A Bad Boy for Christmas (6 page)

First and foremost, he led.

But this, what had happened today, with the brother he never knew he had and the woman with the creamy skin and smart mouth and eyes that wanted things she couldn’t have … he wasn’t leading
any
of that. He was as helpless and cast adrift as everyone else.

Snarling, he pushed the bedsheet aside, left the berth and padded naked to the galley. Zoey kept coffee sachets in here these days, good ones that packed a punch. He fished a mug from the cupboard and bottled water along with it, got the water into the cup with the coffee, closed the microwave door and then swore a blue streak because he’d forgotten to hook the power up on the way in. How in hell had he managed to forget
that
?

Donning a pair of old sweatpants, he headed out to rectify the problem. At the last minute he picked up his mobile. It was daylight in the UK, may as well try his father again.

The old man picked up just as Cutter flipped the power switch.

“Hey, you beat me to it by about five minutes. How’s things?”

“Not great. Mum there?”

“She’s gone window shopping in Piccadilly. God help me. What’s up?”

Cutter didn’t know how to be anything other than blunt. “Someone came looking for you today. A man who goes by the name of Jackson Nash. Son of Elizabeth Nash, recently deceased. Ringing any bells?”

Nothing but a harshly indrawn breath from his father.

“Dad, he’s got my face.” Cutter heard his voice crack. “My frame. The same dumb habit of rubbing the back of his neck when he’s stuffed if he knows what to do next. If he’s got my temper we’re all screwed.”

“What was his name again?”

“Jackson Nash. He thinks you’re his father. I’d say that’s
pretty fucking obvious.
” Temper, temper. Cutter took a deep breath. “You need to come home, Dad, because people need answers—and I’m not just talking about him.”

“I—
fuck
.”

“Apparently you do. He was put in a foster home at four years old, this kid. Who does that? I swear to God, if you knew about him and did nothing to help him—”

“No!” his father bellowed. “You don’t get to think like that. No one should.”

“Then what happened?”

“Liza was before your mother. We had fun but the Bay wasn’t big enough to hold her.
End
of story.”

“For
you
.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me.”

“He’s two months older than me, Dad? What’d you do? Wait a whole day before you went from one bed to the next?”

“Don’t you judge me, son. Isn’t that what you do?”

“I don’t get them
pregnant
! God!” And he hadn’t gone so quickly from one woman to another in years.

“We’re talking thirty years ago and a time in my life I am
not
proud of. I need to talk to your mother.” His father sounded rattled. “She and Liza have history.”

“They were friends?”

“The opposite. Hard enough that I have a son I never knew about, but Liza’s child? God.”

“I’m sure Liza’s child would have liked some say in who his parents were too, but he didn’t get any. Are you listening to me? His mother tried to sell him for drugs when he was four.
Your
son. Our blood. That’s the kind of life he had.”

“I’m listening.”

“Dad, what do I do with him?”

“Just … keep him there, okay?”

“Where? Keep him where? In your house? In mine? What am I supposed to
do
with him?”

The long silence on the other end of the phone wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Finally his father spoke.

“I don’t know.”

Cutter hung up on him. It was that or explode.

T
he following afternoon
saw Cutter sleep deprived and sullen. Caleb had taken a group of divers out, Eli had driven up the coast to look at a new propeller system for a client, and Cutter was busy running out the trawl net on account of the great gaping mess they’d made of it last night. His favorite pair of fishing gloves were just about dead and the sun beat down on his shoulders, undoubtedly doing damage to his skin. He was thirty years old and no longer courted a summer tan the way he had at seventeen, and it was past time to put a shirt on. He would—just as soon as he got rid of the sweat on his skin.

Standing, he dropped his sunglasses, gloves and cap on the net and took a running jump off the end of the jetty.

Water encased him, cool and welcoming, and by the time he’d fooled around and made his way to the ladder his world was a little more bearable than it had been.

Right up until he saw the woman waiting for him.

“Get out of the sun,” he ordered before he could stop himself.

“And good afternoon to you too,” said Mia of the tiny yellow camisole and white pleated skirt. “Is your office here
ever
manned?”

“Yes.”

“By invisible sea urchins? Is it actually someone’s job?”

That would be a no. “Why? You looking for work?”

“I have work,” she said. “You’re looking at Beryl’s visiting tattoo artist. Monday, Wednesday and Saturdays by appointment. I’ve moved on from the pub. I’m staying in the rental above the tattoo emporium. Work for rent.”

“Nash too?”

“Nash too. Two rooms. Kitchen, living, dining and washing machine.
And
it’s clean. Home away from home.”

“For how long?”

“Couple of weeks. You reckon your father will be home by then?”

Hopefully, yes. But he hadn’t heard from his father since last night’s phone call.

Cutter walked over to the net, reached for his sunglasses and slipped them on. The brightness of the day dialed down a notch but for some reason Mia remained dazzlingly vivid. He headed for the shade cast by the boatshed, hoping she’d follow.

She did.

“Where’s your brother?” he asked.

“Sifting through the scrap metal car yard we saw on the way into the bay yesterday.”

“He drop you off here?” Because the wreckers was on the other side of town, half way to Box Beach.

“Course not. It’s in the other direction.”

Cutter waited for more information but she smiled instead. Finally he bit. “So how are you getting around?”

“I borrowed a bike from Beryl.”

“Not the Indian.” Beryl had a rare vintage motorbike that she cosseted like a baby.

“Of course not. Have you
seen
that thing? Even Nash started genuflecting. I borrowed an old pushbike from her to get here.”

It was a ten-kilometer ride, at least. He looked at her teeny tiny skirt, opened his mouth to make a comment and ended up reconsidering. Who said having sisters-in-law hadn’t taught him anything? “Right. Good exercise. So …”

She smiled back at him.

“This is where you tell me why you’re here,” he prompted.

“Oh!” She took her time looking him over. From his brown bare feet to the hair he still hadn’t shaken the water out of yet. He’d had a lot of women look him over in his time and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. With her it was different. He didn’t want her to be attracted to the physical. Heaven help him he wanted her to be attracted to what was underneath.

“Missed my cue,” she said.

“Mia—” He was too tired for games, and that was saying something.

“Just wondering if you’ve spoken to your father yet.”

Yeah. That. “That really your question to ask?”

A shrug of slim shoulders drew attention to them. “I concede that Nash is in a better position to ask it. He figures you’ll get back to him. He’s not as impatient as I am.”

“Wouldn’t be hard.”

She lifted her pretty little hipster sunglasses to eye him coolly. Cutter kept his shades on and his smile just shy of mean, because challenge was the only way he could deal with an attraction he couldn’t
act
on. “I spoke to my father. He remembers Liza Nash. Doesn’t know squat about her having a son.”

“He’s denying involvement?”

“I didn’t say that. He wants Nash to stick around until he gets home.”

“And when’s that going to be?”

“Don’t know. He was going to speak to my mother about it. There’s more than just me feeling threatened by this, Mia. It’s a Jackson family apocalypse.”

“Aren’t you exaggerating just a bit?”

“No.” He was getting dangerously close to losing his temper all over again. “Lady, I’m tired. The shape of my world changed yesterday and there is nothing I can do about it—nothing I can fix—and nor is it something that’s ever going to wash away on the tide. Meanwhile, I’m doing the work I was born to, captaining the trawler, making it safe for the people I work with. As soon as I finish this net I’m heading home to grab a feed and get some sleep so that I can rise before the tide and make good on that promise all over again. Hopefully I’ll find time in the not-too-distant future to run out the welcome mat for long-lost relatives. Sunday at the BBQ, there’s a date already set. Or maybe on the way home I’ll ring Nash and tell him what my father—
our
father—said. Right now, though? Not a priority.”

“Fair enough.” She glanced towards the trawler. “What’s wrong with the net?”

“The headline’s jagged.”

“Need some help?”

“You don’t even know what a headline is.”

“I know it’s a mess. C’mon.” She had a beguiling smile, when it wasn’t sharp with nefarious intent. “You’re tired, I’m here, and I’m assuming it’ll straighten out faster with someone at each end.”

That wasn’t the point.

“Besides, I’m bored,” she said. “This way I get to check out a commercial fishing rig. You never know when I might need to draw one.”

“Never.”

“Please? I’ll be helpful. I’ll even take orders.”

“That so?”

“Yes.” It was a very firm yes. “And I’ll be silent, I can be silent. I’ll
prove
it.”

This was why sisters were a bad idea. There was no defense against them.

“You’re going to need a hat, and sunscreen for all that …” Undeniably beautiful skin. He waved his hand in her general direction before heading into the boatshed. When he returned, he held out one of Zoey’s wide brimmed hats, complete with tulle-wrapped brim and seaweed and cuttlefish accessories. “This is one of Zoey’s creations,” he said, lest she think it was one of his. “It’s an original. She’s very talented.”

She took it and looked closer. “Is that—?

“The bleached bones of an unfortunate flathead? Yes.”

She jammed the hat on her head and he handed her a shirt next, in lieu of sunscreen. Sunscreen would involve touching and touching was a bad idea when it came to this woman. The shirt was one of his, a long-sleeved red-and-gray flannelette button up. Didn’t even smell of fish.

She put it on and with a sigh started rolling up the sleeves until they sat somewhere in the vicinity of her wrists. She looked like a disgruntled street urchin.

Perfect.

But there was still something missing. He headed for Caleb’s scuba gear selection and found what he wanted. When he turned back around, gloves in hand, she was right behind him, eyeing the row of dive suits racked and waiting for use.

“So who does what around here?” she asked.

“Aren’t you
not
talking?” He held out the gloves and she took them with narrowed eyes, and then she spotted Caleb’s whiteboard and picked up the marker that went with it.

Music?
, she wrote.

“That can be arranged.”

Beer?
, she wrote next.

“You’re like the perfect woman, only not.”

He was pretty sure that finger she gave him was on account of her struggling to get her gloves on. He’d given her one of the thickest, smallest pairs they had. The nets were hard on hands. No point damaging her. Although he might. “You’re not a crier, are you? No criers allowed on my boat.”

“You are so cute when you’re scared.”

She’d started talking again. Maybe he should point this out.

“Can you swim?” he asked instead. Probably best to know this before he dropped her overboard.

“Yes.”

“Can you swim well?”

“Possibly not while clothed in all of this. Are you sure all this is necessary in order to help you untangle a net?”

“I’m sure.” His reasoning was sound. Protect the skin, protect the hands. Make her look less fetching so he could concentrate on the task at hand.

Wasn’t working, that last one.

He went to Eli’s work computer and redirected a lazy rock playlist through the outside party speakers. He fetched beers for them and tried not to stare as she set it to her lips and took a long pull. She’d ridden here and it was hot.

He’d offer water next.

She walked beside him to the trawler, hat bobbing and flannel flapping, and she listened and followed directions when they started in on the net. He gave her the kind of run down on trawling that his father and grandfather had once given him. The kind he’d always imagined giving his own kids one day.

And if his body lit up whenever she brushed past him or their gloves met, and if her smile came fast and free and she seemed to genuinely enjoy working with him, he did his damnedest to damp down his own enjoyment in favor of appreciating the sun on his back and the capricious breeze drifting in off the ocean.