“Nick. Ahoy there.” Harry turns allPirates of the Caribbeanwhenever he gets near any large body of water.
“Harry. Stella. Ms MacLeod. What a surprise.” My tone makes it clear it’s not a pleasant one.
“Well, we couldn’t leave Lulu slaving at the office while we’re out having a relaxing day on the water, could we?” Harry gives Lulu a one-armed hug.
“Oh, I don’t see why not.”
Stella looks up at me sharply, surprised by my dry tone, but doesn’t comment. “Nick, honey. How good to see you. It’s been too long.” Stella has known me all my life and treats me like a much-loved nephew, which I find somewhat confronting. I love it, but at the same time, it’s confusing since the emotional dynamic in my house growing up fell somewhere between a military boarding school and a gulag.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain,” Harry shouts, clambering onto the deck with very little grace and turning to help Stella. Which leaves me to help Lulu.
I stretch my hand across the small space between the dock and the deck. She slips out of her thongs and drops them into the bag on her shoulder before putting her hand in mine. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and for a moment, neither of us moves, eyes glued to our clasped hands, before she props a bare foot with pink painted toes on the edge of the deck and hoists herself up with little to no help from me.
“Thank you.” She lets go of my hand as if she’s been burnt as soon as she’s safely on deck.
“You’re welcome.” Which, of course, she isn’t. Not even a little bit. Especially not dressed like that. It’s an embarrassment waiting to happen. Which is entirely my fault since I can’t seem to control my reaction.
“Let me show you around …” Harry starts, putting his hand on the small of Lulu’s back and guiding her away from me along the deck.
For a moment, I’m transfixed by his hand, or rather, what is directly below. Finishing just under the curve of her arse, Lulu’s shorts are a hair’s-breadth from being indecent. The bottom of her floaty top doesn’t quite meet the top of her shorts, showing off a disturbing combination of skin and swimming costume. I take a swig of my water to ease my suddenly dry mouth and roll my eyes at the inappropriateness of her clothing. Yes, okay, we are on a boat. But this is a company function. I’m pretty certain everyone else will be more covered up than The Interloper. It’s irrelevant that not one of the other guests has a figure so worthy of the outfit. I can only hope the swimsuit doesn’t get a showing.
Before I can drag my stare away from the sight of her legs, Lulu glances over her shoulder. I can’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but the little smirk she gives me lets me know she caught me staring, red-handed.
I’m saved from further contemplation of Lulu’s legs by the arrival of a couple of the partners and their assistants, and sure enough, everyone is in sundresses and lightweight pants. For the next twenty minutes, there is a constant stream of people needing help onto the deck. At last, everyone is settled on the benches or the deck at the boat’s bow. Will and I cast off and motor out into the main channel through Pittwater. Once we’re in position, we put ourselves under sail.
There are no better sounds than the cry of a seagull, the flap of a sail, and the slap of water against the bow of a moving boat. All of life’s troubles seem insignificant when faced with the beauty and enormity of the wind and sea. Apart from the courtroom, this is my favourite place to be. Now, I have to share it with Lulu MacLeod. And her spectacular legs.
Chapter Twelve
Lulu
Theboatislikesomething out of an old Hollywood movie. I keep expecting Katharine Hepburn or Grace Kelly to appear on the smooth teak deck. All the modern conveniences, like satnav and sonar, are cleverly disguised in the classically designed boat. And the weather is as stunning as the boat. If only Nick the Confusing wasn’t on board. Not only on board, but apparently in charge. At least the mystery of why a lawyer has such deliciously calloused hands has been solved.
Nick seems at one with the boat, moving across the deck with perfect balance. Nick in a bespoke suit is a sight to behold. But today, he’s in dark blue longline board-shorts with a white t-shirt clinging shamelessly to his broad shoulders and setting off his tan to perfection. We’re all barefoot to protect the deck, and who knew there was such a thing as foot porn? Nick’s feet are long, strong and tanned, flexing as his neatly manicured toes grip the deck. I have to lick my lips to make sure I’m not drooling. I dare not look higher because a quick glance at his calves earlier suggested calf porn is also a thing. Lucky for me, he spends the morning steering the boat, so I’m able to avoid him.
Harry offers me a glass of sparkling wine but I decide to stick to water. I’m not much of a drinker. Ro says I’m a lightweight, and the last thing I need is to lower my inhibitions with Nick here in boardshorts and that clingy t-shirt.
Nick drops anchor in a secluded little bay protected by high sandstone cliffs. The calls of magpies and currawongs bounce and echo around the bay; the smell of the gums crowding the ridgeline mingles with the scent of salt and warmed teak decking. The water is smooth and glassy and so inviting. But it seems like I’m the only one aboard who wore a swimming costume, so I’m hesitant to jump in.
“I can see you eyeing off the water, Lulu.” Stella nods her head towards the sparkling blue. “If you have your swimmers on, go for it. Although I warn you, it’ll be cold.”
“Are you sure that’s okay? Nobody else is swimming …”
I don’t want to embarrass anyone. I might have underdressed a little for this crowd. But we’re on a boat for crying out loud. I knew the partners were stuffy in the office but had expected them to let their hair down, at least a little, on a sailing boat.
“Of course. I’d go in if it didn’t mean my hair would look like steel wool afterwards. It’s perfectly safe. I swim here all the time when Harry and I come here. Now’s the time. We’ll be serving lunch soon.”
I take her at her word and, a little self-consciously, slide my lace and linen top over my head and drop my shorts to the deck.
As I push off from the prow in a half-acceptable dive, I hear a splash from the stern of the boat. The water is cold on my sun-warmed skin. I dive deep, and as I break the surface with a gasp, I find myself almost face to face with Nick Pierce.
He looks no happier to see me than I am to see him. Giving me a silent glare, he drops his face into the water and, with powerful strokes, swims away as though being chased by the great white he sometimes reminds me of.
I refuse to let him ruin this glorious day for me, so I turn on my back, do a couple of lazy backstrokes, then let the gentle rise and fall of the water take me. I watch the shifting patterns on the inside of my closed lids, painted magenta and crimson and claret by the midday sun. Time ebbs and flows with the water until I hear the steady slap of swimming strokes coming closer.
“If you’re intending to swim back to the club, you’re headed in the wrong direction. Or perhaps it’s New Zealand you’re heading for?”
I flip upright and spin towards Nick’s voice. I hadn’t realised how strong the current was, or perhaps I’ve been floating longer than I thought, because the boat is a very long way off.
