KATE HOFFMANN
The Mighty Quinns: Marcus

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Coming Next Month

Prologue

THE LATE AFTERNOON sun slanted through the grimy windows of the old stone stable. The stalls stood empty, their iron bars tangled with cobwebs and their old wooden doors battered and scarred. From the roof rafters, doves cooed softly, fluttering their wings and sending up motes of dust to dance in the sunlight.

Marcus Quinn huddled in the quiet shadows of the haymow, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. At his feet, a small pile of wood shavings lay scattered in the musty hay. This had become his secret spot, the place he retreated to when his world got too difficult to bear. Today was his eighth birthday and nothing had changed.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Swiss Army knife his father had sent him last year for his birthday. The blade was sharp, honed by his grandmother’s cook with the old whetstone she kept in the kitchen.

Marcus stared at the line of tiny figurines he’d set on a beam against the stable wall, counting them silently—birds, dogs, horses, fish, even an alligator he’d carved from a photo in a book. His very first carving, an owl, had been fashioned from a scrap of sapwood he’d found in the rubbish bin. Though it was crude and a bit uneven, Marcus liked the way its wide eyes watched him.

Over the past year his carvings had become much more detailed, aided by the old tools he’d found in a box in a dark corner of the stable. Marcus pulled the box from its hiding spot beneath a musty canvas and carefully inventoried the tools, touching each as he counted them. The handles were all worn smooth with age, but the edges were still as sharp as razors and free of rust.

Marcus reached down and ran his fingers over the initials carved into the front of the rough-hewn box. E.H.P. He’d wanted to ask his grandmother who the tools belonged to, but he was afraid she’d take them away from him, fearful that he’d hurt himself. Everyone treated him like a baby, always hovering over him, always concerned for his feelings. But Marcus was much stronger than they gave him credit for.

The stable door creaked and Marcus quickly shoved the toolbox back beneath the canvas, then shimmied against the wall. Holding his breath, he waited, praying that the shadows would hide him.

“Marcus! Jaysus, Marcus, come on. Nana is waiting in the car and she’s pissed.”

Marcus scowled. He and his two older brothers, Ian and Declan, had lived with their Grandmother Callahan for two years now, but Marcus still couldn’t bear to call this place home. It was half a world away from his mother and father and the rest of his siblings, this big fancy house in a strange land where everyone talked in a funny voice and they played cricket and soccer instead of baseball and football.

Ian cursed. “Don’t be such a baby. Just come on out. Nana said we can go to the cinema for your birthday. And then we’ll have ice cream. She says it’ll be a grand time.”

Cinema? The movies. That’s what it was called—the movies. Already his brothers had started talking like their mates at school, lacing everything they said with colorful curses and strange slang. Marcus shifted, sinking farther back into the dark. A strand of hay tickled at his nose and he fought against a sneeze, covering his face with his hands. The last of his tears still clung to his cheeks, and Marcus wiped his runny nose with his wrist, willing himself to remain silent.

His grandmother had ordered a wonderful birthday celebration with gifts and a cowboy cake and an afternoon outing in nearby Dublin. Though everyone had worked so hard to lift his spirits, it wasn’t enough. After two birthdays away from home, he thought maybe this time he’d get to enjoy a celebration with his family, his ma and his da and all six of his older siblings.

He remembered the day he’d turned five, waking up in the morning and going downstairs to find the kitchen table covered with presents, all wrapped in the Sunday comics. He couldn’t remember what gifts he’d received, but he remembered his mother sitting at the end of the table and watching him with tear-filled eyes.

She’d cried a lot that month and Marcus hadn’t understood why. And then, one terrible night, his father had gathered them all around the kitchen table to tell them that their mother was very ill. Marcus remembered his confusion over the word: cancer. He’d never heard it before, but it was his father’s somber expression and watery eyes that told him how serious it was.

Marcus wondered if she were crying now. There would be a phone call later that day from Da and Ma, as there had been for his sixth and seventh birthdays, and Marcus felt a sick knot growing in his stomach. It was always difficult to talk to his mother, to ignore the tears in her voice and pretend everything was all right, to lie to her and insist that he was happy living in Ireland.

Everything wasn’t all right! His ma was sick—so sick, she could no longer care for her three youngest sons. So sick, his father had to go back to fishing with his uncle Seamus to make enough to pay the hospital bills. So sick that he and Ian and Declan had been sent away to Ireland so they wouldn’t have to watch their mother die.

A fresh round of tears threatened and Marcus swallowed them back. She couldn’t die, she wouldn’t, if they’d only let him go home and take care of her. Marcus had always been able to make her laugh. He’d been her sweet baby, her silly clown, her wee boy. If anyone could make her well, he could.

“Come on, Marky!” Ian shouted. “We know you’re in here. Nana’s gonna take us to see Top Gun. It’s supposed to be really neat, with jets and bombs and stuff.”

“Maybe he’s not here,” Dec muttered. “We didn’t search the attics. The little sissy could be hiding there.”

“I’m not a sissy!” Marcus shouted. As soon as the words slipped out, he knew he’d made a foolish mistake.

“See?” Ian said. “I told you.”

Marcus scrambled to the edge of the mow and peered down at his brothers. “I don’t wanna go to the movies,” he said defiantly. “You can go without me.”

“It’s your birthday,” Ian said. “If you don’t go, then Nana won’t let us go. Grady is waiting to drive us.”

“Maybe we can talk him into taking us to Aliens,” Dec said excitedly. “Davey says it’s really cool. There’s this monster that comes out of this guy’s chest and it’s all gooey with big fangs and—”

Ian gave Dec a shove. “Yeah, right. Can you see Grady sittin’ through that? He’d piss his pants.” Ian looked up at Marcus. “What’s the problem? Why are you actin’ like a baby?”

“I’m not a baby. I just wanna go home. It’s my birthday and I wanna see Ma and Da.”

“We can’t go home,” Ian explained. “Not until Da says it’s okay.”

Ian always acted as if he knew everything, Marcus mused. He was only eleven, but he acted like the boss. And Dec wasn’t any better even though he was just a couple years older than Marcus. They were always bullying him around. “You act like you don’t even miss them,” Marcus murmured, a hot tear trailing down his cheek.

Ian’s expression softened. “I do. I miss them a lot. I miss Ma’s cooking and I miss Da’s singing.”

“I miss ’em, too,” Dec admitted. “I miss the way Ma would read to us before she tucked us into bed. Haven’t slept right since we came here.”

Ian crawled up the ladder to the top of the mow and plopped down next to Marcus. A few seconds later, Dec joined them. They sat on the wide plank floor, their legs dangling over the edge.

“It’s pretty cool up here,” Dec commented.

“Nice animals,” Ian added, pointing to the menagerie lined up against the wall. “Is that what you do up here? Carve those little animals?”

Marcus nodded. Though he’d always considered this spot his private retreat, it was nice to have his brothers paying attention to him for once. They usually didn’t want anything to do with him. “I miss her smile,” Marcus murmured.

Dec and Ian nodded, and they all sat silently, staring down into the barn. “I know a secret,” Marcus ventured.

Dec turned to look at him. “You do not.”

“I do, I do,” Marcus insisted. “I found a treasure map.”

“You’re full of shite!” Ian declared. “Where?”

Marcus hesitated. He’d hoped to find the treasure himself. He’d been studying the map for months and couldn’t figure it out, so he’d already resigned himself to asking for help. Between the three of them, they could figure it out.

“If we find the treasure, we split it three ways,” Marcus said. He spit on his palm and held it out. “Swear.”

Dec quickly shook his brother’s hand. “I swear on my mother’s—” He stopped suddenly. “I swear,” he murmured.

Ian wasn’t so quick to join in the deal. Finally he shrugged and added his promise. With that, Marcus scrambled to his feet and crossed the plank floor to the far wall. Ian and Declan followed him and waited as he brushed aside a small pile of hay.

“Here,” Marcus said, pointing to a cubbyhole in the stone wall. Tucked inside was a yellowed piece of paper, rolled tightly and secured with a leather string. From the string dangled a small gold medallion with an odd inscription embossed into it.

“What’s that?” Dec asked.

Marcus held up the medallion. “It’s very old. I think it’s a charm, like for luck. Or maybe it’s magic.” He unwound the medallion from the paper and showed it to his brothers, then smoothed the map out on the floor so they could all read it.

The two older boys bent down to study the pencil drawing. Dec reached out and touched a mark on the map. “X marks the spot,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief. “Do you think it’s pirates?”

“Could be,” Ian said.

“Maybe there’s gold,” Marcus said, “or jewels. Enough so we could buy plane tickets to go back home.”

Ian studied the medallion. “Maybe this is a clue, too. It’s in some kind of different language.”

“Maybe it’s Irish,” Dec suggested.

Ian gave him a shove. “Jaysus, Dec, you are a smart lad.”

“We need to keep this a secret,” Dec said. “We can’t tell anyone, not even Nana.” Dec wrapped the medallion around the paper and tucked it back into its hiding spot. “We’ll come back later to study it.”

They all crawled down from the haymow. Ian slipped his arm around Marcus’s shoulders as they walked to the door. Marcus leaned into him, desperate for any reassurance that he still had a family.

“You’re a clever lad, Marky,” Ian said.

Marcus smiled. “If I were to ask Nana real nice, I bet she’d take us to see Aliens.”

Ian chuckled, and Dec reached out to ruffle Marcus’s hair. “Now there’s an idea,” Ian said. “Pretty damn smart for a seven-year-old.”

“Eight,” Marcus corrected.

“Yeah, right,” Ian replied. “I guess you’re a big guy now. Just like us.”

A wide grin broke across Marcus’s face. They were brothers and no matter what happened along the way, that would never change. Maybe now that he was eight, they would forget that he was the baby of the family. “I’m smart enough to know a treasure map when I see one,” he said.

“That you are, Marky,” his brothers said. “That you are.”

1

“DO YOU EVER WONDER whether they’re worth it? Women, I mean.”

Marcus Quinn glanced up from the bucket of varnish he was stirring to see a gloomy expression cloud his brother Ian’s face. “I don’t know,” he replied with a slight shrug.

“I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like without them,” Ian said. “They’re nice to look at and they smell good. And sex…well, sex wouldn’t be the same without them.” He sank back into the battered couch, staring at his beer bottle as he scraped at the label with his thumbnail. “It just seems like it never gets anywhere. I remember the first girl I kissed like it was yesterday. And since then my life has gone straight to hell. You can’t do with ’em and you can’t do without ’em.”

A chuckle echoed in the stillness of the boathouse, and they both looked over at Declan, who sat amidst the awls and chisels on Marcus’s workbench, his legs dangling. “I remember that day. You looked like you were about to lose your lunch all over her shoes.”

“You weren’t even there,” Ian challenged.

“I was,” Dec replied. “Me and my mates used to watch you guys all the time. We were trying to pick up tips. The older lads were so smooth with the ladies. Except you, of course.”

“Hell, you get French kissed when you’re twelve years old and see if you can handle the shock,” Ian snapped back.

Dec jumped down from the workbench and tossed his empty beer bottle in the rubbish, then strolled to the small refrigerator in the corner to fetch another. “She was a flah little scrubber all right,” he said, thickening the Irish accent that still colored the Quinn brothers’ voices. “By the time Alicia Dooley got around to you, she’d already kissed half the boys in your form at school. She even let a boy feel her up for a bag of crisps and a candy bar.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t.”

Dec twisted the cap from the beer and took a long swig. “I was supposed to refuse? She was thirteen. And she had the nicest knobs at St. Clement’s. I’d have been off my nut not to take advantage of a deal like that. Besides, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Ian turned to Marcus, sending him an inquiring look, but Marcus shook his head. “Don’t look at me.”

“By the time Marky was old enough to have those thoughts, Alicia had got herself knocked up by Jimmy Farley and closed up her little schoolyard enterprise,” Dec explained.

A comfortable silence descended over the boathouse. The Friday-night ritual between Marcus and Ian and Declan had begun. Usually they’d meet for a few beers, sometimes at a pub, sometimes at Ian’s place in town and sometimes in the old boathouse at their father’s boatyard. They’d catch up with the week’s events, the talk centering on work or sports. But occasionally they talked about women.

Marcus grabbed the bucket of varnish and climbed the ladder he’d propped up against his newest project, a twenty-one-foot wooden-hulled sloop that had been commissioned by a Newport billionaire for his son’s sixteenth birthday. He’d been designing and building boats for three years now, working out of the old boathouse and living upstairs in a loft that was half studio and half apartment.

“Considering the number of women we’ve collectively been with, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’d shared a few others,” Declan murmured.

“There’s a code among brothers,” Ian countered. “You just don’t mess with your brothers’ girls, current or ex.”

“You’re right,” Dec said. He crossed the room and held out his hand to Ian. “Sorry, bro. Won’t happen again. You’ve got my word.”

Marcus smiled to himself. The three Quinn brothers had formed an unshakable bond at an early age. After their mother’s illness had been diagnosed and they’d been shipped off to Ireland to live with their grandmother, they’d learned to depend upon each other. From the moment they’d arrived in Dublin, they’d been outsiders, wary Americans forced to live in a culture whose rules they didn’t understand.

And after they’d returned from Ireland, they’d become known as “those” Quinn boys, with their odd Irish accents and their independent ways, young men who could string curse words together like seasoned sailors and beat the stuffing out of men twice their size in a fistfight.

Ian had been eighteen when they’d returned and had immediately enrolled in college, anxious to get a start on his adult life. When he was accepted into the Providence Police Academy, he’d continued his education at night, graduating with a degree in criminal justice. Two years ago, he’d left the Providence PD and taken the job as police chief of their hometown, Bonnett Harbor, a picturesque Rhode Island village on the western shore of Narragansett Bay.

A year younger than Ian, Declan returned in time for his senior year in high school, bringing his grades up so he could apply to MIT. Four years of college, a knack for electronics and a stint with naval intelligence had paved the way for a job in corporate security. Declan’s security consulting firm was the favorite among corporate bigwigs and multimillionaires along the East Coast.

Marcus had made the most difficult transition. He’d spent the majority of his childhood on Irish soil, away from his parents from age five to fourteen. He’d come back to a country that was as foreign to him as Ireland had been nine years before. School had been hell, and he’d avoided it whenever possible, retreating into solitude and avoiding close friendships. His brothers had been his only friends.

But his talent in art, especially carving and sculpture, had set him on an odd career path—first art school and then a few years working as a wood-carver with a boat-design firm in Boston. He’d been recruited as an instructor at a small school for boat restoration in Massachusetts. Now he ran his own show, doing commissioned wood carvings and building pretty wooden sloops based on vintage designs.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Dec suggested, flopping down next to Ian on the sofa and kicking his heels up on the battered crate that served as a coffee table.

Marcus glanced up from the cockpit combing he’d been varnishing. “I’m the only one doing any work here, unless you call drinking my beer and eating my food ‘work.’”

Dec grabbed the can of peanuts from Ian. “I was talking about women. We should take a break from women. You know, step back and try to gain a little perspective. We can’t see the feckin’ forest for the trees.”

“What are you saying?” Ian asked.

“He’s saying, in order to understand women, we should give up women,” Marcus translated.

Giving up women would be impossible for Ian. He lived on his charm, able to navigate the most difficult situations with ease. While Marcus had few friends, Ian knew everyone and they loved him. Dec, on the other hand, was more focused. He was the thinker in the family, the one guy who was driven by the need to succeed. Any challenge, whether it was in his professional or personal life, was met with unrelenting resolve.

“We should study them,” Declan suggested. “We’re three relatively clever guys. If we put our heads together, we should be able to figure women out. But you can’t figure them out while you’re sleeping with them, I know that. I’ve been sleeping with them for years and I’m no better off than I was the night I first did it.”

Ian nodded. “The more women I know, the less I understand them.”

Marcus rested his arms across the top of the ladder. “Maybe they’re not the problem. Maybe we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dec said. “I know what the hell I’m doing in the sack. No one’s ever complained.”

Marcus shook his head. “I mean with…relationships. Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”

“And what the hell would I do with a relationship?” Dec asked. “I don’t have time for that.”

Marcus chuckled. “I rest my case.”

“He’s right,” Ian said. “We want what everyone else wants. To get married. Start a life. Have a family. Look at our cousins, Uncle Seamus’s boys. There are six of them and they’re all married now.”

“So we’ve got issues,” Dec said defensively.

Ian straightened, as if offended by the comment. “What issues? If I had issues, I’d know about it.”

“Not necessarily,” Dec continued. “I once dated this psychology grad student, and after she heard about our childhood, she said it wasn’t any surprise that I had an attachment disorder. She was right, because after I listened to a few more hours of her psychobabble, I detached her from my life.”

“You have this disorder?” Ian said.

Marcus climbed down the ladder as he spoke. “We all probably do. You gotta admit, after we were separated from the family, the only people we really trusted were each other.”

“What about our cousins?” Ian asked. “They had the same start in life as we did, their da off working the Mighty Quinn and their ma disappearing on them. Did they have this disorder?”

Marcus shrugged. “Maybe. But they obviously overcame it since they’re all married now.”

“Where did you hear about this disorder?” Ian asked Marcus.

Marcus set the bucket of varnish on the workbench and searched for the turpentine to clean the brush. He shrugged. “Sometimes I watch Dr. Phil while I’m eating lunch.”

He dropped the brush into a can of paint thinner then fetched a beer for himself. After sprawling himself in a ragged easy chair across from the sofa, he took a long drink of the cold beer.

“The way I see it, women are like peanuts,” Ian declared, breaking the silence.

Dec laughed. “All right, ya daft wanker, I’ll bite. How are women like peanuts?”

He held up the jar, then tipped some peanuts into his hand and popped them into his mouth. “The first handful is great,” he said as he chewed. “The best thing you ever tasted. But then you keep eating them and eating them and they don’t taste that special. After all, they are just peanuts, right? But then, you don’t have them for a week or two and they’re good again.”

“And by not having them, you understand the nuts? You gain insight into their behavior?” Declan asked.

“It’s not the best metaphor,” Marcus said, jumping into his role as peacemaker between his two older brothers.

“How did we even get on the subject of women?” Ian asked.

Dec grabbed the peanuts and poured a measure into his hand. “Women spend most of their time together talking about men. If we spent more time talking about them, even objectively observing them, we’d be better off. And in order to do that, we need to stop sleeping with them. And stop socializing with them. Everything, full stop.”

“No women? For how long?” The scowl on Ian’s face was enough to tell that he wasn’t in favor of the plan.

“As long as it takes,” Dec said.

“My social life is crap anyway,” Ian finally replied. “Since I moved back to Bonnett Harbor, I can’t sneeze without half the town knitting me a bleedin’ afghan. If I started dating, there’d be all sorts of gossip.”

Dec looked over at Marcus. “What about you?”

“He barely dates as it is,” Ian said. “This shouldn’t be any problem for Marky.”

“I date,” Marcus said. “I just don’t talk about it with you tossers.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem for him,” Dec said. “He’s stuck out in Newport on a boat for the rest of the summer.”

“Just you and your tools?” Ian asked.

Marcus nodded. “Dec got me a job with Trevor Ross.”

Dec held up his hands. “I got you in the door. You got the job.”

Dec had provided security at a number of Ross’s corporate events and parties and also advised his corporate office on a variety of matters. A passing conversation about Ross’s sailing yacht and Marcus’s talents had landed Marcus a new commission and a potential business partner with limitless capital.

“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?”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I can survive on donuts and coffee. Unless we tie up at the dock, the market in town won’t deliver. If you could pick up some fresh fruit for me—some melon, kiwi, papaya, some really good grapes—I’d appreciate it. Make sure it’s all organic, though. And there’s a really good fish market in town. I don’t care what you get as long as you cook it properly. The housekeeper has accounts at all the shops in town. Just charge whatever you buy.”

He stood up beside her, casting a shadow over her body. For a long time he didn’t move, and she wondered what he was thinking. In truth, he was probably thinking about turning her into shark bait. But if he persisted in provoking her, then she had no choice but to stand up for herself. “That’s all,” Eden said. “You can go now. I’ll call you if I need you again, Barney.”

A few seconds later she heard his footsteps on the deck. Eden couldn’t help but watch his retreat, curious to see whether he bothered to look back. All of this wouldn’t be half as frustrating if Marcus Quinn wasn’t so damn gorgeous.

Was it the dark hair or the deep blue eyes that she liked so much? Or was it the crooked smile that he so rarely used? He couldn’t be called charming or even friendly. But he possessed an undeniable masculinity, a way of commanding her attention that made him irresistible.

Perhaps she shouldn’t test him so, but sooner or later, he’d have to waver. Eden sighed. She was accustomed to getting what she wanted. But this time she didn’t really know what that was. Did she simply need Marcus to acknowledge the attraction, to make her feel better about herself? Or was she looking for something to distract her from the troubles looming just over the horizon?

Eden had often tried to understand her warped view of relationships. She suspected it had to do with her parents’ divorce when she was seven. It had been called the divorce of the decade, acrimonious at best, downright vicious at its worst. She’d been used as a pawn in a settlement and custody fight between her grasping mother and her controlling father. When the courts had finally put an end to the fight, Eden had realized neither one of her parents really wanted her. All they had cared about was winning.

So she’d spent the school year in Malibu with her mother and summers in Newport with her father. She rarely saw Trevor Ross, but he made up for his absences by indulging her every whim. At first, she cared nothing for his gifts, preferring his company instead. But after a time, Eden realized that the only thing she would ever have of her father was what he bought for her.

Her problems with her father extended to other men. After five or six years of dating, she knew her chances at ever making a normal relationship work were slim at best. She’d never been able to trust a man enough to let him inside her life…or inside her heart. For a long time, that hadn’t made a difference. But lately she’d wanted to believe she could have a grand romance, an affair that would last longer than a few months.

There had to be something more to life than what she’d experienced so far. Something deeper, something real. And though hiding out on her father’s yacht might provide the solitude she needed to sort out her life, playing games with Marcus Quinn wasn’t the best use of her time.

“Just let the man do his job,” she murmured. “And stay out of his way.” She repeated the words again, but she still couldn’t convince herself. Every time he was near, she felt compelled to look, to say something that might provoke him into conversation. And if she thought the suntan-lotion ploy would satisfy her desire for his touch, Eden was fooling herself.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it would be best for both of them if she just packed her bags and left. Eden took a deep breath and shook her head. No, she’d stay. But she’d try her best to get along with Marcus, to make him see that, at heart, she really was a good girl.

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