“You look good, Rusty!” Emily grinned up at the fisherman. “The simple life agrees with you.”
Rusty had wild, unkempt hair the color of black cherries, and he wore dark foul-weather bib-and-brace pants with yellow suspenders that stretched over massive shoulders covered by an oatmeal-colored fisherman’s sweater. Seeing him standing there, smiling down at Emily, Dagan changed his mind about that Chicago Bears thing. Emily’s friend belonged on the cover of a Cabela’s catalog. He was the epitome of every rugged, wild seaman Dagan had ever seen.The rat bastard.
“Right back atcha, dollface.” Rat Bastard winked.
Dagan hopped off the Ducati and opened the seat to haul out his backpack. Shrugging into the shoulder straps, he turned in time to hear Emily say, “Well, don’t you all just stand there looking like wet weekends. Everyone, come meet Rusty Parker.”
“You’re American,” Christian said, shaking Rusty’s hand. His tone made the observation sound like an insult.
“Born and bred in Pittsburgh.” Rusty grinned. “But I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
Of all the things Christian was likely to hold against Rusty Parker, Dagan figured coming from Pennsylvania wasn’t one of them.
“When Emily said she had a fisherman friend who was willing to sail us across the Channel”—Ace shook Rusty’s hand—“I expected missing teeth, an eye patch, and a hook for a hand.”
Rusty’s rat bastard grin deepened, revealing a set of dimples. Unless Dagan’s ears deceived him, Chelsea sucked in an awed breath. Okay, and now he wasn’t just feeling possessive, he was feeling downright murderous. His hands curled into fists. To keep himself from using them, he shoved them deep into the pockets of his coat.
“I’m a cod fisherman, not a pirate.” Rusty chuckled.
“I don’t think I was thinking pirate as much as eye cabbage.” Ace tilted his head, eyeing Rusty up and down.
“Eye cabbage?” Rusty raised a brow.
“Opposite of eye candy,” Ace explained.
“Okay, that’s enough out ofyou, Romeo,” Emily cut in. “Let’s finish the intros and get moving. Dagan Zoelner.” She turned. “Meet Rusty Parker.”
Dagan had more than his fair share of calluses, but shaking Rusty’s hand was like grabbing hold of an old leather shoe. And if Dagan squeezed with a little more pressure than was strictly necessary, you wouldn’t know it by the impassive expression on Rusty’s face.
“And last but not least,” Emily said, “may I present Chelsea Duvall. The lady of the hour and the reason we need to bust ass across the Channel.”
Rusty’s big paw of a hand swallowed Chelsea’s. The asshole had the audacity to bend and kiss her knuckles. “Hello, Hot Cocoa,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
When Chelsea giggled—giggled, for God’s sake!—Dagan was hard-pressed not to rip her hand from the fisherman’s grip.
“Pleased to meet you.” Chelsea dipped her head demurely and looked at Rusty through the veil of her sooty lashes.
What’s that sound?Oh right. It was Dagan’s back molars being ground to dust.
“I don’t know about you, mate,” Christian whispered from the corner of his mouth after coming to stand close to Dagan’s side, “but I should think I hate him already.”
Dagan grunted his agreement as Chelsea gushed, “And thank you so much for doing this for us, Mr. Parker.”
“Please, call me Rusty.”
“Okay…Rusty,” Chelsea said in that husky sex-operator’s voice of hers.
Dagan had had all he could stand. “Yes, thank you, Rusty.” Why did it sound like he had been swallowing rocks? “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, let’s go. The longer we stay in this country, the more I feel the Earl Grey and incessant rain seeping into my bones, making them soggy.”
“You grow to love soggy bones after a while.” Rusty winked at him.
Like we’re best buds or some shit? Just because I didn’t pop you in the puss the moment you laid those filthy lips on my…Dagan wasn’t certain where he was headed with the rest of that thought, but whichever direction, he decided it was best to hang a swift left.
He found himself sorely tempted to challenge the fisherman to a wrestling match so he could…what? Prove to Chelsea that between the two of themhewas the better man?
Christ in a cardigan sweater!
“Come on, then.” Rusty motioned over his shoulder. “Grab your gear, and leave me the keys to the bikes. I’ll make sure they’re returned to the rental agency.”
