The Captain of All Pleasures

Nicole trailed a lazy finger on the wall as she made her way into the storage hold of Derek Sutherland's ship.

She walked over to inspect the shining silver barrels of water. Sutherland had so many advantages over them. But that would make the win that much sweeter, she assured herself as she turned—and collided with Sutherland's unyielding chest.

“Going somewhere?” He gripped her arm and raked his eyes over her. “What the hell are you doing down here? And do not think of lying to me!”

Think…think! How long had he been standing there? “I lost my way back from the head,” she replied in a credibly even tone.

“And I'm supposed to believe that?” Exhaling loudly, he placed a palm above her against the wall. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I wasn't doing anything wrong,” she pleaded. “I really got lost.”

When he searched her face, she met his gaze. His eyes were flecked with blue and were…mesmerizing. So intent, so dark, that she wanted to kiss his eyelids and then the harsh line between his brows before moving down to those chiseled lips.

She could see his expression race from anger to something else entirely. He murmured, as if in resignation, “Damn you,” and then without any notice, he bent down and covered her lips in a brutal kiss….

My deepest gratitude to my editor, Lauren McKenna, who gave me the opportunity of a lifetime. And thank you, Helena Valentin, for understanding all the work that goes into a novel (even before you had to critique it!). Many thanks go out to my wonderful writing group, Teresa Brown, Lori Johnson, and Karen Potter. The book and I are better since I've met you.

One ship drives east and another drives west

With the selfsame winds that blow.

'Tis the set of sails,

And not the gales,

That tells us the way to go.

—E
LLA
W
HEELER
W
ILCOX

N
icole Lassiter's first tingle of alarm came the moment she stepped inside the squalid tap house and its fetid warmth rushed over her face.

Silence blanketed the den as the patrons inside took her measure, sensing she was out of place in the prostitute-laden tavern. She hadn't dressed to attract notice. She wore boys' pants and a shirt under an unadorned cloak. A hat covered most of the bright hair she'd prodded under it. Still they stared.

Her breath shuddered out. She was here on a mission to find Captain Jason Lassiter, Nicole reminded herself. And now that she'd arrived alone, she would merely have to do her best not to get killed. With an upcast chin and an offhand gaze, she plowed through the throngs of roughnecks peopling the tavern. The tinny music from a badly tuned fiddle at last resumed.

Obviously, the information she'd received pertaining to Lassiter's whereabouts was mistaken; her father would never come to a place like this, a place where sailors found “company” before they shipped out. When a deckhand had told Nicole where her father was, she'd assumed the Mermaid had gone under new, less nefarious management since she'd been away.

This was certainly not the case. One last sweep over the place, and then she could go back and throttle the deckhand for his prank. One last—

Her father was here.

With a heavily painted light-skirts hanging all over him.

At least, part of her hung over him. Breasts like two hemispheres of a globe perched on the tight line of her bodice, threatening to free themselves with each of her throaty laughs. And Lord help her, Nicole thought as her face screwed up in shrinking expectation, the woman laughed
a lot
.

Nicole marched toward him through a gauntlet of human sweat, gin-spiked breath, and loose, unlaced bodies. At the sight of her, her father's jaw dropped and then snapped closed, bulging at the sides.

Here we go….
Jason Lassiter was a fearsome-looking man when angered. His eyes became wild and his face flushed to match his red beard and hair. That she hadn't forgotten. But she had minimized how angry he would be when she'd decided to come here tonight. There was no choice. She was running out of time.

She proceeded with a pained, set smile until she stood before him.

“Nicole,” he ground out between his teeth, “what in the hell are you doing here?”

Her gaze flickered over the whore's rouged nipples, boldly cresting her bodice. Rolling her eyes, Nicole retorted, “Just what in the hell are
you
doing here?”

With some muffled words and a pat on the woman's arm, her father shooed the prostitute away, then sharply motioned for Nicole to sit. “I came here looking for information,” he answered brusquely.

“Ohhh,” she said as she gave him a frown of disbelief. “Is that what they're calling it now?”

“That's
clever,”
he replied with thick sarcasm, absently raising his mug. Nicole wrinkled her nose at the dented and grimy container. He looked in it, frowned, then placed it well away from him. “I'd planned to meet a man here who knows about the sabotage. It happens that he's connected with that woman.” With a slightly wounded look, he added, “You know me better than that.”

Nicole nodded grudgingly and gave him a small, apologetic smile. It lasted only seconds before she became serious at the mention of sabotage. Sailing in these times was perilous enough, with captains setting speed records and shipbuilders fearlessly pushing new designs. Masts rigged to snap and rudders set to be lost in the first heavy storm made it deadly.

“Tell me you have some idea who's doing this,” she said. Her father's shipping line hadn't been targeted—yet—but he'd decided to take the offensive.

“I'm finally getting some good leads,” he said in a manner that closed the subject. “Now, what in God's name are you doing here?”

“Well. I've been thinking…” But as she started the speech she'd rehearsed during her trip from Paris, with all her reasons why she should sail with him in the upcoming Great Circle Race from London to Sydney, the doxy appeared again, sidling up to her father. Giving Nicole a nasty look, she began a provocative whispering in his ear.

Her father wasn't sending the woman packing anytime soon, and Nicole wasn't about to watch their murmured conversation. Turning from them, she dropped her chin onto the back of her chair and settled in to watch all the British tars and explicitly dressed women while they “mingled.”

The earthy scenes had her wide-eyed. She imagined these sights would only add fodder to her late-night dreams, dreams in which a dark, faceless man…did things to her. Things that she'd seen between couples on the quay. She sighed. What would she dream tonight…?

A loud thud shook her from her musings, and her gaze turned to the front door as three men marched in out of the cold.

They wore expensive and tastefully cut clothes, marking them as gentlemen.
Drunken gentlemen,
she amended as she got a better look at them. These were jaded high-steppers out for a night of cheap drink and even cheaper debauchery. Well, they'd come to the right place.

Although the men didn't attract nearly the interest that she had on her own entrance, the tavern quieted upon their arrival. Probably because the largest man was massive—over six feet and obviously well built in his tailored clothing.

But that wasn't what drew her awareness. No, it was the air of menace, seething and palpable, that reverberated in him. Even when he sat down with his long legs stretched out in front of his chair, his guise relaxed, she sensed a latent tension in him. The others sensed it, too. The parties of seamen, the crimps, the colorful doxies acted like skittish animals when forced to walk past his table.

He was the only one of the three men not noticeably inebriated, and strangely enough, when his eyes flicked over the room, a look like disgust lit his face. Why would he come to a place that offended him?

Then, as if her curiosity had drawn his attention, the man turned his intense gaze on her. After a second, his eyes narrowed. She sucked in a breath and knew: He saw through her disguise! Looked past the boys' clothes and somehow made her feel bare before him.

When the look in his eyes changed to show blatant appreciation, all rational thought evaporated like fog baked away under a southern sun. Her dark imaginings sputtered and lurched to life once more.

He looked at her as though she were the only woman in the room, a room thick with willing, half-naked women. What if she were one of them, and he called for her? What would it be like to straddle him, to envelop him in pied skirts as he absently drank, pinching and petting her bare skin beneath?

That feeling from her dreams returned—the unnamed response that felt like fear, surprise, and hunger battling inside her belly.
He
caused it now. It strengthened as his heated gaze ran over her.

“I see you've noticed Captain Sutherland,” her father cut in dryly.

Nicole jerked her eyes away, her face heating furiously. But then the name sank into her muddled mind: Sutherland, the dissolute captain of the
Southern Cross,
the owner of the now failing Peregrine Shipping line—and her father's most bitter enemy.

“That's
Derek Sutherland?”
she asked in hushed amazement, staring at her father in wonder. The idea that he continually crossed this lethal-looking man was cause to make her alternately cheer his bravery and question his sanity.

“The one and only,” he said as he stood. Bidding his doxy good night, he motioned impatiently for Nicole to follow him. “Looks as though we'll be leaving.” Her father's face turned fierce. “Because if he keeps staring at you like that, I'll have to make good on my threats and kill the bastard.”

As she followed him through the crowd, some urge goaded her to glance back at Sutherland. She gave in to the temptation, only to find his eyes on her.

Watch
was too tame a word for what he did—his gaze roamed over her in a proprietary manner that defied her to walk away from him.

But she would.

Such an intriguing-looking man, despite his deeply lined countenance. What a waste, she mused acidly as she turned away.

Seconds later, long, strong fingers encircled her wrist. She knew it was Sutherland even before she turned and their eyes locked. His flesh was hot on hers—his hand was callused.

“Stay,” he said simply.

From his manner, she got the impression he expected her to do just that. Did he think all he had to do was command her? The arrogance! So why did she find herself fighting a very real desire to remain?

“Take your hand off me, Captain.”

When he didn't, she twisted her arm out of his grasp. In response, he gave her a mocking half-bow. How could he be so unconcerned? How could he seem bored when attraction fired hot and swift within her? Angered, she gave him a forbidding glare. “Nonchalance, Captain? How indifferent will you be when you lose the Great Circle Race by, say…” she tapped her cheek, “…a thousand miles?”

She could have sworn she saw the corners of his lips curl up before her father returned to yank her away.

“Damn it, Nicole, when will you learn?” he demanded before the toe of her boot had touched the refuse-strewn street. “Walking into the Mermaid as if you owned it! Hell, it's because of men like Sutherland that you shouldn't be in a place like that.”

“I've been in worse,” she countered as he anxiously led her away.

“But to attract
Sutherland
's attention and then antagonize him?” He threw another look over his shoulder. “It's as if you're drawn to trouble.”

“Well, trouble and I do go way back,” she said between short breaths as she struggled to keep up with her father. He twisted around and frowned at her before slowing his progress down the quay. “If he's such a bad man, then for God's sake, why do you go out of your way to cross him?”

“I have my reasons for plaguing Sutherland. Good reasons. Besides, he's
British.”
The look Lassiter gave her said he'd explained what should be obvious to anyone with American blood in them.

“Mama was British,” Nicole pointed out, even though they'd been through this again and again.

“She was the only one of this whole lot I ever respected.” His eyes betrayed much more than simple respect for his late wife. Laurel Banning Lassiter had been a noblewoman of English birth, whose memory was never far from their minds.

His voice hardened again as he looked at her. “That man is a wastrel and a brute and you're to have nothing to do with him. He'd use you and throw you away without so much as a good-bye. Especially since he knows I'm connected to you in some way.” He paused, then added starkly, “If he realizes you're my daughter, I can't imagine what the cold-blooded bastard will do.”

They walked on in silence, Nicole quiet as she thought about Sutherland. She didn't think it likely he'd recognize her since she took after her mother and bore little resemblance to her father—except perhaps a reddish tint to her hair. And, of course, in attitude.

“I don't think he'll even remember me in the morning,” she finally assured him, though secretly, perversely, the idea displeased her. “After all, he'll most likely get drunk tonight.”

Her father grunted. “Not so drunk that he'd forget you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, steering her around the ship debris speckling the docks. “But enough of that devil. Why aren't you in school?”

When she looked away, he asked in a voice laced with resignation, “You got thrown out again, didn't you?”

Nicole gave a delicate cough. “My leaving was mutually agreed upon.” He scowled, striding on, and she added under her breath, “To the great glee of my headmistress.”

When they approached the dockside that berthed her father's ship, the
Bella Nicola,
a rush of emotion brought the sting of tears to her eyes. A striking clipper with a sharp navy hull and jaunty white and red accents, it stood out among the hulks in the harbor as a diamond would amidst coal.

This is my home.
She'd longed to be back aboard and had missed the ship as though she were a friend. Her breath hitched, but she didn't want her father to notice her missish reaction. To mask it, she commented in an airy tone, “Really, Father, I don't understand why you're still fuming at me.”

“Don't understand?” he asked. “How did you expect me to react when you've been dismissed from the finest finishing school on the Continent? Pleased?”

“It really wasn't a dismissal like the other schools,” she replied, warming to the subject. “I choose to call it a ‘conclusion.' ”

“Well, if this is you after your
conclusion,”
—he turned her to survey her hair-stuffed cap and boys' trousers—“your grandmother should demand her money back.”