passed it over to her, and she filled it with water from the tap. They both watched until a stream of coffee began to drip into the pot. Then she reached behind her back and found two coffee mugs.

“I can’t wait,” she murmured, nudging his shoulder with the cups.

He filled her mug and handed it back to her, keeping his attention firmly fixed on the coffee. “How did you get on board?” he asked.

“I swam,” she said. “I left my clothes and my bags on the dock. Maybe you could take the dinghy over later and get them for me?”

“Yeah,” Marcus muttered. “Right.” She had some nerve. He should be throwing her back in the drink. But it wasn’t every day he got to enjoy the company of a naked woman, especially a woman who seemed more comfortable out of her clothes than in them.

“You’re new,” she said. “You’re a bit older than the boys Daddy usually hires. Are you here to take over for that old barnacle Captain Davis? Please tell me he’s finally retired to the Crusty Old Sailors’ Home. Or was he swallowed by some accommodating white whale on his last cruise?”

Marcus bit back a curse as he poured himself a cup. Daddy? Aw, bloody hell. The only person she could be talking about was Trevor Ross, which meant that the naked woman sitting behind him—the one he’d been drooling over—was his future business partner’s daughter, Eden Ross.

Pictures of her as a little girl hung in the master cabin. But the rest of the world knew her from her tabloid exploits. She looked different in person, without the clothes and makeup and celebrity hair. Her skin was smooth and flawless, with a tiny sprinkling of freckles across her upturned nose, and her hair was a much darker blonde when it was wet. She looked almost wholesome. No, this was not the same girl who jetted around Europe, dated princes and attended Paris fashion shows.

“You’re Eden,” he said flatly.

“And you are?”

He turned and faced her, leaning back against the edge of the counter. “The new barnacle.”

She giggled at the answer, and to Marcus’s surprise, the sound sent a rush of heat through his bloodstream. “So I should call you Barney?” she asked, holding out her hand.

He wanted to touch her. At that moment it seemed like the most important thing in the world. He took the offered greeting, grasping her fingers in his, and Marcus instantly wondered how those delicate fingers would feel wrapped around him, stroking him.

He swallowed hard. “Marcus. Marcus Quinn. I’m…” He scrambled for the words. Fighting off a serious case of lust…fantasizing about dragging you to my bed…wanting to know if you taste as good as you look. “Working for your dad,” he finished, quickly dropping her hand.

He took a quick sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. Was he expected to carry on a conversation with her? She didn’t seem to be at all interested in getting dressed. The polite thing to do was to keep his gaze fixed on her face. He risked another glance at her breasts. Easier said than done.

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Your father hired me to do some wood carvings for the boat. I’m working on a new figurehead for the bowsprit and a piece for the wall in the dining area. And I’m carving some corbels for the lounge area and adding some ornamentation over the bed in the master suite.”

“Well, well,” she said, jumping down from the counter, “sounds like you’re going to be a very busy man.” She stepped toward him and lightly skimmed her palm down his chest, stopping when she reached his belly. Marcus held his breath and she sent him a provocative grin. “I’ll try to stay out of your way. It’ll be nice to have some company on board. Don’t work too hard, Barney.”

“It’s Marcus. And you can’t stay,” he protested. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on work with Eden Ross prancing around the deck naked? There was just so much a guy could take, and in ten short minutes he’d already reached his limit. All he could think about was finding a way to ease his sexual frustration. “Your father said I’d have the boat to myself. I can’t work if you’re here.”

“Why is that?”

Was she that dense or was she simply toying with him? He’d already managed to lapse into a few brief and inappropriate fantasies. Given more time, Marcus knew what his imagination would provide—full-blown erotic daydreams that would only be erased by prolonged physical contact with a beautiful woman, like Eden Ross. From the moment he’d stumbled upon her, all he’d been able to think about was how long he’d have to wait to touch her. No, there was no way she could stay! “You just can’t,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t care what you want. This is my father’s boat and I’ll stay as long as I like. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with your boss.” With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared down the companionway to the master suite in the aft section of the boat.

Marcus stuck his head out of the galley just in time to see her slam the door. “Oh, hell.” This was trouble just waiting to happen. Eden Ross had a reputation that was known worldwide—she was a man-eater, a woman who took what she wanted from a guy then left him a quivering mass of disappointment and regret. And if she started nibbling on him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to defend himself.

A month didn’t go by without a scandalous photo or article in the tabloids or a report on one of those Hollywood news shows. Eden went through men as if they were trendy fashion accessories, something pretty to keep on her arm and enjoy for the moment, then to toss aside once she found another boy who pleased her more.

Marcus shook his head and headed back to his cabin. So she’d hang around for the weekend. A woman like Eden would grow bored with the solitude and be off to more exciting places before she could even unpack. “Two days,” he said. “I’ll give her two days and then she’s got to go. If she doesn’t, I’ll just toss her overboard.”

Marcus chuckled softly. He wouldn’t get a whole lot of work done in the next forty-eight hours, but that really didn’t matter. If entertaining the boss’s pain-in-the-ass daughter was part of the job, then he’d do his best—short of sleeping with her and breaking the deal he’d made with his brothers.

But in such close quarters, there was no telling what might transpire. If his desire did eventually overwhelm his common sense, at least he’d have a decent tale to tell his brothers about the sexy little socialite he’d reeled in, then tossed back. And considering Eden Ross’s reputation, she might be worth a two-thousand-dollar roll in the hay.

“HEY, BARNEY.”

Eden stretched out on her towel, craning her neck around the mast and trying to catch a glimpse of Marcus Quinn. He’d been working on the bowsprit nearly all morning, dangling over the rail on a bosun’s chair, dressed only in a pair of faded surfer shorts and boat shoes.

He’d been up early, leaving her a fresh pot of coffee and glazed donuts from the local Krispy Kreme. Eden wanted to believe he’d made a thoughtful gesture, but after a surly exchange with him over her preferences for lunch, she knew he’d merely been following orders.

Frustrated, she’d gobbled up three of the donuts and washed them down with a mug of black coffee. Why was she allowing him to bother her so? He didn’t care for her, and that was fine. After all, he wasn’t that attractive, and she’d sworn off men for at least the next month or two. But that didn’t seem to stop her from wanting him. He was like…like the Mount Everest of men. She had to climb him simply because he was there—and because if his naked body and considerable assets were any indication, he’d be one incredible mountain to climb.

She watched him as he crawled back over the rail and retrieved one of the tools spread on the deck.

“Hey, Barney!”

A tiny sliver of satisfaction shot through her as he dropped the tool he was holding and strolled along the rail to the spot where she was sunbathing. “The name’s not Barney. Unless you’d like me to call you—what?—how about Princess?”

“I like that,” Eden teased, sending him her sexiest smile. “Your Highness would be even better, though.” She picked up her bottle of suntan lotion and held it out. “Do my back?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. I’ll make you coffee, I’ll fetch your damn baggage, but I’m not going to be your personal slave.”

“Please?” She watched his face flush and found the notion of his embarrassment completely charming. Most of the men she knew wouldn’t think twice about agreeing to her request. “Are you shy?”

“No,” he said.

“It’s just lotion,” she said. “And I won’t bite.”

He hesitated, cursing softly, then snatched the bottle from her fingers. Eden rolled over on her stomach and stretched out on the towel, resting her chin on her hand. She closed her eyes and waited for his touch, the anticipation making her heart beat a little faster.

A moment later his palms smoothed across her back. Eden bit back a contented sigh. She had enjoyed her share of men, though she’d slept with far fewer than the press had reported. But Marcus was different. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her on board and done his best to ignore her. And even though she sensed an attraction between them, he’d done absolutely nothing to act upon it. She’d never known a man to be able to maintain such restraint. “You aren’t gay, are you?” she asked.

His hands stilled. “What?”

Eden looked over her shoulder. “Gay. Usually I can tell, but—”

“You think because I haven’t tried to seduce you that I prefer men?”

“Do you?” she asked. “Because there’s nothing wrong with that. Or maybe you go both ways? You can be completely honest with me.”

He cleared his throat, then continued to rub the lotion onto her back. “No, I prefer women. I’m just not sure I’d be able to handle a woman like you.”

“Like me?”

“I’m afraid I might suffer by comparison,” Marcus said.

His words cut her to the quick. In an instant, Eden knew exactly what he thought of her, how he’d already pegged her as a silly socialite with a penchant for ill-advised sexual escapades. Maybe he was right. In fact, before long, the whole world would be thinking that very same thing and have the proof of it to boot.

But her real life, the one that she lived for most of the hours of the day, was nothing like the life portrayed in the press. She wasn’t a raging nymphomaniac and she didn’t engage in wild orgies and she’d only danced topless once at a nightclub, and only because she’d drunk too much champagne. “I haven’t really been with that many men,” she admitted.

Marcus chuckled. “Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

She felt her temper rise. “Because, like the rest of the idiots in this world, you think everything you read in the tabloids is true. They use me to sell papers, to make money. They don’t care if what they write is a big lie as long as people want to read it.”

“And you give them plenty of excuses to write about you,” he said.

“You sound like my father,” she muttered, her voice cold and dismissive.

“Funny, I don’t think your father would approve of what I’m doing right now. Or how you’re enjoying it.” He reached up and ran his hands along her shoulders, then came back to the center of her back. He paused to put more lotion on his hands, then began to move lower.

Eden’s anger slowly dissolved and she held her breath, losing herself in his touch. Marcus Quinn had very strong and sensuous hands, inflaming her desire. He also had the strange talent of provoking her ire at the very same time.

His fingers slipped beneath the strap of her thong as he began to massage lotion onto her backside. When his hand slipped between her legs, she fought the temptation to turn over and pull him down on top of her. Why couldn’t he just kiss her and be done with it? Why did he insist on taunting her like this?

“That’s fine,” she murmured.

“You don’t want me to do your other—”

“No. Thanks. You—you can go now.”

“Great,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Princess?”