Against the Storm1 by Kat Martin Page B

you wander a little. Just don’t go too far.”
    “No problem.”
    Trace went to work, and she watched his easy, economical movements. No wasted effort, just do the job and get it done. There was a certain grace there, too. She wondered what he’d look like on the back of a horse, and thought he would probably look as if he’d been born there.
    Leaving him to his work, she climbed onto the dock and took some photos of the yachts in the marina. She wandered a bit, snapping a shot here and there: an old lady in a huge straw hat walking her little rust-colored Pekinese; two old men playing cards at a table next to the water; a little kid licking the biggest yellow-and-white rock candy sucker she had ever seen.
    She returned to the Ranger’s Lady, snapping photos along the way. When she reached the boat, she realized Trace must have been watching her the entire time she was gone. He was only doing his job, she reminded herself, nothing more. Which for reasons she couldn’t explain, she found mildly annoying.
    He helped her aboard, then went back to examining one of the lines that hoisted the sail.
    He had stripped off his cotton knit shirt and jeans, leaving him bare chested in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. With his back to her, she couldn’t help checking him out. His skin was a smooth golden-brown and rippling with muscle. His legs were long and corded. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere to be seen.
    She couldn’t resist a couple of shots of such a gorgeous man at work on his boat, but at the rhythmical click of the shutter, Trace turned. Broad, solidly muscled shoulders, a chest banded with sinew and lightly furred with dark hair, and a six-pack stomach…
    She felt that funny lift again, only a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “I guess you really were a Ranger.”
    He just shrugged. “There were times being in condition meant the difference between life and death.”
    “You’re not a Ranger now,” she reminded him.
    “Old habits die hard.” He lowered a pair of wraparound sunglasses over those whiskey-brown eyes. “You ready?”
    She looked at him standing there with his legs splayed, his gaze on the horizon, and had the oddest feeling he was as much a Ranger now as he ever had been. The breeze gusted just then, rattling the ship’s rigging. The Gulf stretched in front of them, blue and beckoning.
    “You bet I’m ready.”
    Trace tossed off the lines and Maggie settled herself on one of the blue canvas cushions. Rowdy took a place beside her. His ears perked up as the boat began to move, anticipation clear on his little doggy face. Trace manned the wheel and the boat eased away from the dock.
    “You’ll have to earn your keep, you know.” He flicked her a glance. “I’ll need you to bring up the fenders and tend the dock lines, maybe take a turn at the wheel. You’ll have to remember to duck when we come about, and of course you’ll need to watch for pirates.”
    She laughed, gave him a smart salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
    Trace grinned. They settled themselves for the trip, the hull slipping smoothly over the water until they reached the open ocean, then the wind picked up andthe boat heeled over. The stiff breeze tugged at Maggie’s curls, blowing them across her face, so she dragged the heavy red mane into a ponytail held in place with a small hair elastic.
    “I’ve been sailing only a couple of times,” she said. “I went out with a friend when I was in college.”
    “Michael Irving?” It was a casual question, yet she thought Trace had just morphed back into a detective.
    “A friend in my art history class. Her dad owned a forty-two-foot Catalina.”
    “Nice boat.”
    “Beautiful. So is yours. You really take good care of her.”
    Trace seemed pleased. “I do my best.” He leaned back in the seat behind the wheel, his dark glasses hiding his thoughts.
    The sun beat down so warmly she decided it was time to shed her own clothes. “I’m going to change. It’s just