First Kiss before Frost

Jennifer Bernard

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

Also by Jennifer Bernard

One

Usually, Tristan Del Rey slept better on his boat than anywhere on land, including his own bed. Something about the way the waves gently cradled the Desperado made him drop off to sleep like a thirty-pound anchor. He and his boat had been through so much together—storms, accidents, breakdowns. He trusted his steel-hulled, thirty-five-foot Hansen more than he trusted most people.

By the same token, the slightest shift in the wind or the currents could bring him wide awake in no time. That was his part of the bargain. His boat kept him safe and he kept his boat safe. It was a perfect relationship. Nothing and no one could come between him and the Desperado.

But tonight, something was off. He kept tossing and turning on the narrow bunk where he usually slept so soundly. The familiar harbor night sounds—the lap of water against the floats, the sleepy cries of the occasional seagull, the clank of rigging—weren’t lulling him to sleep. It was too still, maybe that was the problem. Not a single breath of wind stirred in the harbor. Flat calm, it was. The Desperado might as well have been in dry dock.

Or maybe the problem was the damn cruise ship docking overnight in Lost Harbor. Especially this one. The Northern Princess always brought trouble, at least according to local superstition. Last time it had stopped in Lost Harbor, a 6.2 earthquake had struck. The time before that, a summer storm had blown the roof off the Eagle’s Nest Resort.

Generally, the cruise ships didn’t even stay overnight. They used the nighttime hours to make their way to their next stop, like illuminated cities gliding across the dark ocean. He’d crossed paths with them occasionally, catching the sounds of music and parties drifting across the water as the Desperado chugged to the deepwater fishing grounds.

But tonight, the Northern Princess was waiting out a storm in the Gulf, which meant Lost Harbor was a sitting duck for whatever cursed trouble it might cause. The ship temporarily increased the population of Lost Harbor by almost one third. What if a bunch of the passengers decided to leave their own parties and descend on Lost Harbor’s tiny collection of restaurants and bars? Under normal circumstances, that would be great, but with the Northern Princess, who knew?

Giving up on sleep, he rolled out of his bunk and dragged his ass into the immaculate galley of his boat. He prided himself on how orderly he kept the Desperado. Most fishermen were like that; while you were busy hauling in a net in thirty-foot seas, you needed to know exactly where everything was. If the weather got nasty and you had to batten down the hatches, same thing. One improperly stowed line could trip you up and send you sliding off the icy decks into the lethally cold water.

Not that any of that was going to happen on a peaceful September night in the harbor.

He put on the kettle to make himself a cup of tea. His last girlfriend had left a selection of loose herbal teas onboard, stowed in double Ziploc bags. One of them was supposed to help her sleep. He rummaged through the selection of plastic bags until he found the one with all the Zzzz’s written on it.

Thank you, Mandy.

And then, as he scooped tea leaves into the tea ball, Sorry it didn’t work out. I warned you I was a bad bet.

As he waited for the water to boil, he tuned into the other noises. He was so connected to his boat that a kind of sixth sense usually alerted him to any problems. But everything sounded normal. Was something going on outside, in the harbor? Or was he fucking losing it?

He touched the side of his head, under his bandana, where the hair was still growing out. What if his surgery had changed something about his brain? Made him hear things that weren’t there? Worry about things that didn’t exist?

Dr. Ian Finnegan had assured him that it wasn’t possible. Actually, he’d said “highly unlikely,” and Tristan had noted the distinction.

“In medicine, we can never say anything as an absolute,” Ian had said. “Especially in neurology. The human brain, and humans in general, are too complex.”

“I’m not. I’m a simple fisherman.”

“Chrissie disagrees.”

Yeah, he didn’t love the fact that his brain surgeon was engaged to his high school girlfriend. But he’d gotten used to it.

“At any rate, it’s not the point,” Ian had continued. “All brains are complex, and of course there’s an emotional and psychological component too. Have you been going to the support group meetings?”

At that point, Tristan had quickly ended the appointment. He had gone to a few meetings, but when he tried to talk, everything got jumbled up in his mind. The accident. The surgery. Divorce. So on and so forth. Why should he dump all that onto a bunch of other Lost Harbor residents who’d known him all his life? He was Tristan Del Rey, son of Victor Gammelgaard, the most respected fisherman in Misty Bay. He didn’t want to reflect badly on his father. Best to keep everyone out of his business.

The whistle of the teakettle startled him out of his reverie. He poured boiling water into his favorite onboard mug—the one with the wide felted base and handle shaped like a whale tail—and headed for the deck. Three stair steps separated the belowdecks from the working deck, but he was able to take them in one long stride.

On deck, mug in hand, he surveyed the quiet harbor, seeking out the source of the strange off-kilter something that was keeping him awake at three in the morning. This late in the season, the harbor was only half full. The summer crowd had hauled their boats out of the water. Some of the fishermen had already ended their seasons. Their boats were either at the boatyard where they could work on them over the winter, or tucked under protective tarps in their yards.

Some hardcore sailors lived on their boats year-round. Tristan spotted a puff of smoke from Pedro Davila’s boat. Two ramps away, a few night owls were having a beer and a smoke on the deck of the Maggie Mae. He inhaled the light scent of tobacco, which he loved smelling on the water, but despised in close quarters.

So far, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. The nearly full moon gave the boats and the water a silvery glow. Up on the boardwalk, tall lampposts marched the length of the harbor. They shed light on a smooching couple behind the Olde Salt and a dog sniffing at something next to a garbage can.

Was that Fidget, Lucas’ dog? Yup.

Tristan gave a soft whistle. The Irish setter lifted its head, recognizing his call. The harbormaster’s dog was getting old; it wouldn’t do for him to wander loose in the harbor all night. He’d take him onboard the Desperado and bring him to Lucas in the morning.

After setting down his mug inside the wheelhouse, he climbed over the railing and jumped onto the float where the Desperado was tied up. No need to bother with the boarding ladder that hung over the side. He could climb on and off this boat with his eyes closed.

He loped up the long ramp that led to the boardwalk. The aluminum squeaked with each of his steps. The tide was nearly high, meaning the ramp was almost level with the boardwalk.

“Here boy,” he called as he reached the boardwalk. But the dog had decided to be cagey, and dodged behind a dumpster.

Tristan grumbled as he followed after him. “Don’t be a pill. You know me, Fidget. You know I have treats for you. Have I ever let you down?”

He quieted his steps, hoping to surprise the dog.

In the silence, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps. He whirled around, but the boardwalk was deserted. He couldn’t see anything on the float other than shadows. Touching the side of his head, he shook it off. He’d probably just heard a mouse scurry across the boardwalk. Not everything was a sign of impending doom inside his brain.

Behind the dumpster, he found Fidget panting softly and gazing at him with moist pleading eyes.

“It’s three in the morning, buddy. I can’t wake up Lucas and Megan. I can’t let you roam around loose, either. You’re coming with me, like it or not. I bet you’ll like it, though. I have salmon.”

Like any self-respecting Lost Harbor pup, Fidget recognized the word “salmon.” His ears perked up.

“That’s right. You know what I’m talking about.” Tristan crouched down to rub the dog’s ears. “Where’s your collar? Did Ruby give you a bath and forget to put it back on?”

His ears twitched again at the mention of Ruby, Lucas’ ten-year-old stepdaughter. “That’s right, I’m a friend of Ruby. That means you can trust me. You do already, so just get over it, bub.”

Was that the sound of aluminum creaking? He cocked his head, listening, but he didn’t hear it again. Anyway, the ramps creaked all the time. It was one of the soothing harbor sounds that usually put him to sleep.

Tristan rose to his feet and patted his thigh. “Come on, boy. Salmon. Ruby. What more do you need to hear?”

Nothing, apparently, because Fidget followed him from behind the dumpster, onto the open boardwalk. There, he stopped and sniffed the air.

“Let me guess,” said Tristan drily. “You smell fish.”

The dog looked at him alertly, then trotted toward the head of the ramp.

“Good boy. You know where we’re going, looks like. Smart dog.”

Indeed, Fidget went right to the ramp and set one paw onto its corrugated surface. He shot Tristan a pained glance. None of the dogs liked the new ramps because they were built almost like cheese graters. The idea was to make them non-skid, so that even in icy conditions they’d be safe to walk on. For that, they worked great.

For dog paws, they were less than ideal.

Maybe he should include something about that in his mayoral platform. “Vote Del Rey, Give Dogs a Say.”

Chuckling at the thought, he nudged Fidget onto the ramp. “You oughta be used to it by now. What kind of harbormaster’s dog are you?”

When he still resisted, Tristan knelt next to him and coaxed him to give up a paw. In the haze of light shed by the tall lamppost, he caught a glimpse of glass embedded in the pad of the dog’s paw. “Aw buddy. You’re injured. That’ll teach you to poke around behind dumpsters. Now I really have to get you onto my boat. We need to get that glass out of your paw.”

He gently settled his arms under Fidget’s body and lifted him off the ground. The pup wriggled in surprise, but didn’t fight him. Maybe he was happy to get a ride down the hated ramp, even from someone who wasn’t Lucas or Megan or Ruby.

Tristan carried the warm bundle of dog fur down the ramp toward the Desperado. He had a complete medical kit onboard and could treat anything from broken bones to hypothermia. His EMT training had come in handy many times during countless fishing trips. When Jacob Volkov had gotten a fish hook embedded in the flesh of his shoulder, Tristan had managed to surgically remove it with nothing but whiskey and a fish knife. He would have left it in until they’d reached the Dutch Harbor clinic, but he couldn’t take the chance since the fish hook had come out of the guts of a halibut and carried who knew what bacteria. These days, Jacob liked to proudly show off his scar, though he still couldn’t drink whiskey without gagging.

Getting a piece of glass out of a dog’s paw would be simple enough. “I got you, buddy,” he whispered as he reached the side of the Desperado. “But first I have to get you onboard. Don’t be afraid. I’ll be right behind you.”

Just because he could climb the Desperado’s boarding ladder didn’t mean a dog could. He lifted the squirming canine over his head and nudged him forward. “Jump, Fidget. Go get that salmon.”

In the next moment, Fidget disappeared over the edge. A loud thump followed, along with a squeal that did not sound remotely dog-like. It sounded like…a woman.

Two

The world was taking its sweet time putting itself in order. And to be honest, the pieces Lulu recognized so far made no sense. Why was there a dog licking her face? Why was the ground kind of rocking back and forth? And why was there a strange man scowling at her? Why did he look like a pirate, with a bandana tied around his head?

Oh my God, had the Northern Princess been taken over by pirates?

No, she’d left the Northern Princess. She remembered that much. She’d had to. She wasn’t safe on the ship anymore, and neither was…

More details came rushing back. The kitchen staff had been loading up supplies from a late-arriving semi truck—the perfect opportunity to steal away from the ship.

A gigantic pallet of liquor bottles made a great place to hide. Then a pile of buoys. Dark alleys between weathered shacks. She’d worn all of her black clothing, whether it was weather-appropriate or not. After a long tense trip from one shadowed nook to another, the Northern Princess had receded into the distance, replaced by the smaller boats of the sleepy main harbor. Here there were only a few late-partying wanderers, oblivious to the presence of strangers.

Until that dog had poked his head behind the dumpster.

Same dog that was now enthusiastically licking her face.

She spluttered and turned her face away from its fishy breath. “Can you get your dog off me?”

The pirate looked offended by that request. “He’s not my dog and you’re in no position to be making demands. What are you doing on my boat?”

Oh. Apparently she was the pirate, not him.

She glanced around the deck quickly, but didn’t see anyone else. Was that good or bad? She felt for her backpack; still there. Until she knew what was going on, she needed to be careful about what she said to this stranger.

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was your boat.”

“Whose boat did you think it was?”

She’d had no idea whose boat it was, of course. She was just looking for a good hiding spot. It had been the first boat at the foot of the ramp, and there had been a ladder. Temporary solution. Much more temporary than she’d hoped.

“John’s,” she said. “I thought it was John’s boat. My mistake.”

John was a common name. There were probably at least five Johns who owned boats in this harbor.

“John Smith or John Jones?” the pirate asked wryly.

The dog took a break from licking her face and sat back on its haunches. It lifted one drooping paw and gave a pathetic whimper.

The non-pirate stopped glaring at her and turned his attention to the dog. With a gentleness that shocked her—he was a big guy with quite the frown—he stroked the dog’s coat. “Nobody go anywhere,” he said. “I have to get my med kit.”

He rose to his feet, graceful as a giant cat. Very strong, much muscles, she thought. And also—Brilliant, this’ll give me a chance to figure out what’s going on.

Pausing, he gazed down at her. “How’s your head?”

Her hand flew to the back of her head, where a lump was rising. When the dog had knocked her over, she’d hit her head as she fell. Briefly, she’d seen stars dancing in the dark, and flashes of light exploding at the edges of her vision.

“Seems to still be attached.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t hit the fish hold or the boom.”

She had no idea which pieces of equipment he might be referring to; the boat practically bristled with gear and buoys and cables and rope.

“I have to get that glass out of his paw,” he told her. “And I’ll bring you an ice pack and a Tylenol if you want.”

“You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

Her cheeky comment made one of his eyebrow rise, but didn’t make him smile.

“Stay here,” he commanded. “And keep hold of Fidget. He might try to follow me and I don’t want him tracking blood on my deck.”

She got the feeling he cared more about the dog than his gruff statement suggested. It was his eyes, she realized. The moonlight gave them an opalescent shine. She couldn’t tell what color they were, maybe gray or blue or green, or some combination. But they held light in a way that was, well, kind of beautiful.

In her time performing on cruise ships, she’d learned to read people pretty quickly. This pirate didn’t scare her, no matter how much he scowled.

“Aye, Captain.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, almost as if he knew she meant that sarcastically and didn’t acknowledge him as an authority in her life in any sense. She wasn’t a member of his crew, after all. She was just a trespasser. Could you trespass on a boat? Was the technical term “stowaway”? Or did it have to be moving to make her a stowaway?

“Stay put,” he repeated sternly, then disappeared down some stairs.

Lulu sat up and stared at the dog, who gazed pathetically after the pirate. He made a move to follow, but she grabbed onto the scruff of his neck.

“He’s cute, I’ll give him that, but you should stay here with me. Unless I go. Should I go?”

Silly question. Of course she couldn’t go. She couldn’t go anywhere until she’d determined one very, very important piece of information.

Besides, where would she go? She glanced at the boardwalk and the motley assortment of buildings lining the walkway. None of them were open for business at this hour. And what if someone came looking for her? What if he came? Mr. Bad Guy? She needed to stay out of sight until the Northern Princess had left this little port. She couldn’t even remember its name, that was how shaken she was by everything that had happened.

All things considered, she was probably better off on this fishing boat than anywhere on land. Mr. Bad Guy wouldn’t be able to search inside all these boats. He wouldn’t dare. Boats were private property.

Soft footfalls brought her attention back to the deck of the boat. The pirate carried a white metal case with a red cross on it. He knelt next to her and the dog.

“What’s your name?” she asked him as he opened the kit.

“Tristan. What’s yours?” He drew out a silicone ice pack and cracked it to activate the cold. He handed it to her and she cradled it against her aching head.

Should she even tell him her real name? If someone did come looking for her, maybe a fake name would throw them off. But she was tired and her head hurt and she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to think of a good name.

“Lulu.”

No last name. For either of them. Maybe that would be enough anonymity to keep her safe.

“What’s your boat’s name? Just so I know where I am.”

“Not sure why it matters, but you’re on the deck of the F/V Desperado.”

“The Desperado?” She gave a short, delighted laugh. Was there ever a more perfectly named hiding place? No one was more “desperado” than her at this particular point in time. “Must be destiny.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But just then, a sound from the shore caught her attention. Someone was walking down the boardwalk, playing a powerful flashlight among the fishing boats.

She flattened herself on the deck and put her finger to her mouth in a shushing gesture.

Tristan frowned, then lifted his head as a voice rang out across the harbor.

“Hey. You there. Seen anyone out here that doesn’t belong?”

Three

Tristan looked down at the woman plastered on the deck of his boat. Not a local, that was for sure. He would have known her, especially with that British accent. Probably not a tourist, either. Most of the visitors who came through Lost Harbor came prepared with fleece vests and mud boots. Or if they didn’t, they quickly adapted and added a few layers. The boardwalk in particular, the way it extended into Misty Bay, could be windswept and chilly, especially at this point in the season.

But this woman wore black fishnet stockings and half-boots with a heel. Also, her jacket contained no fleece whatsoever. It looked like a black shag rug in the form of a hoodie. Her eyes were dark too, and they seemed to take up half her face as she silently pleaded with him not to give her up.

She could have saved her damsel-in-distress face. Of course he wasn’t going to hand a woman over to some stranger with a flashlight. Any woman. No matter what face they made.

“Haven’t seen a soul until you came through,” he called. “What’s going on?”

“Someone’s missing from the Northern Princess.”

“Maybe they drank a little too much and lost track of time.”

The woman—Lulu? Seriously?—made a comical face at him. She had a face made for comedy, he realized. Expressive eyes, a mouth made for laughs, a dimple, a tiny nose. Everything about her features was just a little bit exaggerated.

“If you see anyone, contact security over at the cruise ship, would you?”

“Will do, sir.”

He looked down at Lulu, whose smile had dropped completely. The moonlight leeched the color from her face. Or was she white with fear? Maybe she thought he was serious about contacting security. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make her think so.

He kept quiet until the security guard, or whoever he was, had moved out of earshot.

“C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of sight.”

“Wait,” she hissed back. “How do I know it’s not out of the frying pan into the fire? I don’t think I should go inside with you.”

Huh. Good point. His sister Toni was an all-around badass, but she’d had a scarring encounter as a teenager in this very harbor. He hadn’t known about it, and it had come as a shock when she’d told him. Since then, he’d questioned a lot of things he never had before. The way his crew sometimes talked about women, for instance. He used to tune it out, but lately he’d been calling guys out when they veered over the line.

He was absolutely no threat to this woman, but just because he knew that didn’t mean she could assume that. She shouldn’t assume that. The world was a long way from how it ought to be.

But if he tried to convince her that he was a good guy, he’d just come off as an ass. The only way you could really prove it was over time.

Besides, he had no need to prove anything to a trespasser. No matter how long her legs were and how intriguing she was.

Shit, he shouldn’t even be looking at her legs. He had a dog to take care of.

In the end, he shrugged. “Up to you. If you leave, be careful on that ladder. You might be dizzy for a little while.”

After taking a bandage out of the med kit, he wrapped it around Fidget’s paw. He’d go after that bit of glass inside the cabin, where he’d have better light.

He bundled Fidget into his arms and got to his feet. Looking down at his unexpected guest, he saw that she still held the ice pack to her head. She looked scared, but he had no idea if he was the cause, or that security guard.

It occurred to him that he could be reading this situation all wrong. What if she’d stolen something from the cruise ship? What if she was the bad guy here? Seemed kind of sexist to assume that she was the victim in this scenario.

“Quick question,” he said in a low voice, in case the security guard could somehow still overhear. “Are you a threat to my boat in any way?”

“What?” She blinked those long eyelashes at him. “Like how?”

He didn’t want to give her any ideas. “Theft?”

“No.”

“Destruction?”

“No.”

“Vandalism?”

“No.”

“Okay. I had to ask, because local superstition says the Northern Princess always brings disaster.” He eyed her one more time, taking in her all-black clothing. Either she’d dressed for on-the-run chic or she had an emo-goth bent. With that quirky offbeat smile of hers, he had to go with on-the-run. “Good luck to you, whether you stay or go. Keep the ice pack.”

Somehow Lulu had forgotten that her head was turning into a block of ice because of that cold pack. She shivered and peeled it away from her head. A breath of wind danced across the water and gave her another chill.

Carrying the dog and the med kit, Tristan moved around toward the hatchway that led to the lower deck of the boat. She’d spent enough time on cruise ships that she knew basic nautical terminology. Hatch. Line. Port. Starboard. As in, she’d been staying in a starboard berth. But she knew nothing about this kind of boat, though she assumed it was meant for fishing.

Okay. That meant the tall man was a fisherman. What else did she know? He was kind to dogs. He hadn’t given her up to the man who said he was a security guard. He’d been irritated to find someone on his boat, but he hadn’t kicked her off. Nor had he leered at her, despite her black fishnets, which were part of her Can-Can act but also the only black stockings she had.

As a cruise ship performer, she’d fended off more than her share of come-ons. Even when she was doing puppet shows for the kids, there was always that one randy single dad who slipped her his cabin number. Sometimes they weren’t even single. Honestly, sometimes she thought her time as a dancer had given her a warped view of humanity.

But this man, so far, hadn’t set off any red flags. Her choices were:

1. Stay on deck and freeze.

2. Leave the boat and find another dumpster to hide behind. With a bonus of possibly running into that “security guard.”

3. Go inside a cozy boat cabin and help a hot guy bandage a dog’s paw.

And then there was the other factor. The entire reason for this escape. She couldn’t go anywhere until she figured that out. If he was going belowdecks, she should go too and do some Desperado reconnaissance.

“Wait. You might need help with Fidget.”

“I got it, don’t you worry your frozen head about it.”

“I worked for a dog groomer for a short time. It’s much easier with two people.”

He shrugged those wide shoulders. “Suit yourself.”

She sniffed the air as another gust came through the harbor. Was that chamomile tea she smelled?

That did it. Some hot tea would be fabulous right now.

She came into a low squat and, keeping her head down, waddled across the deck like a duck. Mr. Bad Guy could have binoculars for all she knew. She couldn’t risk standing up; she had to keep out of sight.

She didn’t straighten up until she reached the bottom of the short stairway that led into a strictly functional galley. Tristan had spread a towel across a table that was bolted to the floor. Fidget lay on top of it like a king who was kindly allowing his paw to be tended to.

Shooting a quick glance around the galley, she spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Then again, if something was out of place, how would she know?

“What are you, a gymnast?” he asked as she stepped to the other side of the table. “That was quite a move you just did.”

He must have been keeping an eye on her progress across the deck.

“I’m a dancer,” she said with some pride. “Well, for now. Actually, maybe not anymore, since it seems that I’ve left my current place of employment.”

“You’ve been working on that cruise ship?”

“Yes. It’s my second stint on a cruise ship, but my first trip to Alaska. I always wanted to be a dancer, but to be honest, my career is probably over now.”

“Hard to get good references when you leave your job in the middle of the night?”

“That too. But I’m thirty and all too familiar with these.” She brandished the cold pack. “Thank you, by the way. My head feels a little better.”

He fished a pair of tweezers from his first-aid case.

“Want me to do that? My hands are smaller than yours.”

Not that she was paying any attention to his hands, with their gentle movements and big knuckles. She’d always been a sucker for a man’s hands. In her opinion, they could tell you a lot about a guy. From her observation of Tristan’s hands, she’d guess that he was strong, steady and cool under pressure.

And the fact that he handed her the tweezers spoke well of him too. He wasn’t afraid to let a woman take the lead.

She bent over Fidget’s paw while he kept a firm grip on the dog’s coat. “Is there a vet in this town? With glass it’s best to get a professional.”

“Yes, we have a veterinary clinic, but I don’t want to wake Doctor Vivian up at this hour. She has a new baby.”

“If the glass is deep enough, it could hit something important. We don’t want to simply yank it out.”

He absorbed her words in a thoughtful way that she appreciated. People didn’t always take dancers seriously, especially ones like her. She was no graceful ballerina; she was the comic relief. “I suppose we could just leave it until morning, but I hate to see him suffer.”

She liked that he used the word “we,” as if he accepted her help with this situation.

“Here, let me see if I can get an idea of how big the piece of glass is.”

“The Olde Salt is pretty good about keeping the area clean. It’s probably a small sliver that got overlooked.”

“The Olde Salt?”

“Local watering hole. Fisherman hangout. Bottles have been broken, I’m not going to lie. But like I said, they’re meticulous about keeping it clean. I know because my sister used to tend bar there. And because I’ve logged some time there myself.”

“I don’t drink much,” she murmured as she bent closer to the piece of glass. Blood dried on the dark pad of Fidget’s paw.

“I don’t either,” he said in a surprised tone. “I have an alcohol allergy.”

“I have an allergy to sobbing on random shoulders, which happens after about one sip of anything alcoholic. The strongest thing I drink is a mocha latte. I don’t suppose you have a cappuccino machine on board?”

“Of course we have one. It’s right next to our massage chair, to the right of the hot stones,” he deadpanned.

She broke out into a wide grin. “You’re funny.”

That drew nothing but a scowl from him. “Focus on Fidget, if you don’t mind. What do you see in there?”

“It looks pretty small to me. Can you move that light closer?”

He picked up an electric lantern and held it over the dog. They both huddled over the Irish setter, who seemed delighted by all the attention. Carefully, she used the tweezers to get some purchase on the piece of glass. When she had a firm grip, she gently drew it out.

With a sigh of relief, she saw that it wasn’t big enough to have hit any major veins.

“Surgery complete.” She adopted an authoritative doctor-ish voice. “Nurse, you can go ahead and close.”

Tristan didn’t seem to mind playing the nurse. “Nice job, Doc.”

He squeezed drops of blood from the pad of Fidget’s paw, then blotted it with a clean antiseptic wipe. The dog whimpered, but despite his name, didn’t fidget too much. Once Tristan had finished cleaning it, he wrapped a bandage around the paw and swatted Fidget on the rump. “You’re good to go, buddy. Come on now. Want a treat?”

“You have dog treats onboard?”

“I promised him salmon and I could never break a promise like that. Salmon is a sacred trust.” He crossed the galley and opened the half-size refrigerator. On the door, she saw an erasable magnetic whiteboard with a grid of chores marked out on it. Clean the head. Make dinner. Swab the floor. That sort of thing. All the spaces were blank, which she assumed meant that he was doing all those chores himself.

He drew out a dish covered with plastic wrap, then with the other hand whipped a plastic bowl off a shelf. All the shelves had pieces of wood nailed across them. In case of stormy weather, she imagined. The galley had a cozy, workmanlike feel to it. A chess set sat in a corner nook, with a box of paperbacks next to it.

Tristan set the bowl, now containing a ruby-red filet of salmon, onto the floor. That did it. Fidget leaped off the table and practically attacked the fish.

Lulu’s stomach growled. She’d been too anxious to eat dinner in the crew quarters after their night’s performances. She’d stuffed some water biscuits and wrapped Godiva chocolates into her jacket pockets—emergency rations, she figured. Would it be rude to whip those out now?

Did most trespassers worry about rudeness?

Digging into her pocket, she withdrew a handful of chocolates. “Would you like a little midnight snack?”

Casting her an odd look, he shook his head.

“Please tell me you don’t have a chocolate allergy too. That would be altogether too grim.”

“No, I love chocolate. But I get the impression that’s all the food you have and I’m not about to take it from you.”

“Not true.” She reached into her other pocket and withdrew the packages of Saltines. “Midnight snack of champions.”

He laughed for the first time and all of a sudden he didn’t look like a stern boat captain but like a playful, very fit surfer. Between the sun-streaked hair and his rugged bone structure, he sure was a looker when he laughed.

And when he didn’t, to be honest. Even when frowning at her, he was a good-looking man, and she’d seen her share as she traveled the world. But when he laughed, he looked like boatloads of fun. No pun intended.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I can fry up some salmon for you. Little thank you for taking care of Fidget so well.”

“Goodness, are you always this nice to trespassers? I’ll have to leave a review on Yelp. ‘When looking for a boat to hide out on, you can’t go wrong with the Desperado. Generous host, decent accommodations. Word to the wise, bring your own cappuccino.’”

He snorted as he moved to the small galley stove. With each movement an efficient symphony of coordination, he whipped out a cast-iron frying pan, flung some olive oil in it, tossed in a salmon filet and shook some kind of spice mixture over the whole thing.

An instant later, a divine fragrance filled the air. Even Fidget lifted his head to sniff. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled again. By the time he plopped a plate on the table before her, he’d added some cold fried potatoes and a pickle.

She gazed up at him, speechless.

“Water? Tea? Ginger ale?” he asked her. “That’s about all I have onboard right now.”

“Some hot tea would be wonderful.” Even though the galley was cozy, the chill from her midnight escape hadn’t left her.

He brought her a box filled with Ziploc bags with labels on them. She sorted through the selection. Very feminine writing filled each label. For sleeping, with some zzzz’s on it. For when you miss me, with a heart.

Wife? Girlfriend?

She shot a covert glance at Tristan’s left hand, but saw no ring. That didn’t mean much, though. Not all married men wore rings. Surgeons, for instance. Mechanics. Cheaters.

She selected some ginger tea, which had a drawing of ocean waves on it. “For seasickness?” she asked.

“Supposedly. I couldn’t say, since I’ve never been seasick a day in my life.”

“Neither have I. Everyone warned me I would when I took the job on the cruise ship. But I never did. Half the time it barely felt like we were at sea. It was like a floating shopping center. A mall, as you would say.”

He filled the teakettle from a water cooler, then put it on the stove. “Are you going to tell me why you left this magical floating mall?”

She hadn’t decided yet. He seemed trustworthy enough, but was there any benefit to telling him? Best to keep her cards close to her vest for now.

“Does it matter? I’m not exactly seeing this as a long-term relationship,” she quipped. “If it were, we’d both have to share some deep dark secrets.”

“Is that how it works?” Amusement rippled through his voice. “What if I don’t have any?”

She eyed him up and down for an extended moment. He was one tall drink of water. Seawater, you could say. He carried himself with confidence and strength. And yet there was a shadow behind those eyes, which she now saw were an extremely attractive shade of gray with a smudge of blue. Her overall impression, based on her limited time on the Desperado and her many years of reading people, was that he had plenty of deep dark secrets.

“If you don’t have any, I recommend you find yourself some,” she said lightly. “Deep dark secrets make any man five times more attractive, depending on the secrets, of course. They should actually make an aftershave for it. Notes of woodsmoke and hidden wounds.”

He was watching her so closely that the whistle of the teakettle made him jump. Moving back to the stove, he poured boiling water into a mug and handed it to her.

Fishing is the New Sexy, it proclaimed in flowing script. At the moment, she couldn’t disagree. What could be sexier than a man who hid you from a bad guy, then made you salmon and seasickness tea?

Four

She blew on the tea to cool it down, and caught Tristan taking a quick look at her mouth. Her lower belly tightened. Oh dear, she knew that feeling. Early warning sign of attraction.

Ignoring it, because it didn’t suit the needs of her current situation—which were to get very far away from Alaska as quickly as possible—she lifted the mug.

“Cheers,” she said. “Here’s to a full recovery for Fidget.”

He leaned against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “Fidget will be fine. He’s tough. And he doesn’t have a strange man with a flashlight searching for him at three in the morning.”

“Surely it must be almost four by now.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he gestured with his chin at her plate of food. “Maybe some fish will get you talking. Go ahead, try that salmon. I caught it yesterday.”

“Well then, I don’t want its suffering to be in vain.” She dug her fork into the succulent tender fish.

“Fish don’t suffer in the way we think of it. They don’t have nervous systems. Anyway, this salmon was at the end of its life.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because that’s their lifecycle. They come back to the place where they were spawned to release their eggs and reproduce. After that, they die. So eat up.”

“That’s either romantic or bleak, I can’t decide which.” Laughing, she picked up the fork and took a bite of the salmon. It slid down her throat like butter. Her eyes closed as she savored the delicate flavor. She barely had to chew, that was how tender it was. It was the best thing she’d ever tasted. And she’d been halfway around the world.

“How about neither? You’re putting human qualities onto a damn fish. That’s anthropomorphizing. That’s one thing you learn being a fisherman. Fish are fish. Mermaids, on the other hand, well, they can be a handful.”

Her head shot up. She searched his face for signs of teasing, but saw none. Utterly deadpan. Or utterly serious? Had she landed herself into the lair of a crazy man who believed in mermaids?

Or…were mermaids…real? Ever since the cruise ship had entered Alaskan waters, she’d sensed a kind of magic in the air. The silent, stately mountains, the secret gullies with their endless waterfalls. Talk about deep dark secrets.

Finally, a smile broke across his face, as if he couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“You.” She tossed a piece of potato at him, but he snagged it before it hit him. “Well done, you had me going.”

“Which direction? Were you starting to believe in mermaids or ready to call the psych ward?”

“Bit of both, actually. But I’ve always wanted to believe that mermaids existed.”

“Then you should come out to sea with me sometime. I’ve seen things on the open ocean that I can’t completely explain. You stare at the waves enough, keep night watch enough, you start to believe that anything’s possible.”

His deep voice wove a spell around her. For a flash of a moment, she wished she could go to sea with him and witness these magical things he spoke of.

But she could quickly erase that possibility from her mind. She needed to get some distance from this place as soon as possible. If only she were a mermaid, and could simply dive into the harbor and swim until she reached safety.

“Well, maybe someday I’ll come back to Lust Harbor and you can show me what you mean.”

The expression on his face made her draw back. What had she said wrong?

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe I’ll come back someday. I’m going to need to be moving along soon, as I’m sure you can understand. The bloke with the flashlight and all. But maybe in the future—”

“No, I mean what did you call this place?”

“Nothing.” She frowned at him, mystified. “I called it by its name. Lust Harbor.”

After another stunned moment, he threw his head back in a long, raucous laugh. “Let me get this straight. You got off your cruise ship to hide out in a town you think is called Lust Harbor? What were you on, the Love Boat?”

She blinked at him, not understanding the problem.

“It’s Lost Harbor, lady. Lost, as in you’ve lost your keys, or you’ve lost your mind.”

Really? She hadn’t paid much attention to the itinerary after everything that had happened onboard. She’d been entirely focused on getting off that ship. And actually, she wouldn’t be surprised if it had been misspelled in the information the cruise director had sent her.

“Apologies. I’m sorry to offend you. Lost Harbor. But ultimately it doesn’t much matter. I still need to leave as soon as I can arrange it. I don’t suppose you’re taking this boat anywhere anytime soon?”

“Nope. I’m staying in port for now. Got other fish to fry, so to speak.”

Haha. Funny play on words. But it didn’t help her situation at all. She put down her fork, having lost her appetite as reality came flooding back. All she had with her was credit cards and some tip money she’d accumulated on the ship. She’d stuffed her backpack with a few changes of clothing, her phone, her laptop, and that was it. She knew no one in Lust—oops, Lost—Harbor, except Tristan the fisherman. And she had a criminal after her. And someone depending on her.

Honestly, diving overboard might be her best option right about now.

“Which other fish?” she asked in a last-ditch effort.

“Excuse me?”

“You said you had other fish to fry. Which other fish? Maybe I could make it worth your while to change your plans.”

He shrugged and picked up his own mug, from which drifted the fragrant scent of chamomile. “I don’t see how.”

“Bribery? I can pay you rather well.” Rather was a vague word, fortunately.

“It’s not about money. I had a good season, after a rocky start. Now I’ve got something else I’m doing.”

She stared at him in frustration. What could he be doing that compared to running for your life? Then again, he didn’t know that was what she was doing. She wasn’t even sure of that. Maybe that criminal would carry on with his cruise after he came up empty in his search of the harbor.

But she couldn’t count on that, now, could she?

“If I fill you in on my situation, will you consider helping me?”

“I’m sorry, Lulu. I’m a helpful guy, in general. I don’t mind helping you. But I need to be here in Lost Harbor right now.”

A woman’s voice calling from the deck made her jump about a foot into the air. “Hello in there. Anyone home? Burning the midnight oil while you face the inevitability of your defeat?”

In the next moment, a sprite of a woman danced through the hatchway. Her black hair was twisted into a ponytail and she wore a sparkly dress and mud boots.

She stopped in surprise when she saw Lulu. “Oh. Sorry to interrupt.” She shot a glance at Tristan that Lulu couldn’t read. Were they lovers? Friends? Rivals? Some weird combination of all of the above?

Tristan met Lulu’s gaze, clearly sending her some kind of message. A “play along” sort of message, as best she could determine.

“Trixie, meet Lulu. Lulu is…uh, my new campaign manager. Lulu, this is Trixie Tran. Trixie is one of my competitors in the mayor’s race. She thinks she has it all wrapped up, but she doesn’t know I have a secret weapon.” He repeated the “play along” look.

Mayor’s race? Campaign manager? How the heck was she supposed to play along with that?

But he’d been kind to her, and she didn’t want to muck things up for him in case Trixie was a romantic interest as well as a campaign rival.

“That’s right. Tristan for Mayor! Rah rah. Nothing but the best for Lust Harbor!”

Five

Tristan winced as Lulu made her first mistake as his unofficial and very temporary campaign manager.

It was the only cover story he could think of this late at night. Trixie would never buy some kind of one-night-stand story. She knew he hadn’t dated anyone since his surgery, and didn’t want to. He and Trixie had a funny kind of off-and-on friendship that veered into flirtation sometimes, and even a long-ago one-night stand.