The Wrong Bed: Again and Again

A throaty hum vibrated through Josie as if to agree. Keith’s body heated instantly in response, feeling a definite sexual connection to this woman who hadn’t even opened her eyes. Could she be starting to wake up? Liking what he had to say?

The possibility tantalized him.

“I’m damn attracted to you,” he said, letting the words sink in, half hoping she’d throw herself into his arms.

“I’m seriously restraining myself from touching you right now.” Still, no reply. No flutter of her lashes or shifting in sleep. “I’d like nothing better than to peel off your clothes inch by inch with my teeth.”

He could see that she was still dozing, yet a slow, sexy smile curved her lips. He could hardly believe his eyes. But then she moaned softly in her sleep, moving her palm down her throat and under the fabric of her collar, cupping her breast as her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip.

Holy. Hell.

Heat shot to his groin in a rush so forceful it was damn near painful.

Whatever he was doing, it was working…

Dear Reader,

One of the great joys in writing is seeing what characters stroll onto the page. Often, I work hard to develop and get to know characters before I begin a book. I created the Murphy brothers that way, thinking of them as a group. But some of their heroines surprised me. Like Josie Passano. Josie arrived fully formed and ready for her story, seemingly with no effort on my part. You’ve got to love it when that happens.

I hope you’ll enjoy Josie’s accidental meeting with sexy entrepreneur Keith Murphy, and keep your eye on some of Keith’s brothers as they make their appearances. You’ll be meeting more of them throughout 2012, since the guys all captured my heart and my imagination. The Murphy brothers were a vocal, rowdy crew and I could hardly say no when they came courting.

Thanks so much for reading, and don’t forget to check out my website, www.joannerock.com, for a contest every month to win free books and more.

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

Riding the Storm

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The mother of three sports-minded sons, Joanne Rock’s primary occupation is carting kids to practices and cheering on their athletic prowess at any number of sporting events. In the windows of time between football games, she loves to write and cheer on happily-ever-afters. A three-time RITA® Award nominee, Joanne is the author of more than fifty books for a variety of Harlequin series. She has been an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee and multiple Reviewers’ Choice finalist, including a nomination for The Captive (Blaze #534) as Best Blaze of 2010. Her work has been reprinted in twenty-six countries and translated into nineteen languages. Over two million copies of her books are in print. For more information on Joanne’s books, visit www.joannerock.com.

To Dean,

no stranger to weathering the occasional storm.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

Chatham, Massachusetts

ONE DAY, Josie Passano would be a world-famous interior decorator, and she would hire a personal driver. Then she would have someone to guide her around dark marinas at midnight to meet with clients who were too busy to see her at a reasonable hour.

Stepping carefully along the planked pier with boats tied up on both sides, she was grateful she’d at least thought to wear flats instead of the heels she normally preferred for client meetings. At five foot three, she liked the height and sense of presence a pair of heels could give her—probably a holdover from her days as a fashion designer. Of course, that was before all hell had broken loose in her former career. But tonight, under an inky sky, with waves splashing up onto the dock, wearing heels would have landed her at the bottom of the Atlantic for sure.

“Slip number thirty-nine, which one are you?” Shivering in the cooling late-summer air, Josie squinted at the tiny numbers etched into stone slab markers near the boats. She wished there were some signs of life on one of the decks so she could ask someone. How could she tell which watercraft went with which slip when there was a sailboat between thirty-seven and thirty-nine, plus a sailboat between thirty-nine and forty-one, but none directly in front of the markers?

With nothing to suggest one direction or the other, Josie tugged her cell phone out of her pocket and called her client, Wall Street bigwig Chase Freeman, for input on his boat’s whereabouts.

“Chase, I’m standing between slip thirty-seven and thirty-nine and having a devil of a time figuring out which boat is yours.” She peered around the docks, wishing the marina office was still open. “Can you call me back?”

Chase had requested a meeting on the vessel she hoped to decorate to fatten up her interior-design portfolio. They were distantly related—he was someone she saw at family wakes and weddings—but she’d never particularly cared for him. He’d acted as if he was doing her a big favor while being difficult about agreeing on a time to meet. But she’d persevered because she needed the account, and it wasn’t as if her packed schedule presented her with many openings, either.

By the time all was said and done, he’d insisted he couldn’t do the meeting any other time but after a friend’s engagement party in Chatham, name-dropping that the shindig was for Ryan Murphy. The Murphys were a well-known, mega-rich Cape Cod family, and the oldest son’s engagement had been in the society papers in Boston, where her business was based. These days, Josie only read those papers to search for potential clients. She still held a grudge against the tabloids after they’d raked her over the coals for being a “party girl” when she was younger and circulating socially to promote her work in fashion. She’d put the fallout from those days to rest when she’d changed her name and left New York City. But she was still keeping that world at arm’s length while she got her new business off the ground.

Anyway, Chase had yammered on and on about his travel schedule and a trip to Singapore, trying to impress her at every turn with his access to millions. Whatever. A big bank account didn’t make you any cooler, in Josie’s book—a message she’d been trying to send her overprivileged parents ever since she was about ten. But Chase had a serious budget for this project, and as a struggling solo designer trying to break out onto the next level, she needed this kind of account. Decorating a boat interior would be something unique to add to her design portfolio before she pitched a do-it-yourself show to a Boston-based cable company.

Hello, new audience. Between her new name and location, it would take a little while before anyone made the connection to the scandal of her past. And by then, with any luck, her business and the show would have enough momentum to weather the inevitable media storm.

But first she had to work her tail off to get to that spot of unassailable success. Like now, when she was so exhausted from an open house in Yarmouth this morning that she could hardly put one foot in front of the other, let alone figure out which boat went with these cursed slip signs.

“This has to be it,” she muttered to herself, tired of staring back and forth between slip thirty-seven and thirty-nine. The boat closest to her had a light on, and wouldn’t that make sense for a man who expected company?

Decision made, she called Marlena.

“Josie, please say you arrived in one piece?” Her assistant, a college intern who’d stayed on after the internship was complete, launched right into conversation. “You sounded exhausted while you were driving.”

“I’m here. And it’s too late for you to be working, by the way.” Josie shifted a bag full of design inspiration books to her other shoulder, glad to hear Marlena’s voice. It was great to have help back at the office while she was out on the road.

“You’re a fine one to talk. You set a terrible example for me, working constantly. Have you ever taken a vacation in your whole life?”

Josie grinned, far preferring this vision of herself to the one she’d grown up with—that you were only a success if you didn’t have to work.

“I don’t mean to be a bad role model. I just like the job.”

“Me, too,” Marlena replied. “That doesn’t mean I can do it successfully if I’m at it eighteen hours a day.”

“Heard and understood.” Josie knew she would probably benefit from a little downtime. Maybe next year. In the meanwhile, she appreciated her assistant’s candor—as well as the work ethic that mirrored her own. “Have I thanked you lately for being my assistant?”

“Yes. Have I thanked you lately for treating me like a creative contributor and not a peon intern who can only fetch your coffee?” Marlena spoke loudly over the harpsichord music she favored whenever she sketched design ideas. “You’re going places, J.P. I hitched my wagon to a rising star.”

“Yes, well, I certainly hope so. But I wish I could have arrived here earlier. I had every intention of being on-site before sunset so I could look over the space in the daylight, but I got talking to that journalist at the open house.” She’d been delayed by a woman from the local press who wanted to feature the historic home in Yarmouth in an upcoming style section.

While Josie talked, she stepped aboard the large, lit deck of the sleek boat in slip thirty-nine.

“Right. I sent her those photos you asked me about.” Marlena turned down her music. “Will you call me when you finish up with Freeman?”

“No way.” Josie walked carefully in case the deck was slippery, her eye on the stairs leading below deck, where it might be warmer. “You put in more hours than I pay you for already. I’ll text you afterward and we’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

“Deal. Good luck, J.P.”

Disconnecting, Josie used the light on her cell phone to help illuminate a path to the covered section of the deck near what was obviously the control center for the vessel, complete with a radio and a couple of readout screens.

Still chilly from the cool air blowing off the waves, she hoped it was okay to seek a warmer part of the boat while she waited. Gingerly, she made her way down a couple narrow steps into the kitchen, where a low-wattage light over the countertop helped her find her way around. The boat was simple and somewhat austere, designwise. Functional, she supposed. She quite liked the vibe and found herself vaguely surprised that Mr. Moneybags owned something so understated. But then, he’d hired her to redo it, hadn’t he? He probably wanted to deck the thing out in designer silks and mahogany. She didn’t see any note from Chase inviting her to make herself at home, but then, thoughtfulness had never been his strong suit. At the last family reunion, she’d seen him texting under the table while halfheartedly engaged in a conversation with his great-aunt.

Josie found a couple wooden benches on either side of a small table, and promptly dropped her swatch books and inspiration pictures on one of the built-in seats. The cabin area remained dim even with some of the exterior deck light filtering through the high windows. Josie slid onto the seat beside her gear and promptly lurched forward, thanks to a particularly forceful wave.

Her stomach rolled in response.

Damn it. She hated to give in and take the motion-sickness meds she’d stashed in her purse, especially since she was already tired and the drug could make her drowsier. But while she hadn’t been on a boat since she was seven or eight years old, she’d spent that short cruise to Catalina turning green and begging for the ride to be over. Drowsiness was preferable to tossing her cookies on Chase’s shoes. Although chances were good he might deserve it, she needed this job too much to risk upsetting her client.

Popping two pills to be safe, Josie tugged out her swatch books and pictures, looking through them for design ideas to spruce up the vintage sailboat interior. She wanted to have some suggestions ready when Chase walked in, so they could sign the contract and be done for the night. The last thing she wanted to do was fall asleep while she waited.

But after forcing her eyes over the same line of copy and piece of ivory-colored sailcloth about ten times, Josie realized she was more exhausted than she’d realized. With little sleep the night before, prepping for today’s open house, and lots of mingling with potential clients and guests from the press corps, followed by the drive to Chatham in the dark, she was wiped out. Good thing she had no personal life to speak of, or she’d never be able to keep up this pace.

Personal life. Ha! She didn’t even want to think about how long it’d been since she’d indulged in that ultimate de-stressor—hot, sweaty, fabulous sex. Scandal had erupted for her three years earlier when she’d been photographed kissing a congressman who’d never told her he was married. And the ensuing media frenzy had been a dropkick to her libido. Every photo of her ever taken had surfaced—from the nights she’d trolled expensive clubs in her original designs to drum up interest in her work, to her teenage years, when she’d been a brat with too much money and privilege, flipping off paparazzi while shopping in Milan, or dancing in a public fountain in Amsterdam with a beer in hand. With all the negative publicity, Josie had made the decision to cut herself off from her family’s fortune. She’d started over from scratch, reinventing herself completely.

The move had been a healthy one, and she thrived in her new field. But she hadn’t found time to resurrect the sex life she’d left behind with the rest of her past….

Shoving aside vague memories of intimacy from the years before she’d started her interior design business, Josie decided maybe she would be fresher for the meeting with Chase if she took the tiniest catnap. Clearly, the medicine was kicking in and giving the one-two punch to her already exhausted body.

She propped her chin on her hand and told herself she’d close her eyes only for a moment. She would hear Chase when he came on board, and be awake before he could walk down the stairs.

It was her last conscious thought before she succumbed to the delicious luxury of sleep, sweetened with a dream that brought a smile to her lips.

KEITH MURPHY WAS NONE too happy to see Chase Freeman’s big-ass boat parked too close to the Vesta, a twenty-six-foot Pearson Triton he’d just agreed to sail down to Charleston for his brother.

Scowling at the flashy, thirty-foot Nonsuch Ultra nosing well into the neighboring slip, Keith hoped he’d be able to back out of the marina without hitting the other boat. He needed to get under way, make some serious progress toward South Carolina, before his brother Jack caught on to the prank Keith had pulled at their oldest brother, Ryan’s, engagement party tonight. While toasting the future bridegroom on the lawn of the Murphy family compound, Keith had deliberately baited Jack.

It hadn’t taken much, since his second oldest brother was touchy as hell, and all the Murphys were notoriously competitive. Soon, Jack was taunting Keith back, saying that he couldn’t sail his way out of a paper bag. Keith had suggested swapping boats, ostensibly to prove he knew how to sail as well as any of his brothers. His bigger motive had been to get Jack onto his boat—a slick forty-five-foot power catamaran that was too cushy for Jack the purist, but which currently played host to Jack’s ex-girlfriend. And Jack had fallen for the bait and switch so damn easily. Right now, he was probably halfway to Bar Harbor, Maine, to deliver the catamaran to Keith’s chief financial officer. Jack would get one hell of a surprise when he discovered Alicia on board, sleeping peacefully in anticipation of a lift to Bar Harbor from Keith.

Of course, all Keith’s matchmaking efforts were purely to benefit Jack.

As CEO of Green Principles, an environmentally minded company he’d grown from the ground up, Keith had worked his butt off this summer on a merger with a competing firm. He had finally acquired the company two weeks ago, and he needed a break before his next major project—to cement a partnership with Wholesome Branding, a global marketer that could take Green Principles to an international level by recommending it to companies that needed a “greener” image. Green Principles helped businesses and corporations of all sizes to become more environmentally friendly. They assessed a client’s carbon footprint, paper waste, recycling efforts and energy use, highlighting problem areas and making suggestions for improvement, projecting costs for the changes and putting the clients in touch with contractors and suppliers who could implement them.

Sailing south in a vintage Pearson Triton for a few days sounded like the perfect way to clear his head from one deal and strategize how to manage the next. In Charleston, Keith would hand off the boat to Jack’s friend, who was supposed to buy the vessel. By the time Keith came home, he’d be recharged and ready to make the partnership with Wholesome Branding work.

Assuming he could maneuver around that damn Nonsuch butting into his space.

Cursing the big shot Wall Street broker who’d attended the family engagement party, Keith climbed onto Jack’s trim, highly functional sailboat. Sizewise, it wasn’t that much smaller than Chase Freeman’s ride. But everything about the Vesta seemed sleeker. Keith would figure out how to get her under way without any help from the owner of the boat next door. Last he’d seen Freeman at the party, the guy had been feeling no pain on the dance floor. He didn’t look as if he intended to head back to his boat for the night anytime soon.

Keith loosened his tie, then thought better of it and whipped the silk right off his neck. He tossed it aside, not caring where the thing fell. His responsibilities were done as of now.

For a moment, he debated scouting around below deck for some boat shoes or a pair of jeans. But considering his haste to get out of Dodge before his brother realized what he’d done, he settled for bare feet and rolling up his trousers. He switched on the motor for close maneuvering—sails and rigging could wait until he had more room to work. Already Keith could feel anticipation firing through him. Much as he enjoyed the perks of the corporate power cat, and all the bells and whistles of GPS position locking and docking, he had grown up on Cape Cod and he loved to sail. It was in the Murphy blood.

Two hours later, he had the Vesta out in the open water.

The night air was cool and crisp. He’d ditched his dinner jacket long ago, after sprinting forward and aft a few times to make adjustments on the sails. Even though he had ideal conditions—the weather showed he could sail on a reach for at least the next day or two if he could stay ahead of an oncoming storm system—he’d bungled the jib and had a close call with the boom in his haste to get to sea. Now, he had a beauty of a draft going as the boat cut through the water with ease. His navigation lights cast warring patterns of green and red on the deck, while all around him the sea grew darker as he left Cape Cod in the distance. Traffic heading north, toward Boston, would be heavy in the morning. But right now, he had the water to himself. He avoided the shipping lanes, steering clear of bigger vessels.

Tempted to pound his chest and roar with the sense of accomplishment, Keith did exactly that. He let out a howl for good measure. His ex-navy brother had been talking trash to say Keith had forgotten how to sail. Just because his work had kept him busy the last couple of years didn’t mean he’d gone soft.

He took advantage of the favorable wind for another hour before he called it a night, tucking into quiet waters off Nantucket to anchor. By now, he’d left Chatham far enough behind that his brother couldn’t call off their deal to exchange boats. Besides, exhaustion was kicking in, and Keith still had to secure the sheets and rigging for the night.

It was going on 4:00 a.m. by the time he stumbled down the steps in the companionway.

And damn near had a heart attack.

He could see the shadowed outline of a figure—a woman, slumped over the table in the middle of the main salon. She had her head cradled on her arms atop a huge, open book. Through a veil of dark hair, he could just make out the pale skin of her cheek.

“Miss?” he called stupidly. But his heart raced with the fear that she was injured, or worse.

If she was alive and breathing, how could she have slept through three hours at sea?

Shoving past some built-in storage bins, he knelt beside her to feel for a pulse, already wondering how in the hell he would explain to the police why he’d left without checking over the boat. But—thank you, God—her heartbeat thrummed softly against his thumb where he gripped her wrist. A wave of relief flooded through his veins, so hard and fast that he sank onto the seat beside her. Too soon, other worries crowded his brain. Did she have a medical condition, or need some kind of emergency attention?

And what the hell was she doing on Jack’s boat in the middle of the night?

He tugged his cell phone out of his pants pocket, only to discover he had no service. No surprise, really, this far off the coast of Nantucket. He’d dropped anchor in shallow waters but hadn’t sailed too far in, so that he’d be able to get under way faster after sunrise.

Calling to mind some half-forgotten CPR class he’d taken during a summer of lifeguarding on a Cape Cod beach, Keith tried to take a reasonable inventory of the woman’s vital signs. She breathed evenly. Wasn’t feverish. Heart rate normal for an adult female at rest. And hello, was she ever female. While widening her collar for better access to the pulse at her neck, he got an eyeful of black lace bra cups beneath her soft blouse.

If he’d still feared for her health, he might not have noticed. Well, he certainly wouldn’t have noticed in such detail. But with the worst of his fears assuaged by a quick check, his normal male instincts kicked back in with a vengeance. This woman—lying on a book of fabric swatches, he discovered—was a looker.

Shoulder-length dark hair framed delicate features in a heart-shaped face. Her slender nose tilted gently upward above lips that were deep pink, even without makeup. Long, beaded earrings tangled in her hair, and he realized her whole outfit was vaguely artsy. She wore faux snakeskin shoes and baggy jeans rolled up slightly to show off her ankles. Her dark peasant blouse was densely embroidered, underneath a more austere black jacket. A series of silver necklaces dipped into the generous cleavage he continued to admire. For a petite woman—under five and a half feet, for sure—she carried just the right amount of curves.