“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?”

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.