Kimber Chin

“There’s been some sort of mistake.” Emily peered up at the man blocking the bright Caribbean sun. The behemoth introduced himself as the yacht’s captain and held himself with the rigid authority of a navy man, yet he dressed like a beach bum, sporting rumpled shorts, a faded t-shirt and a scruffy black beard.

He checked the paper attached to his clipboard. “You are not Emily White?” A Spanish accent softened the curt question.

“I’m a Emily White, not the Emily White.” It was a common name. Yes, that was what happened. She glanced toward the sport fishing yacht, having immediately recognized the passengers. Someone mixed her up with a more qualified artist. “I don’t belong here.”

“You do not paint?” His gaze flicked to her forehead before lowering to hold hers. Emily sucked in her breath. His eyes were stunning, a piercing emerald green. “Miss White?” he prompted impatiently.

“Emily,” she corrected. She lived in a small town. No one called her Miss White. “And not like they paint.” His darkening countenance warned her she only had minutes to explain. “That’s Viola Bing.” The gorgeous blonde held a light meter in one hand, a camera in the other. “She has work in the Louvre.” Not one piece, she had two paintings hanging there. “The woman with the dark hair and purple highlights is Martika. The Hermitage asked her to do a special showing.” It sold out immediately, the rich and famous flying in for the red-carpeted affair. “Bess McLean has a painting hanging in the White House.” Rumors were Buckingham Palace also had a Bess McLean, a gift from the American President. “Then, captain, there’s me.”

He examined her from sandaled feet to wind blown hair. Emily examined him as closely. Although she didn’t normally paint people, preferring untouched wilderness as a subject matter, she had the irresistible urge to paint him. His face consisted of fascinating contrasts, with the poorly maintained beard, the tanned high cheekbones, those keenly intelligent eyes, and surprisingly short hair.

“Then there’s you.” He ruthlessly severed the fragile connection between them.

Because he hadn’t felt it. She mentally shook herself. The attraction was all in her head. “I’m Emily White.” She stuck out her hand.

“Vince.” He gripped it, his palm warm and callused.

“Vince,” she repeated. Vince from the Latin origin vincere meaning ‘to conquer.’ The name suited him. “My biggest showing has been at Pips Corner Primary School.” That large turnout was due to her exhibition being scheduled on parent/teacher night.

“But you do paint.” He held onto her hand, caressing her knuckles, sending shivers of awareness cascading down her body. “And there is no other Emily White here.” He looked to his left and right. “So you will come with us.” As though that was decided, he picked up her backpack. “Anything breakable in here?”

“No, it is-” Before she could finish her thought, he tossed it in. He was determined to take her and she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go for the boat ride. Mr. Medina, once he found out, would send her straight back but at least she could see his private island and a bit more of the Caribbean. “If there are lockers, we could leave my painting supplies here,” she suggested. That’d be easier than loading it all.

“It all comes.” He hefted another duffle, followed by her easel. She passed him her beat up tackle box. “You fish?” he asked.

“My paints are inside.” Her face heated, aware that the other painters, the more professional painters, must have boxes especially designed for their tubes. “It was my dad’s. He got a new one so…” She placed her foot on the edge of the yacht.

“I fish.” Big hands wrapped around her waist. He lifted her easily, the vessel tilting slightly as he set her down, their bodies sliding together. “I’ll take you out later in the week.”

“If I’m still here, I’d like that.” Emily tilted her head back, her hands on his chest, her curves flattened against his hard form. She felt tiny in his embrace, like a dainty fairy princess. He was her Prince Charming, a man larger than real life. They’d kiss and live happily ever after. What would that be like, to kiss him? She licked her lips and his eyes darkened. Would his beard be rough against her skin? She swayed toward him. His mouth neared hers.

Metal clanged against metal. A woman cursed. They weren’t alone. Vince was a stranger. What was she doing? Emily stepped away.

“Thank you, captain.” She smiled nervously at the others. Bess smiled back, her freckled face friendly. Viola lay over a chest at the stern, taking photographs of the clouds. Martika flicked her cigarette ashes into the turquoise sea. They must know each other, the art world supposedly small, yet none of them spoke.

She should join them, break that strained silence, but that would leave the captain alone. Emily hovered by Vince as he warmed up the engine.

“Is there anything I can help with?” The slight wind made casting off without a crew difficult.

“Hold this steady.” He tapped the steering wheel.

She slipped between him and the controls. For a moment, his chest pressed against her back, his tanned arms were around her. She breathed in, smelling sea and salt and man. Would he taste like that also?

“You got it?” His breath warmed her ear.

“Aye aye captain,” she squeaked.

He grinned, a flash of white teeth in a dark face. “Good.” He moved to the back of the yacht, reaching over, bending to cast off the stern line, his shorts pulling tight against his sculpted rear.

Emily appreciated the human body. During her studies, she had painted many nude models, both male and female. She recognized the beauty of lean, hard muscles. But she had never felt an urge to undress a man, until now.