“I’m going to be a father. Break out the cigars!”

“No, Patrick. I’m having a baby. I’m having this baby, and I don’t think you should be involved.”

“I don’t see how I can be any less involved.”

“I meant—” Kate paused and took a deep breath. “My baby is going to have a father. But it won’t be you.”

“It’s a little too late to make that choice, Kate. I am the father.”

She shook her head. “Not in that way.”

“Oh? So who is the father in that way?”

“I’ve got a list of possibilities, but I—”

“A list! And I’m not on it?” With a laugh, he leaned back against the workbench. “What kind of joke is this?”

Dear Reader,

For years I have been fascinated with ocean racing. What makes racers tick? Why do they go out and push themselves and their boats to the limits of endurance and beyond? And if disaster strikes and they are rescued, why do they go out and do it again? From the outside—even to a sailor like myself—that kind of racing looks crazy. But a sexy confidence, a bold swagger, runs among this breed of racers, the sort that can look attractive to a woman standing safely on the shore.

The inspiration for this book came from wondering what love was like for these exceptional men. Some must have girlfriends waiting for them at home. Some even have homes and families. From there, Baby on Board began to take shape. I hope you enjoy reading about Patrick and Kate and the choices they have to make to find happiness.

Please visit me at www.lisaruff.net. And keep a watch out for my next book!

Happy reading,

Lisa Ruff

Baby on Board
Lisa Ruff

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Ruff was born in Montana and grew up in Idaho but met the man of her dreams in Seattle. She married Kirk promising to love, honor and edit his rough drafts. His pursuit of writing led Lisa to the craft. A longtime reader of romance, she decided to try to create one herself. The first version of Man of the Year took three months to finish, but her day job got in the way of polishing the manuscript. She stuffed it into a drawer, where it languished for several years.

In pursuit of time to write and freedom to explore the world, Lisa, Kirk and their cat sailed from Seattle on a thirty-seven-foot boat. They spent five years cruising in Central America and the Caribbean. Lisa wrote romance, but it took a backseat to an adventurous life. She was busy writing travel essays, learning to speak Spanish from taxi drivers and handling a small boat in gale-force winds.

When she returned to land life, she finally revised Man of the Year and sent it to an agent. Within a year, she had a contract from Harlequin American Romance.

She and her husband are cruising on a sailboat again somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. When not setting sail for another port, she is working on her next Harlequin romance.

To sailors and those who love them:

fair winds and following seas.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

A shadow shifted across the room, startling Kate. The heart-shaped glass bubble she held slipped, fell to the steel table with a crack, then shattered into a hundred red shards. A strangled cry of distress escaped from between her lips. She put her hands out, as if to gather the pieces back into a whole, but knew there was no saving it. She lifted her eyes to the figure standing in the doorway, limned by the afternoon sun.

“Damn it, Patrick! Can’t you at least knock?”

The tall, dark-haired man moved around the worktable. His tanned face held a crooked, teasing smile that invited her to play. At the sight of it, the studio felt ten degrees hotter than before. The quick beat of her pulse could come from fright, but she knew that wasn’t the cause. Patrick Berzani was reason enough.

“After three months at sea, you’d think I’d get a better welcome than that.”

Low and intimate, his voice raised a shiver across her skin. He sounded amused that he had startled her, but she could also hear desire threaded through his words. The combination unlocked the lid on memories that Kate thought she had banished forever: their first cup of coffee at the café, his long-lashed, silver-gray eyes looking at her with warm interest, his curly black hair splayed across her pillow, begging to be touched. She tried in vain to stuff all these images back where they belonged. She had spent months forgetting them—and him—and thought she had succeeded. How could all that effort disappear like smoke?

The smile, the eyes, his hair, even the golden earring, high in the curve of his left ear, had deceived her from the start. Patrick had laughed when she asked if he was an artist like her. No, he was a sailor—a racer—whose only experience painting was on the hull of a sailboat. The earring was from a trip around Cape Horn. Later, after they were lovers, she learned other things: he got the tattoo around his arm after his first voyage across the equator, wore boat shoes for all occasions and always had string and a rigging knife in his pocket for emergency repairs.

Dragging herself back to the present, she drew a deep breath. “It’s the only kind of welcome you deserve, scaring me like that.” She meant to sound harsh and angry. Enough so that he would take his captivating smile and beautiful eyes far away, but her voice came out husky instead. She heard the want, the need, all too clearly.

She knew Patrick heard it, too. He didn’t pause a single step. He held her eyes with his. Kate’s feet were rooted to the floor as if encased in the concrete. The furnace behind her, with its bubbling pot of molten glass, roared and huffed, echoing the turmoil inside her. Glass globes hanging from the ceiling caught the sunlight from the windows. A kaleidoscope of colors—cyan, turquoise, amber and lemon—shimmered around the room, creating more confusion.

When he reached out, her more rational half asserted itself briefly. If he touched her, she would be lost. She grabbed a brush and dustpan from under the table.

“I have to clean up the mess you—”

“Later.” He cupped her face in his hands and stopped her words with a soft, hungry kiss.

His warm mouth captured hers as his arms encircled her, drawing her close to his tall, muscular body. The dustpan and brush slipped from her grip and clattered to the floor as she wrapped herself around him like molten glass onto a punty. Kate was flooded with the flavor and scent of Patrick Berzani. She felt as though she was drowning when she was in his arms. But she wasn’t afraid, not the way she was around water. This drowning was exhilarating, spinning her, engulfing her with pleasure, daring her to descend into the depths where she should not go.

A slight fluttering in her abdomen, the faintest of sensations, brought her back to reality. She wrenched her lips from his. “Patrick, wait.” Her voice was breathless. Desire coursed through her body, expecting fulfillment. Patrick’s eyes, their silver-gray darkened to pewter, didn’t calm her.

“Katie.” He brushed a hand over her cheek and back into her hair. The blue bandanna wrapped around her head dropped to the floor. Her hair sprang free of confinement as his fingers delved into the mass of curls. “It’s been too long.”

Cupping the back of her neck, he bent his head to give her another intense, drugging kiss. Kate began to slide under his spell again. She fought free and put a hand on his chest, twisting away before their bodies could make contact again.

“Wait a minute. This is going way too fast.”

“It’s not going nearly fast enough.” He reached for her again.

Kate evaded his grasp. “I’ve got a piece working right now. I can’t just leave it.”

“Sure you can.” Patrick’s wicked smile coaxed her. “You’ve done it before.”

She smiled back at him—she couldn’t help it—but shook her head. “This time I can’t.”

“All those weeks at sea, I thought of you.”

His words shored up her shaky resolve, reminding her that he had left her alone for some time, reminding her why she should be rid of this man. “Well, you’ll just have to do more thinking.”

She stepped around the worktable. Six feet in length and steel topped, it was only a temporary barricade against him. Even the long metal arms at the end of the bench, where she rolled her blowpipe, were poor barriers. What she needed was a defense. She could use one of the glass rods on the table like a foil to fend him off. Or the torch she used for melding glass. It burned at over five thousand degrees, surely hotter than her passion for this man. There were plenty of weapons at her disposal in the studio. Not one of them could guard her heart.

The baby in her womb kicked, as if to tell Kate that she was not the only one agitated by this man. She took a deep breath and resisted the urge to press a hand to the slight protrusion. Instead, she took a wide paintbrush and swept the broken glass onto a tray. She wasn’t going back around the table for the hand broom and dustpan. It was too dangerous over there, for a number of reasons. Patrick’s eyes followed her, but he stayed where he was, perching himself on a stool at his side of the table.

“Sorry about making you break that glass.”

Kate kept her back to him as she dumped the broken pieces of the heart into the melt bin. “It’s not the first time it’s been broken,” she said, and swallowed down the tears that sprang to her eyes.

When she turned around, Patrick was watching her closely, his head tilted, eyes narrowed.

She cleared her throat and smiled a little. “I mean, it’s not the first piece of glass I’ve ever broken. It won’t be the last.” Moving over to a large oven—the “garage” that kept glass pieces in progress hot—Kate extracted another glass bubble with a lustrous blue sheen and brought it to the worktable. Setting it on a ceramic-fiber blanket, she pulled out paint and a brush. She could feel Patrick’s eyes on her as she worked.

“When did you get back?”

“Yesterday. Actually, it was early this morning.” He smiled. “I came right over to see you.”

Kate arched an eyebrow and looked at her watch. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“A man’s got to sleep doesn’t he?”

“You hardly ever sleep. I bet you were sailing.” When he grinned, Kate knew she had guessed correctly. “Don’t you ever get tired of it? You just spent three months racing a boat on the ocean and within twenty-four hours you’re out on another one.”

“Different boat, different sailing.” Patrick shrugged. “A wind junkie’s got to get his fix.”

She shook her head. He always said the same thing, whatever version of the question she asked. She didn’t understand him any better today than she had five months ago when they first met. Picking up the warm, delicate sphere by the punty, she brushed dark blue paint onto it in a spiraling pattern.

“What’s that?” Patrick asked.

“A new paint I’m experimenting with. It keeps its color better after it’s fired.” She kept her eyes focused on her task, pretending to ignore him. Her hands trembled slightly as she wielded the brush. She concentrated on the glass in her hand, but her lines were as wavy as if she were painting on a boat at sea. She set the globe down for a moment and went to the furnace, peering into the crucible.

She checked the gauges and turned one knob up a notch while dialing down another to adjust the heat and flame. The small act of control settled her nerves a little. She went back to the table and took up brush and globe once again. This time, her lines were better, more smooth and even.

Patrick came around the workbench and stood next to her. He trailed a finger down her cheek. She raised startled eyes to his. The design on the glass ended in a blob of paint.

“I missed you, Katie.” His voice was soft and caressing. “Did you miss me?”

“Every now and then.” The brush that slipped from her fingers and fell to the table belied her casual words.

With an internal curse, she stiffened her spine and evaded another touch by turning back to the furnace, settling the piece inside the garage to rest in the heat. She would finish it when her head was clearer, when Patrick was gone. Surreptitiously, Kate smoothed a hand over her abdomen. This child was more than enough reason to send Patrick on his way, but how? She could tell him that she was needed in the shop in front of the house, but he might remember it was closed on Mondays. She couldn’t hope for an interruption from Molly, either, since she was in Santa Fe.

She kept her distance from Patrick, aligning a few pieces of flat, dichroic glass that were already in tidy rows. She moved back to the other side of the table, keeping the barrier between them. “How long are you here this time?”

“That depends.” Patrick followed her around the table and leaned against the bench, his hands braced on the edge.

“On what?” Kate just barely kept herself from making the circuit to the other side of the table again. She could imagine him chasing her around it all afternoon.

“I’ve got a couple of new boats to run some trials on.” He picked up a rod of deep green glass from the workbench, twirling it between his fingers. “It depends on you, too.”

Kate bent down to the floor and picked up her bandanna and the brush and dustpan. His casual attitude grated. After those months apart, did he actually think they could just pick up where they had left off? Whether he knew it or not, things had changed.

“Really? It never has before.”

Patrick raised a brow. “I thought you’d want to spend some time together before I leave for the Trans-Oceana race.”

Kate shoved the bandanna into the back pocket of her jeans and tossed the brush onto the shelf under the table. “I’d have to rearrange my schedule.”

“Your schedule was never a problem before.”

She turned and met his eyes with a frosty stare. “It’s been three months, Patrick. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Why would you think that?” He looked puzzled. He put the glass tube down and walked over to rest his hands on her shoulders. Close enough to kiss, his lips lifted in a slight smile. “I told you that I’d be back.”

“Then why didn’t I hear from you?” Kate watched him closely as she asked the question.

“I called you,” Patrick said with a slight frown.

“Once! One call.”

“I was in the middle of the Atlantic—”

“Don’t try to tell me you were cut off from all communication, Patrick.” Kate threw up her hands and spun away from him, away from his touch. If she didn’t put some distance between them, she would strangle him. “Everything you did—everything you said—was posted on the race Web site every day.”

“I didn’t write that,” Patrick said in protest. “I was sailing the boat. The sponsor put some guy on board with a satellite phone. He did all the updates.”

“What about before, then? The race took three weeks. You called me when you first got to France, but you didn’t leave the dock for weeks after that. You could have let me know you were all right, or asked me how I was doing. Did you even think about me once while you were gone?”

“I did. Honest.” Patrick faced her squarely. “But it’s crazy before the race. There’s never enough time to get everything done. Something always goes wrong at the last minute.”

“There were photos of you on the boat, on the docks and at lots of parties, Patrick.” She shot him a glare. “You looked really busy with a beer in your hand.”

Patrick ran a hand through his hair. “Katie, I—”

“I never even crossed your mind, did I?” She searched his eyes. What she saw there deflated her anger, filling her with sadness.

Patrick fell silent, his face somber now. Finally, he raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m sorry. I should have called more.”

Kate sighed. The apology only depressed her. She had handled this poorly. She had let anger take control, when she should have been calm. Of course, she had never planned to have this conversation with Patrick, but that was no excuse. It was time to end this once and for all.

“Yes, you should have, but that’s beside the point.” Kate rubbed a hand over her forehead. “It was over between us when you left. I—”

“It was?” His laugh was short and sharp. “We spent every night together for the last month. Did I miss something?”

Kate flushed, remembering all too well the passion they had shared. “I should have known it after the first week you were gone, when I didn’t hear from you again. When I saw what a good time you were having,” she continued, ignoring his interruption.

“I’m sorry, Kate.” Patrick reached to take her in his arms. “We can start over.”

“No, we can’t.” She stepped out of range.

“Sure we can.”

“We had an affair.” She sat on the stool and leaned an elbow against the table, shoulders slumped. “I thought it was more, but three months of silence taught me a lesson. It was just an affair.”

Kate met Patrick’s eyes. The gray had somehow turned to silver again, hiding his thoughts. That clear color was the perfect camouflage. Like water, it reflected its surroundings, never revealing what lay beneath.

“So what do you want?”

Kate swallowed hard. The words she had to speak were painful. “I want you to leave. I’ll stay here and work, and we’ll both get on with our lives.”

“No, it doesn’t end like this. It’s too good between us.”

Kate stood and faced him. This was possibly the hardest thing she had ever had to do. More than anything, she wanted to go to him and press herself against his strong body. She wanted—ached—to feel his arms close around her as he held her tight. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t just think of herself. Not anymore. She stiffened her spine.

“We had a good time, Patrick. But that’s over.”

He looked at her silently, his expression a carefully controlled mask. Some indefinable emotion swept through his eyes, turning them a dark and stormy gray. “I can’t believe you mean that.”

“Believe it. While you were gone, things changed.”

“I know that.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His tone was flat and hard. “That change is exactly what we need to talk about.”

The color drained from Kate’s face. She closed her eyes and felt almost dizzy. When she opened them, Patrick was watching her intently.

“Who told you?” she asked.

“Shelly. I saw her down at the coffee shop twenty minutes ago.”

Kate wrapped her arms around herself and stared out the window on the summer afternoon, then back at him, not knowing what to say.

“When were you going to tell me, Kate?”

“I wasn’t.”

“What?” He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I am the father, aren’t I?”

Kate’s temper rose at his implication, but she tamped it down. “Yes, Patrick,” she said with a slight snap in her voice. “You are. Technically.”

“Technically?” he repeated. “You make it sound like I was just a convenient sperm donor.”

Kate winced. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She sighed. “Look. I didn’t intend to get pregnant, but I was—I am—happy that it happened. I’ve always wanted to have a child and now I will.”

“Great! So what’s the problem? We’re having a baby. I’m going to be a father. Break out the cigars!”

“No, Patrick. I’m having a baby.” He opened his mouth, but before he could protest, she continued, “I’m having this baby, and I don’t think you should be involved.”

“I don’t see how I can be any less involved.”

“I meant…” Kate paused and took a deep breath. He was making this much harder than she had planned it to be. “My baby is going to have a father. But it won’t be you.”

“It’s a little too late to make that choice.” Patrick’s tone was dry as he raised an eyebrow at her. “I am the father.”

Kate shook her head. “Not in that way.”

“Oh? So who is the father in that way?”

“I’ve got a list of possibilities, but I—”

“A list! And I’m not on it?” With a laugh, he leaned against the workbench again. “What kind of joke is this?”

“It isn’t a joke.” Kate could feel her face flush, but she kept her chin high. “Face it, Patrick. You would not make a good father. I’m looking elsewhere.”

“You can’t make a decision like that on your own, Kate. You aren’t the only one involved here.”

“You’re right,” she agreed softly. “There’s someone else to think of now. I want what’s best for the baby. That is not you.”

His silver eyes darkened like a storm rolling in from the sea. “You have no idea what kind of father I would be. And you don’t have any right to deny me my child.”

She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin higher. “Patrick, you’re never here. A child needs two parents. Two. Are you willing to give up racing so you can be that kind of father?”

“Just because I like to sail doesn’t mean I can’t be a good father.”

“Then you’ll give up racing?”

“I don’t have to give up racing to be—”

“Yes, you do.” Kate spoke right over him, ignoring his protest. “This baby needs you here to hold her and love her. She needs you to tuck her in at night, to worry when she’s sick, to catch her when she takes her first steps. She needs you here, Patrick, not out in the middle of the ocean. Or in some foreign port forgetting she exists.”

“I wouldn’t forget my own child,” he said harshly.

“So you say. But when you race, you seem to forget all kinds of things.”

“How do you know anything about it, Kate? You’ve never even been out on a sailboat.”

“Whether I know how to sail or not is not the point.” Kate was exasperated now, losing control of her temper again. “We’re talking about whether you’ll be here for this child or not.”

He glared at her, but Kate wasn’t about to back down. She knew what it was like to have a father who was never around. Her baby would not suffer the same fate. Not if she could prevent it. She would protect her child from that pain, even at the expense of her own heart. Kate turned away from him and felt the heat of the furnace on her face. Usually comforting, this time the blaze fired her anger and unhappiness. She needed to get away from Patrick. If he wouldn’t leave, then she would; Kate moved to the door.

Patrick followed and grabbed her by the arm. When she jerked free, he slipped his arms around her. “Please, Kate. Don’t run away. It’s my baby, too.”

She wriggled in his grasp. “You won’t be the kind of father a child needs. You won’t be here. You’re just a sperm donor.” She didn’t hesitate to use his words against him.

When she tried again to break from his embrace, one of his hands slipped over her abdomen, onto the soft bulge there. Kate stopped struggling. They stood still for a long moment. Kate could feel his breath in her hair and his heart beating against her back.

Slowly, Patrick’s other hand slid to her abdomen. He gently cupped the slight swelling where there had once been a flat expanse of skin. Kate didn’t stop him. The shield she had erected against him slipped a little as he touched her. This was the father of her child. No matter how she tried to stop it, having him stroke the life they had created brought a lump into her throat.

He spun her around in his arms and raised her shirt. After gazing at her pregnant belly for a long, silent time, his eyes met hers.

“How long?” he asked.

“Four and a half months.”

He put a hand on her stomach again, spreading his fingers as if to encompass all that lay beneath the surface. The back of his tanned hand was dark against her pale skin.

“Can you feel anything yet?”

Kate nodded. “She’s pretty active. At first it was like having a butterfly trapped inside, but now it’s like she’s dancing.”

“She?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a girl?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t want to, either, but I don’t like saying ‘it’.”

“I am the father, Kate.” He glared at her. “Don’t take that away from me.”

With a jerk, she pulled back, tugging her shirt down over her stomach. “It’s not about what I want or you want. It’s about my child.”

Patrick locked his eyes on her. “Our child.”

“Her happiness is all that matters to me. I don’t think you’re willing to be that unselfish. I’m not sure you can be.”

“You won’t even give me a chance, will you?” Patrick thrust a hand through his long hair. He paced away from her across the studio, holding one hand to the nape of his neck. He stood with his back to her for a long minute, then dropped his hand and turned around. “I didn’t get you pregnant and then just walk away.”

“I know that.” Kate took a deep breath. “Look, for me, everything’s changed.”

“You talk like it’s been years. It’s only been three months.”

“Three months without you. Alone. On my own, with a child to think about. My life is different now, Patrick.” She placed a hand over her abdomen where his had rested. “I don’t think you’re capable of giving me what I need or what a child needs. And, honestly, I can’t afford to give you the chance to hurt me again. Or the baby.”

“Kate, I—”

“No, Patrick. I’m tired and I don’t want to argue about this anymore.”

“We need to—”

Kate put up a hand. “No, not today.”

He clenched his teeth. “This morning I found out I was going to be a father. Now you tell me I’m not. I need time to think about this. We both do. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Kate shook her head. She imagined he wasn’t going to let this lie. He was a stubborn man. She also knew that he wouldn’t win. The baby trumped every argument he could make. He wouldn’t be there as a father for her and nothing less was acceptable.

“Not tomorrow. I have an appointment.”

“With who? Your doctor? I’ll go with you.”

“No.” Kate felt a flush creep up her cheeks.

She turned away and began to rack her tools on a Peg-Board panel hung across from the worktable. The loose mandrels clanked together as she gathered them up and put them in a cabinet drawer beneath the board. Carefully, she poured the two dishes of glass frit back into their jars and put them in a rack at the end of the table. She picked up the paintbrush she had dropped earlier and put it in a jar of cleaning fluid. With a rag, she wiped the smear of paint off the table. Patrick watched her closely, but she refused to meet his gaze.

“So you’re meeting one of my replacements.”

Kate spun to look at him, wide-eyed. “Who told—” She stopped abruptly when she saw his face. He had been guessing, but her reaction had confirmed it.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Damn it, Kate. I can’t believe this.”

Keeping her flushed face averted, she put away the glass rod he had fidgeted with and screwed the lid on the jar of paint. She swished the brush in the cleaner and dried it with a rag.

“Don’t believe it, then, but there’s nothing else to say. I’ve made my decision.”

“This is crazy.” He stalked to the door and wrenched it open. “This is not over. Not by a long shot.” He strode out of the workshop, slamming the door behind him.

Kate jumped at the sound, then plunked herself down on the stool with a sigh. The baby moved restlessly inside her. Soothingly, she stroked the small bulge.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mama did the right thing.” Kate let out a hiccupping sigh as tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s over now. It’s all over now.”

Chapter Two

Patrick skidded his truck into a parking space at the marina, jammed it into neutral and turned off the engine. The gravel lot was nearly empty. Most of the vehicles belonged to marina employees. Their cars were easily distinguished from the boat owners’ by age, abuse and layers of dirt. Like Patrick’s Dodge: once white, it was now a dull, mottled tan and sported a V-shaped dent in the roof where a mast had accidentally landed on it.

He sat in the pickup, staring out the windshield, hands braced on the steering wheel for a long, silent minute. Then, in a burst of movement, he shouldered his door open, got out and slammed it closed as hard as he could. The truck rocked on its suspension from the force of his fury. Out of the air-conditioned cab, the hot July breeze from the Chesapeake Bay wrapped around him like a wet towel. At the back of the truck, Patrick reached over the tailgate and grabbed his bag of sailing gear.

She can’t deny me my own child!

The thought had him dropping the bag and curling his fingers over the warm metal tailgate. She has no right. But what could he do about it? With a growl of pure rage, Patrick balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the tailgate. The blow dented the panel just above the O and shot searing pain from his knuckles up his arm.

“Damn her to hell!”

He spun away from the truck, tucking his hand into his armpit. The action did nothing to soothe the agony. He sat down heavily on the back bumper, still cradling his battered appendage. “Damn her,” he repeated softly.

The pain overwhelmed his fury. Slowly, anger was replaced by an ache in his heart that seemed to complement the throbbing in his fingers. That ache was a surprise, a hurt for something he hadn’t even known he cared about. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair and lowered his head, hunching his shoulders. His mind reeled and lurched but came up with no direction. Studying the swirling patterns of gravel beneath his feet did nothing to help untangle his thoughts.

“Hey, what’s up?” a deep voice asked.

Patrick looked up to see his brother, Ian, standing over him. One black eyebrow was raised in question over his dark brown eyes.

“You don’t want to know,” Patrick said.

“The reason you just punched your truck?” Ian grinned. He held a canvas tool bag in one hand, a coping saw sticking out one end. The other hand balanced a long oak plank over his shoulder. “Yeah, I want to know.” Deftly, he swung the board down and leaned it against the tailgate. He dropped the tool bag in the bed of the truck and took a seat next to Patrick on the bumper. His long legs matched Patrick’s as they stretched out from the truck. “Spill it.”

Patrick sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He could think of no way to dress up the truth and make it sound better, so he just blurted it out. “Kate’s pregnant.”

Ian shook his head and laughed outright. “Well, I suppose it was bound to happen. The Berzanis are a fertile bunch.” When Patrick glared at him, Ian shrugged. “So, this is a bad thing?”

“No, it’s not a bad thing.” Patrick ground the words out from between clenched teeth.

“So why attack your truck?”

“Kate doesn’t want me involved.”

“That’s a bad thing.” Ian was silent for a moment. “How’d you screw this one up?”

“I didn’t screw up!” Patrick rose to his feet to pace. All the anger he had felt came rushing back, pushing aside the hurt. “She thinks I can’t be a good father if I’m at sea all the time.”

Ian looked at Patrick, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “I see her point. Tough to be good at something if you’re not there to do it.”

“I could be a good father whether I race or not.”

“What, you’re going to get the kid a berth in the Trans-Oceana race? Show him the ropes before he can crawl?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how are you going be around to do the fathering?”

“Who said I wouldn’t be around?”

Ian looked at his hands. “You just did.”

Patrick gritted his teeth in frustration. “I wouldn’t race all the time. I could cut back some.”

“Sounds reasonable. Did you tell her that?”

“She wouldn’t let me. She just kept saying she didn’t want me involved.” His jaw tightened. “She’s got a list.”

“A list?”

“A list of potential fathers. She doesn’t want me, so she’s, she’s…interviewing other candidates, I guess.”

“Really?” Ian was silent again. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Stop her. What else?”

“All right, then.” Ian stood and turned to grab his tool bag out of the truck. Before he picked up the board again, he ran a hand across the dents in the tailgate. “That’s number three. How long have you had this rig? Two years? When are you going to stop punching it?”

“Better my truck than your ugly face.” With his good hand, Patrick grabbed his own bag.

“As if you’d even have a chance,” Ian scoffed, but he smiled at Patrick.

They walked across the parking lot to the marina office, gravel giving way to concrete near the building that housed it. The walkway spread out to the right and joined with the large, open space where the travel lift sat idle. A blue sailboat hung suspended in its canvas slings as Bart, the travel-lift operator, pressure-washed the scum from the hull. Small piles of barnacles, dislodged from the propeller and shaft, lay under the boat. A waft of ripe algae filled the air, borne on the mist from the pressure washer.

At the door to the office, Ian leaned his plank against the wall and held the door for Patrick. “You’d better get some ice on that.”

Patrick examined his knuckles, flexing his fingers gingerly. “Doesn’t feel like I broke anything this time.”

“That’s progress,” Ian said solemnly, but his eyes twinkled as Patrick laughed.

Cool air-conditioning bathed their faces as they walked inside. Before them was a long, waist-high counter, bare except for a display of brochures at one end, a three-ring binder and a large desktop calendar. The calendar was filled with writing, every date covered, with notes made in the margins, as well. Behind them, against the window, stood two wooden chairs with a low table between them. Supposedly for waiting clients, Patrick could rarely remember anyone actually sitting in the chairs. Most of the people who stepped through the door at A&E Marine were longtime customers who walked behind the counter to grab a cup of coffee from the small break room in back. Or they borrowed some tool. Or they leaned against the counter and talked and talked, sometimes for hours.

Elaine Berzani looked up as they entered the office. She sat at one of two desks behind the counter.

“What have you done this time, Patrick Michael Berzani?” she asked, bustling around the end of the counter and taking his hand. “Ian, go get your brother some ice.”

“Ma,” Ian protested. “Patty’s the one who smacked his truck. Let him get his own ice if he’s going to be so stupid.”

Elaine leveled a glare at her eldest son. Ian sighed and dropped his tool bag with a clank, disappearing into the break room. Coming back, he thrust an ice-filled towel at Patrick.

“Here, stupid.”

“Thanks, ugly.”

Elaine frowned at her sons. “Stop it, both of you. Patrick, sit down and keep that ice on your hand. Ian, your father just called and said Jimmy Johnson is down looking at his boat. He’ll stall him as long as he can, but you’d better get there right away.”

“I told that idiot it wouldn’t be done until next week,” Ian grumbled, picking up the tools again.

“Don’t call your father an idiot.” Patrick grinned at Ian and was rewarded with a rude gesture.

“You should be handling Johnson, not me, bro. You’re the one who should have test-sailed the damn thing by now.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Somebody better go. I think the healthiest and sanest one. I’ll tend to the injured and insane.”

“Tell Dad I’m on my way. You want to go get a beer after?” Ian asked Patrick.

“Yeah. I’ll be down on my boat. Tell Jimmy I just got back and I’ll take his boat out tomorrow.”

Ian nodded and left the office. Elaine went back behind the counter and picked up the walkie-talkie. After she had delivered the message to her husband, she turned and sat down. Her gray eyes surveyed him expectantly. She was a pretty woman, small and sprightly. Dressed in jeans and a powder-pink polo shirt, she looked more like Patrick’s older sister than his mother.

Patrick took a chair at the desk that faced hers and propped his feet on the corner. His bruised knuckles felt better—numb from the cold, but better.

“So you punched your poor truck again. What did it do this time?”

“Nothing. I was mad.”

Elaine pursed her lips. “That’s a news flash. About what?”

Patrick shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m over it.”

The look on his mother’s face told him she didn’t believe this fabrication any more than the other lies he had told her. “That’s the third time, isn’t it?” She shuffled a few papers on her desk. “Or is it four?”

Patrick shrugged. “Ian counted three.”

Elaine kept her eyes fastened on him, as if she knew what he was thinking. Patrick said nothing and looked out the window behind her at the docks and the water.

“Well,” she finally said. “You haven’t told me the other two reasons why you hit your truck, so I shouldn’t be surprised that you won’t tell me about the third. I’m only your mother. I just brought you into this world. I don’t suppose I have any more use in your life.”

Patrick grinned. The grin turned into a laugh. “That was good, Ma. Are you giving lessons yet?”

He could see a smile trying to break out on her face, but she wagged a finger at him. “You watch yourself, Patrick Michael.”

“But, Ma.” Patrick’s eyes danced with suppressed laughter. “I’m only saying that a master at their craft owes it to the next generation to pass that skill along.”

Elaine laughed and threw a pencil at him which he caught in his good hand. “Stop it, now.” She sobered. “If there’s anything you need to talk about, you know I’m here to listen. And tell you what you should do. Like a mother is supposed to do.”

“I know that, Ma.”

The phone rang and Elaine lifted the receiver. Patrick ignored her conversation, twirling the pencil between his fingers. How could he tell his mother about Kate? Where would he even begin? From the beginning perhaps; he had been sitting in the coffee shop, when his head was turned by a peal of sharp, ringing laughter. It came from a woman at the counter. Running his gaze over her slim, lithe form, he had felt something flicker inside him. Long legs, a sweetly rounded bottom and the taut curve of pert breasts: what wasn’t to like about that? Her hair had seemed alive, too, as some stray draft of air caught the long, golden curls and sent them dancing around her head. When she turned and he caught a glimpse of her face and her chocolate-brown eyes, he knew he had to meet her.

Elaine got up, phone in the crook of shoulder and neck and went to a bank of file cabinets along the back wall. How could he tell his mother about how hot it had been between him and Kate after that first meeting? That was not information to share with a mother. Nor did he want to talk about how suddenly, today, Kate had turned so cold. It cut him to the bone that she could douse the fire so easily, even as she carried his child inside her. The more he thought about it, the more miserable he felt.

Elaine hung up the phone. “All these phone calls! How am I supposed to do any work around here? I never appreciated Tricia until after she’d gone.”

Patrick dragged himself out of his muddled thoughts. “What happened to her?” He used the pencil to gesture to the desk where he lounged. “I thought she would have chased me out of her chair by now.”

“She moved to Boston two weeks ago.”

“Boston?” Patrick gave a shiver. “What would she want to do that for?”

“Love.” Elaine smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Isn’t that what makes us do all the stupid things we do in life?” She cocked her head to one side, once more looking at her son expectantly.

“I wouldn’t know.” The words were a mutter as he avoided her eyes. He dropped his feet to the floor, rose, and tossed the pencil back to her desk. “I’m going down to the boat.”

“How’s your hand?”

Patrick lifted the towel and looked at his knuckles. The skin was blue-white and didn’t hurt, but he could see some swelling. “It’ll be all right.”

“Keep the ice on it.” The command was all mother.

He nodded, picked up his bag and swung the door open. “See you later.”

“Oh! Before I forget, Jeannie wants you to call her about the picnic on Saturday.”

“What does my darling sister need now?” Patrick asked irritably.

Elaine shook her head at Patrick. “Be nice. She needs you to help her with the coolers and ice.”

“Isn’t that why she has children?”

“It’s a family picnic, Patrick. That means everyone gets to help.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “I’ll call her.”

He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Sighing, he took a deep breath. It was like sucking air through a wet rag—a hot, wet rag. It signaled the start of another steamy July in Maryland that would probably last through August. Hoisting his bag on his shoulder, Patrick walked toward the docks that stretched away to the right, past the travel-lift pad.

To his left, three rows of about fifty boats stood on jack stands. Half of those would be gone in a week, to be replaced by others in need of quick repairs or a coat of paint. The other half were serious refits, boats completely stripped of hardware and rigging. Some sported tents of plastic, behind which Patrick could hear the low hiss of an air compressor or the high whine of a gel-coat peeler. The sharp, sweet smell of hot fiberglass mingled with the fecund aroma of the shore. Behind the rows of boats were sheds for the yard’s various repair shops: one each for engines, gel coat, paint, canvas and so on. Ian’s wood shop was among the largest buildings—big enough to fit an entire boat during the winter. Fragrant with raw wood and varnish, the scent there always reminded Patrick of the childhood he had spent on his parents’ old boat.

He went down the ramp connecting the docks to land. The floats bounced slightly with each step and undulated in the wake of passing boats. Like the water they floated on, they rose and fell with the tides of the Chesapeake. Pilings spaced every forty feet or so, driven deep into the mud of Crab Creek, kept the whole maze of docks anchored in place. Patrick passed the small powerboats slipped closest to shore, where the water was shallow. Beyond those were larger, more elaborate yachts, all gleaming fiberglass and bright chrome. Last, in the deepest water, were sailboats.

Patrick turned left onto a narrower dock perpendicular to the main pier. A couple of men, fellow sailors who kept their boats at the marina, greeted him. Otherwise the dock was quiet, as it usually was during the weekdays. It would be busy later; tonight was race night. Patrick flexed his fingers, testing their strength. He winced when two gave him a stab of pain. Maybe he would have to sit this race out.

Ten slips down, Patrick arrived at his boat, Aphrodite, a sleek, white sailboat with green canvas over the boom and mainsail. He slung his bag onto the cabin top, then stepped up and over the lifelines onto the deck. The boat rocked gently as he boarded. Patrick adjusted his rhythm to that of the boat and nimbly hopped into the cockpit. There, he pushed open the companionway hatch and pulled out the drop boards to open the cabin.

He went down the steps inside the boat, and threw his bag on the settee that ran along the right side of the boat. The icy, dripping towel went into the galley sink. Moving forward through the cabin, he opened hatches and ports, letting the late-afternoon breeze wash the heat and musty smell out of the boat.

He pulled open the icebox. It held more beer than it had when he left three months ago. He took out one can and, just as he opened it, heard a knock on the hull.

“Ahoy, there, Aphrodite!”

With a smile, he grabbed another beer. “Evan, come aboard!”

Evan McKenzie climbed over the lifelines and sat on one of the cockpit seats as Patrick tossed him a can. He popped the tab and took a deep swallow. Patrick climbed out into the cockpit to join him.

Tall, blond and lanky, he looked like Patrick’s fair-skinned twin. They had been best friends ever since age twelve when they had tried to beat each other to a pulp over a protest in a sailing dinghy race. After that start, they had gotten into more trouble than seemed possible to their long-suffering parents.

“Welcome back.” Evan’s greeting was followed by a hearty belch.

“Thanks.” Patrick clunked his can against Evan’s in a toast. “Thanks for restocking the icebox.”

Evan grinned. “Only seemed fair, since I drank what you left in there.”

Patrick often thought that his friend looked like a used-car salesman when he smiled like that, sunglasses hiding his green eyes. In fact, he was a car salesman, albeit new ones, and very successful at it. It had something to do with the charm that oozed out of Evan’s pores. He could sell a monster pickup to an eighty-year-old grandmother with cataracts or a minivan to a teenager looking for a chick magnet. Patrick didn’t understand it. If he didn’t know Evan well, he wouldn’t trust him on a bet.

“How’d the big race go?” Evan asked.

“You didn’t check the site?”

Evan tipped his glasses down to eye Patrick, then pushed them back up. “Please. I’ve got better things to do with my time than track your wake.”

Patrick snorted his disgust. “We took second.”

“Against Voltaic?” Evan whistled. “Not bad for a bunch of amateurs.”

Patrick flipped him off good-naturedly and leaned back against the cockpit coaming.

Evan eyed the swollen, bruised hand. “You get in a fight or something?”

“Punched my truck.” Patrick flexed the fingers, again feeling a stab of pain. “Didn’t break anything. But I don’t think I’ll race tonight.”

Evan shook his head and slid around to lean his back against the cabin, stretching his legs out along the seat. “Who pissed you off?”

Patrick saw his brother coming down the dock and didn’t answer. Ian climbed on board.

“Ian! You see your brother’s knuckles?”

“Yep. That truck will never be the same.”

“Any good reason?” Evan cocked his head. “Or just staying in practice?”

Patrick ignored the joke and went below to get his brother a beer. He didn’t want to talk about Kate right now. Maybe not ever.

“It has something to do with a woman.” Ian took the can Patrick handed him.

“Naturally. Kate?” Evan asked.

Ian nodded. “You’ll have to pry the details out of him yourself.”

Evan swiveled his head to look at Patrick, one eyebrow raised above the edge of his sunglasses. “She dumped you!”

Patrick sighed. “Look, can we talk about something else?”

Evan and Ian looked at each other, then back at Patrick. “No,” they said in stereo.

“He knocked her up,” Ian volunteered.

Evan’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Patrick over the rim of his sunglasses again. Then he pushed them back up and started to laugh, loud and long. Patrick took a deep drink of his beer, emptying it. He went back down and got another. When he returned, Evan was still laughing, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Patrick glared at Ian, who shrugged innocently.

Finally, Evan got control of himself. “Damn, that’s perfect,” he said on a final gurgle. “Here’s to you, Dad,” he added, raising his drink.

“That’s the tricky part—” Ian began.

“Whose mess is this anyway?” Patrick interrupted.

“Yours, Patty,” Ian said. “So, tell him.”

Evan looked back and forth between them. “What rest? She’s knocked up. You get married, live happily ever after until you don’t. End of story.”

“That’s the problem,” Patrick began reluctantly. “She doesn’t want to get married—”

“That’s perfect!” Evan crowed.

“She doesn’t want to get married to me.”

“Why not?”

“Kate doesn’t think Patrick is father material,” Ian said. “He’s gone too often racing.”

Evan snorted. “What difference does it make if he’s here or not? He’s the father.”

“Tell that to Kate.” Patrick popped the tab on his beer and took a long swallow.

“She’s going to find a guy who’s more qualified for the position,” Ian elaborated when Patrick fell silent.

“Wow!” Evan swore. “That’s hard-core.”

“She wants me to give it up,” Patrick added grimly.

“What? Racing?”

Patrick nodded.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re a world-class skipper!” Evan straightened from his slumped position. “She might as well ask you to stop breathing. What’s she got against sailors anyway?”

Patrick shrugged. “Search me. She’s never even been sailing.”

“Well, you can fix that easily enough.” Evan patted Aphrodite’s hull.

“So what are you going to do?” Ian asked.

“Somehow, I have to change her mind. I have to show her that I can be a good father.”

“Hey, I know! Just borrow one of Jeannie’s kids for a few days to cart around with you. Kate’ll get the idea.” Evan chortled at his own joke.

“Knock it off, Evan.” Patrick glared at his friend. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like she has guys lined up to marry her,” Evan scoffed. “She’s pregnant.”

“She has at least one,” Patrick countered. “She’s meeting him tomorrow.”

Evan shook his head and took another swig of beer. “I don’t believe it.”

“I do,” Ian said quietly.

Evan looked at him.

Ian shrugged. “She’s beautiful and vivacious. She’s an artist. Smart, too. And she runs her own business. The fact that she’s pregnant wouldn’t be that much of a deterrent for some guys.”

“It would be for me.”

“No one’s asking you to step up to the plate, McKenzie,” Patrick said.

“Sounds like no one’s asking you to, either, Berzani,” he shot back.

“Shut up, both of you,” Ian interjected. “So, how are you going to change her mind, Patty?”

“Go see her tomorrow, before she meets this other guy. If I can talk to her, I think I can make her see it could work.”

Ian nodded while Evan shook his head. “It’s going to take more than fancy talk.”

“Maybe I should take your advice, then,” Patrick said slowly.

“My advice?” Evan asked, surprised.

“Yeah.” Patrick nodded as he thought through the idea. “I should take her sailing. She’ll understand everything then.”

Evan grinned. “Brilliant!”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Patty,” Ian said, frowning. “She’s never sailed and—”

“That’s why I should do it,” Patrick interrupted. “I’ll surprise her and show her how great it really is.”

“But what if she hates it?” Ian asked.

“Never happen,” Evan said. “I’ll go along to do the work and Patrick can play skipper.”

“I am a skipper,” Patrick said drily.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“Guys, I really don’t think you should do this.” Ian looked back and forth between them. His dark eyes were worried. “At least don’t spring it on her.”

“No, Patrick’s right,” Evan said. “It works better if he surprises her. She’ll love it!”

Patrick ignored his brother and Evan. He wasn’t sure how he felt about becoming a father, but he wasn’t going to let Kate push him aside before he figured it out. He had to change her mind. Taking her sailing was the perfect first step. Perfect.

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