Bidding on Brooks: The Winslow Brothers #1 (16 page)

Her stomach fell as a photo gallery of ten more “models” appeared, most just slightly beyond their late-20s prime.

The name “Bunny Lynn” jumped out at her in the third row, second from the right. Skye clicked on the picture and a profile came up: her mother’s picture and a description that started with “Bunny Lynn is a mature lady (49 years old) with seductive blue eyes and a bewitching smile. She is sexy, but confident, and will make your…” Skye had sucked in a breath, clenching her eyes shut. When she opened them, she clicked on the picture to make it larger and hide the words beneath.

Her mother’s hair was blonde like Skye’s, twisted up in a sophisticated hairstyle. She wore too much makeup and a gray negligee that showed almost everything underneath. She stood beside a red boudoir chair, one knee bent and resting on the chair, her face turned over her shoulder to look at the camera. She didn’t look sad or ashamed of herself. She just looked beautiful.

For several long moments, Skye had stared at the picture, unaware that tears were trailing down her face until one big one plopped onto her keyboard. She wished she could have known her mother better. She wished her mother could have been happy at Sorenson Marina. She wished her mother hadn’t cheated on her father and left him behind. She wished that a little girl with the same blonde hair and blue eyes had been enough incentive for her to stay.

She had taken a deep, ragged breath and closed her laptop, wiping away her ridiculous tears and hardening her heart. Her mother hadn’t wanted her. She certainly didn’t want her mother.

Skye turned in Brooks’ arms, finding him still asleep, his gorgeous face slack and peaceful. She leaned forward and pressed her lips as softly as possible to his forehead, then slipped out of bed to take a shower and get ready for the day.

***

Skye was making veggie omelets again and Brooks could already smell the freshly-brewed coffee. It occurred to him for a moment that her making breakfast had deprived him of a morning make-out session, but recalling the way she’d stopped them last night, perhaps it was for the best.

Lying on his back, he placed his hand over his heart, remembering the way she felt falling asleep against him—the way her soft, warm body had burrowed into his, accepting his presence beside her and savoring it in her sleep. His heart belonged more and more to Skye with every passing moment spent with her—moments that would torture him once they were apart. And yet he couldn’t give her up. Not when there were only four nights left.

The door to their room squeaked open and Skye peeked in, offering him a smile far more bright and confident than he deserved or expected.

“Morning,” she said, leaning down to press her lips against his before presenting him a mug of hot coffee. He sat up, taking it from her. “We have pictures with Guy in thirty minutes, so you better get up.”

He nodded, sipping the strong brew. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, I am,” she agreed, sitting down on the edge of her bed. She reached out to him, running one hand gently through his hair before cupping his cheek. “You know last night? How you said you couldn’t offer me anything?”

His heart clenched then dropped. Was she about to renege on
Zephyrland
? Take away their last few remaining days together?

Oh, God.
Please don’t. Please let me have this little bit of fleeting happiness.

“Skye, listen—”

“Shhh. No,” she said, smoothing her thumb over his bristly cheek as she smiled tenderly at him. “
You
listen. I just wanted to say…it’s okay. I’m not asking for anything. In fact, I think it’s best that we stick with the rules of
Zephyrland
. Just have fun, and then go back to normal when we get home.”

“What?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I gave it some thought. I think you’re right. I didn’t want you to feel bad about it, because I agree. A hundred percent.”

His lips parted in surprised and he stared back at her feeling…disappointed. Terribly, ridiculously, tragically disappointed.

Her words should have reassured him, should have made him breathe a sigh of relief that he could be with her romantically for the next few days and then go back to friends on Sunday, but he didn’t feel relief. He felt…awful. Even worse than before, if that was possible. Before… he’d wanted her though his heart wouldn’t let him have her, and she’d wanted him even though he’d taken the possibility of a future together off the table. There was comfort in mutual deprivation. They were suffering together. Now it almost felt like she was perfectly happy with a fling, and it stung, not only because he cared for her deeply and wanted her to care about him in return, but because now he was suffering alone.

“Do you, uh, do you really think we can do that?”

“I do,” she said, leaning forward to press her lips to his once more before standing up. “We just need to keep our feelings out of the equation. You’re not the only one with…” She shrugged, but her gentle smile didn’t falter. “It’s just better this way.”

The only one with…what? Reasons? Secrets? Baggage? What did that mean? What was she hiding?

And better?
Well. It sure didn’t feel better.

“Okay.” He gulped, staring at her, feeling upset and knowing he had absolutely no reason or right to feel that way.

“Glad that’s settled,” she said, heading out of the room. She turned at the door. “We can just have fun now.” Then she was gone.

Brooks stared at the door. Had a tornado just blown through the room, or was it just Skye Sorenson with hot coffee and sweet good morning kisses? Because it felt like the former. Was she playing some kind of game? He thought of her smile, her touch on his cheek. No, she’d seemed entirely genuine. Besides, Skye wasn’t the sort of girl to play games.

So what had changed between last night and this morning? How come she wanted a future last night and was content with a fling today?
You’re not the only one with…
Was she hiding something? Something that he could help her with or protect her from? His fists clenched. The idea that something in her life troubled her made him feel helpless and bothered him almost to the point of panic.

He tightened his jaw, placing the coffee mug on the shelf beside the bed and swinging his legs over the side, still frowning. He was a selfish bastard for wanting her to want him emotionally when he couldn’t offer her a future, but suddenly the idea of going back to his old life was so unexpectedly painful, his eyes flared in defiance and he flinched, wondering for the first time,
Is there any other way?

How could he go back to being friends with Skye while he shared his body with women who didn’t care about him?

How would he feel when Skye found someone else to comfort and protect her? Or worse, how would he feel arriving at the marina one day to see her
kissing
someone else?

His short nails bit into his palms. He’d have to live with the knowledge that he could have had her, but he’d pushed her away. And he’d hate himself for it.

Is there any other way?

Is there any possible way to build a future with her? To offer her something real and good?
An ember of hope started a tiny fire in his throbbing heart.
If there is, you have four days to figure it out.

Guy seemed to recognize immediately that Skye and Brooks weren’t as standoffish with each other, and he limited his usual innuendo as they posed for pictures.

Brooks stood behind Skye with his arms around her. Skye leaned over Brooks’ shoulder and kissed his cheek. They were playful and comfortable, eager to touch, catching each other’s eyes effortlessly. Skye blushed and giggled when Brooks dropped his glance to her chest, remembering his mouth on her last night, licking and tasting. And when she teasingly played with a button on his shirt, she saw his eyes ignite and she knew he was recalling the way she’d undressed him.

“Well, lovebirds,” said Guy, “it certainly seems like you two have turned a corner. Make my day and tell me my pep talk in Virginia Beach helped.”

“Whatever floats your boat, Guy,” said Brooks dryly, rolling his eyes at Skye.

“Boat humor!” exclaimed Guy. “You’re really loosening him up, Skye.”

She looked up at Brooks and grinned, then looked back at Guy without souring.
Maybe Guy’s growing on me.

“So, Skye…I’ve been checking into you. Just a little!” he said hurriedly, shooting a cautionary glance at Brooks. “And I found out that you have…a boyfriend!” Guy took a little spiral notebook out of his back pocket. “A…Patrick Flaherty, right? Now, I have to know! What’s Patrick going to think about all of this?”

Nope. False alarm. Guy was definitely not growing on her.

Brooks straightened, taking a step toward Guy. “Skye’s personal life is off limits, Guy.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, cowboy! You two agreed to pictures and an interview. I’m just asking a question…”

“It’s fine, Brooks,” said Skye, placing a hand on Brooks’ arm, and turning to Guy. “Pat and I recently broke up. I wish him nothing but the best.”

“And Pat’s…um. Let’s see, he’s circumnavigating the globe right now? While the
Cat’s
away…eh, Skye?”

“That’s enough—” started Brooks.

“Guy,” said Skye, skewering the reporter with an icy glare. “Patrick left over four months ago. He won’t be back for another year and a half. Wouldn’t you agree that’s a long absence for any relationship?”

Guy shrugged. “Not if it’s true love.”

“I guess it wasn’t true love, then,” said Skye sharply, turning away from the dock. “Goodbye, Guy. See you in Myrtle…”

“Skye! Skye! Come on! One more question! Can I quote you?”

She didn’t turn back around. She heard Brooks telling Guy to get lost as she walked to the ship’s wheel and turned the key to start up the motor. “Buoys up!”

“Aye, aye, skip!” answered Brooks, hurrying along the dock to un-cleat the bow line before hopping back over the deck railing and pulling in the port and starboard buoys one by one.

“Skye!” yelled Guy, cupping his hands over his mouth and yelling over the roar of the motor. “Ask…’bout…his…friends!”

She shook her head with wide eyes and mouthed,
I can’t hear you.

Guy raised his eyebrows and pointed to Brooks—who had his back to them, pulling buoys in from the port side—then cupped his hands over his mouth again. “Ask Brooks…
girl
friends!”

“Ready, skip,” said Brooks, turning back around.

“Sorry, Guy!” she yelled back, making sure the coast was clear before putting the sailboat in reverse. “I can’t hear you!” She spared one last sardonic look for Guy and shrugged with ennui, pulling out of the slip.

Once they’d clear the docks and were heading out into the harbor, Brooks turned to her. “Digging around about Patrick? Jesus! That guy’ll stop at nothing!”

“He’s disgusting,” agreed Skye, although some small part of her wondered what Guy was trying to say as they pulled away from the dock. She looked over at him. “Brooks, untie the jib? We’ll let her up in a minute.”

“Got it,” he said, kissing her cheek quickly before heading down the deck to start unfurling the foresail.

Skye’s mind swung back to Guy again. Was he saying…Ask Brooks about his friends? Or …Ask Brooks about his
girl
friends?

She shrugged, exhaling a breath and taking another, deep and strong, letting the brackish air fill her lungs, making her feel fresh and clean. She looked straight ahead, enjoying the sight of Brooks’ fingers working nimbly on the lines and sighing at the beautiful expanse of glistening water beyond.

Guy was nothing but a troublemaker. Whatever he was trying to say, it certainly wasn’t worth her time to listen.

***

By late-morning, a lack of good wind and too much motoring from Hatteras to Ocracoke in the Pamlico, had led Skye to leave the relative safety of the sound and venture beyond the Outer banks for the high seas and stronger winds of the Atlantic Ocean. Despite the fact that they were heading into a portion of water nicknamed “The Graveyard of the Atlantic” due to the constantly-moving sandbars and shoals, in addition to powerful storms, Brooks had sailed the seas east of the Outer Banks many times without incident. In fact, he would have made the same decision in similar circumstances, so he supported this move without misgivings as she slipped through an inlet between Okracoke and Portsmouth Island and headed out into open seas. The skies were blue, the sun was high, and Brooks cheerfully raised the jib and main sail, enjoying the adrenaline rush as they picked up speed.

After five hours of maintaining racing speeds, however, the wind suddenly seemed to die. Looking out at the water, Brooks noted the calm, glassy surface, a chill running down his back.

Slowly turning around 180 degrees, Brooks withdrew his sunglasses and noted some dark gray clouds rolling up from the southeast.

“Skip,” he said to Skye, “I think you should go below and put on your foul weather gear.”

Skye’s brows furrowed at him like he was crazy.

“It’s like glass out here, Brooks,” she said, looking up at the dull, luffing main sail.

“Calm before the storm,” he said, gesturing behind her left shoulder.

She turned to look. “Damn it! Where’d that come from?”

“I don’t know,” said Brooks. “But it’s coming up fast and it doesn’t look good. And we’re definitely going to get nailed by it.”

Skye groaned, nodding for him to take the wheel. She went below and came back up ten minutes later, dressed in bright yellow slicker pants and a matching bright yellow jacket. She looked up at the sky again, where the approaching storm darkened by the minute, the winds just starting to whip. Maybe ten knots. Fifteen?

Brooks reached into a bench at the stern of the boat and pulled out a royal blue life jacket, then walked back toward Skye.

“You can’t be serious,” she deadpanned.

“Will it make you feel better if I wear one too?”

The wind was starting to howl and the loose sheets and sails were shuddering as the
Zephyr
started rocking more forcefully with the increasing swells.

“You think it’s going to be that bad?”

Brooks looked out at the approaching black sky, then into her blue eyes
. Yeah. Maybe.

He didn’t want to scare her so he shrugged, “Better safe than sorry?”

She snatched the blue jacket out of his hand, struggling into it while the rain started to pelt her. He reached for the vest and clicked one of the four belts closed, then kissed her salty lips quickly.

“Now you,” said Skye, her eyelashes wet as she looked up at him. “Go below and suit up.”

Brooks had already taken down both sails while she changed, but they still needed to be secured before raising the storm jib. He hurried below, pulling his red neoprene pants and jacket from his duffel. Slipping them on over his shorts and T-shirt, he zipped the duffel, stuffed it into the compartment under his bed and locked the compartment closed. He took everything off Skye’s bedside table and the bathroom vanity, locking up those items as well. Then he hurried back above deck to finish tying down the sails.

By the time he was topside, the sky was looking truly mean—black with grayish-white rolling clouds—and the water was dark as ink with stiff merengue-like peaks of white. They were definitely up to wind speeds of twenty-five or thirty knots now, and it didn’t show signs of letting up yet.

No stranger to flash storms over the ocean, Brooks knew they could last anywhere from ten minutes to an hour, but while they lasted, it was hard going for a skipper and his crew. He flashed a glance at Skye whose jaw was set with determination, her fingers claw-like around the ship’s wheel.

It was cold and the water was freezing as it whipped into his face, pin-like on his hands as he worked to secure the jib and mainsail. The wind roared through the loose sheets and sails, angry and whistling.

He fastened the storm bag to the genoa, took out the sheets and fastened the snap-shackle to a brass ring bolted into the deck floor.

“Keep the bow end-on into the waves!” he yelled at her as he walked back from the bow and hoisted the storm jib. “Don’t let them break over us!”

She arched an eyebrow and rolled her eyes at him before turning back to focus on the black, roiling sea ahead.

And despite the fact that he was on a small sailboat in the middle of a nasty storm, worried for himself, Skye and the cutter, Brooks grinned, chuckling lightly as he looked down at the line in his hands. She was facing one angry sonofabitch of a storm and still had the sass to roll her eyes at him.

“Damn, I love that woman,” he muttered, tying a soft shackle around the mainsail to secure it to the boom.

Wait.

What?

In the fierce howling of the storm, his brain repeated the words with soft, calm certainty:
I love that woman.
I love Skye. I love her.

His hands stilled over the knot he’d just made, trembling lightly as he stared down at the blue line holding the sail. The wind whistled sharply through the halyards and the secured sail fluttered as the wind picked up to a good thirty-five knots.

Skye was ten feet behind him, standing at the wheel, when he turned his head slowly to look at her—to look at the woman he’d just realized he loved. And the thing is? If he’d looked five seconds earlier, he might have been able to save her…but if he’d looked five seconds later, he might have lost her for good.

***

One minute Skye was standing at the wheel, trying to stay the course into the waves, which was not easy. The boat was being tossed in the violent sea, but when she looked up and saw the storm jib take a gust of wind, it spun the boat about and Skye lost her footing.

She slipped across the deck and her hip hit the deck railing with a painful thud she felt, but couldn’t hear over the waves and wind. Although her wet, slick hands scrambled for the slippery brass railing, the momentum of her body sliding across the deck made her instantly top heavy, and with the next big swell, she was catapulted over the side.

She felt herself fly into the rolling, freezing cold sea, her body submerging and her face covered by the black water. The life vest Brooks had insisted she wear lifted her to the surface a moment later, but she came up coughing and gasping, trying to keep her nose and mouth as high as possible while cold, furious waves crashed into her face. Sputtering and shocked, she looked for the
Zephyr
and found it about ten feet away, bobbing up and down in the heavy winds and wild water. Her trembling hands slid around the front of her vest and she struggled to clip another belt, trying desperately to keep her gaze on the boat as the waves threw her around mercilessly, casting salt water up her nose and into her eyes. She thought she saw Brooks struggle into a life vest and tie a red line to a cleat on the deck.

And then he did the unthinkable.

He ran to the railing, vaulted it and jumped in.

***

Brooks couldn’t remember ever feeling as horrified as he felt watching Skye get thrown off the side of the
Zephyr
. He screamed her name, watching her get tossed in the waves and knowing that the longer he waited, the farther she’d be pulled away. He also knew there was no guarantee he could maneuver the
Zephyr
close enough to her to pull her back on board—not with the unpredictability of the wind and waves—and he had no idea how long the storm would last. His only option was to tether himself to the boat, jump in and bring her back to safety himself.

The wind, which Brooks had estimated at a top speed of forty knots, wasn’t slowing yet, but it didn’t seem to be whipping up faster either, as though it had hit a plateau and the storm seemed to be moving pretty quickly, rushing north toward the shore.

He tied the knot quickly around his waist, cleated the line to the deck and jumped.

The water felt like knives as he hit the surface—cold, angry knives stabbing his bare hands and feet and face, and he gasped in pain, struggling toward her, thanking God for her life vest and bright yellow slicker.

The sea pushed him closer to her but pushed her farther away, and he yelled, “SWIM!” at the top of his lungs, stroking as fast as he could to get to her, hoping that her efforts would keep her from being thrown out of sight. Her eyes—when he saw them above the high swells—were frightened but determined, and with them both paddling as fast as possible, he was finally able to reach out and grab her hand, pulling her against his body.