Kimber Chin

Unsettled by her wayward thoughts, Emily automatically put the yacht into forward gear, turned the steering wheel hard toward the dock, and slowly increased the speed. This, driving a boat, she was comfortable with.

“Wait! No!” Vince called out, running toward her, hands outstretched. “Let me do it!”

“No need.” She’d done this many times with smaller vessels. The stern swung clear of the dock.

“Que demonios? What the hell?” He paused, hands on hips, shaking his head. She grinned at his puzzlement. She was no dainty fairy princess.

He was no Prince Charming. He scowled at her before turning to cast off the bow line. She backed out slowly. “How did you learn to drive?” As he returned to her side, she relinquished the wheel. They passed each other, their bodies brushing, the friction more than physical. “Your dad has a yacht?”

“I wouldn’t call it a yacht.” Not like the dazzling white luxury vessel they were in now. “More like a boat. My dad’s a fireman. My mom stays at home.” They were solidly middle class. She was solidly middle class.

“My mom was a teacher.” Vince squinted against the sun, staring straight ahead at the horizon.

Was a teacher. Was she retired? Or had she died? “My sister is a teacher.” Vince manned a yacht. She was a painter. “We’re all simple people, aren’t we?” He grunted a response. She leaned against the console, looking backward. These women were not simple people. Martika flicked a gold lighter, watching the flame dance in the wind. Viola lay in the sun in a white bikini, typing on a handheld. Bess, in her designer jeans and mint condition cowboy boots, rummaged through the fridge.

“What’s your boss like?” How would he react to his error? She should have known her invitation was one, this offer being too good to be true. But even if she’d known, she might have chanced it, the enticement of a once in a lifetime all expense paid trip to a tropical paradise hard to resist.

“Boss?”

“Mr. Medina.” Rafael Medina was a reclusive billionaire, a man so wealthy he could fly three of the top landscape artists in to paint his home. And her, he flew her in. “Will he be angry that he made a mistake?”

“Rafael Medina does not make mistakes.”

“Oh.” Since he clearly had, the business tycoon was going to be very, very angry. Emily studied the group of artists. They were all landscape artists, all female, all gorgeous. “Why women? There are some superb male artists.”

“Perhaps he likes beautiful things.” Vince shrugged.

She was not beautiful. A generous man may call her pretty but never beautiful. Emily groaned. This was a disaster. Rafael Medina, a man priding himself on never making an error, was expecting a beautiful, talented Emily White.

Once she faced the man, she’d be humiliated and then sent home. That fate she couldn’t avoid. Emily straightened her shoulders. What she could do was make the most of this trip. Three of the best landscape artists in the world were in the yacht. She’d be a fool to let that opportunity slip by.
“Will you be okay?” She placed her hand on his toned bicep.
He grunted again, sliding a semi-hostile glance at her without turning his head.

Emily took that as a ‘yes.’ “I should say ‘hi’ to everyone else.” She patted his arm. It was solid muscle. “Thanks for… well… thanks.” She took a deep breath and wandered to the stern.

“Hi. I know who all you are. Who wouldn’t know? I mean you’re Miss Martika, Miss Bing, Miss McLean.” Neither Martika nor Viola acknowledged her. Bess’ smile was wide.

“Call me Bess, hon,” the redhead purred in a slow southern drawl. “You have a little something.” She tapped her forehead.

Emily swiped a hand over her skin and looked down. Her fingers were black with charcoal. She’d sketched that orchid in the airport lobby using charcoal hours ago. She frowned at the back of Vince’s head as she rubbed the spot. She must have looked ridiculous yet he hadn’t said anything.

“You got it all, hon.”

She dropped her hand. “Thank you, Bess.” Emily swallowed. She’d try this again. “Like I said, I know you. You don’t know me though. I’m Emily White, like the color.” She was babbling, she was aware of that, but she couldn’t stop. She was so nervous.

“White not color,” Martika clipped. “Absence of color.”

“Yes, thank you, oh voice of doom.” Bess rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind her, hon. It’s an artist joke.” Emily opened her mouth to say she was an artist too but then closed it again. She wasn’t, not truly, not like these women were. “That captain of yours is one huge hunk of a man.”

He wasn’t her captain. She should tell Bess that also but she didn’t. She didn’t know what to say, her mind an alarming blank.

“We’re here to work, Bess, not hit on the help, no matter how hunky that help is.” Viola glanced up from the tiny screen. Her eyes were a violet so shocking they couldn’t be real.

“Bah, you’re always working, Vi. A girl has to find inspiration somewhere.” Bess winked at Emily. “Not that you need worry, hon. It’s only another artist joke. I like my men more civilized.”

“By civilized, she means wealthy.” Viola tapped on the tiny keyboard. “No reception? How can there be no reception?”

“Take a breather, Vi. I’m sure Medina has wi-fi.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” The blonde threw her handheld down, picking up her camera.

“The artist’s curse.” Bess rolled her eyes. “You can enjoy this beautiful day, hon. We have to capture it for all posterity.”

Emily should say something. Her hands twisted in her long cotton skirt. “I paint.”

Martika groaned. Viola smirked. Bess blinked.

“Do you now?” Bess was the first to recover, employing the same voice Emily’s sister used with her seven year olds. “Well, that’s just swell. Does our captain model for you?”