The Tycoon Meets His Match. Barbara Benedict

      “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, not liking his sudden strong urge to run his fingers through all that hair.

      “You don’t have to shout.”

      “Yes, I do. Otherwise, I’m liable to wring your neck.”

      She blushed, bringing a pleasant pink hue to her smoothly tanned features. “I’m sorry for stowing away. It’s just that, well, I couldn’t think of any other way to reach Lucie.”

      She’d removed her shoes. Without her stiletto heels, her head barely reached his chin. Digging her painted red toenails into the deep pile of the carpet, she seemed so small, so vulnerable, so…

      So devious, he reminded himself sternly. He should know better than to soften for an instant. He couldn’t trust her. Hadn’t he just caught her stowing away on his boat?

      “Trespassing is a crime,” he said, steeling himself against her wounded expression. “I should turn back to Miami right now and turn you into the authorities.”

      “Listen, I can explain.”

      “Please, do so.” He stood back, crossing his arms at his chest as he frowned at her. “I can’t wait to hear why you felt compelled to hide in my closet.”

      Frowning, she glanced around the cabin. “Do we have to do this here? This bedroom is hardly conducive to true confessions. Let’s go up on deck.”

      His gut reaction was to refuse, to make sure he didn’t concede anything to this woman, but following her gaze to the king-size bed, he had to agree that this was no place to conduct an interrogation.

      She was blushing again, he saw when he turned back to her. Worse, he now noticed that the top two buttons of her blouse had come undone, revealing a froth of lace and incredible cleavage. Add that to the wild hair framing her heated face, and she could have just stepped out of the bed in question.

      A prospect that caused a sudden, unwelcome spike in his pulse.

      Sleep deprivation, he insisted to himself. The mind could do crazy things when exhausted, and nothing could be crazier than indulging in such a fantasy. He had to get them both out of this cabin. “Fine,” he told her, marching to the door. “Let’s talk in the galley then.”

      “But I don’t want—”

      “Frankly, I couldn’t care less what you want.” He paused in the doorway to glare at her. “I’ve had a long, trying day and my patience is virtually nonexistent. Either you come now and explain while I make a sandwich, or you can tell your tale to the authorities. Your choice.”

      Leaving her sputtering behind him, Rhys headed for the galley.

      Trae would have loved to shout something defiant, had she been able to dream up anything worthy to say. The trouble was, she knew he had every right to be angry, and if the truth be known, a sandwich sounded pretty good to her right now. With a cold beer and maybe a dill pickle.

      She could have told Rhys that her day had been no picnic, either. It hadn’t been easy to convince Quinn and Alana that she should be the one to go after Lucie. They claimed she was too impulsive, too emotional and far too inclined to be unreasonable where Rhys Paxton was concand. Only the fact that she had flight benefits—thanks to her brother’s job at Worldways Airlines—tipped the scales in her favor. That and the fact that Vinny could get her on the 3:00 flight well ahead of Rhys’s 4:20 departure.

      In the end, Quinn and Alana had each chipped in a couple hundred to her travel fund, after Trae had promised to keep them informed of her progress every step of the way.

      Which she might have done, since she had little else to do cramped in Rhys’s dark, cedar-scented closet, but she no longer had her cell phone. All too vividly, she could picture it in Lucie’s bedroom, a small, black stain on that cumulus cloud of a bed. In all the excitement of chasing after Lucie, she’d forgotten to go back for it.

      If that weren’t frustrating enough, she’d realized upon landing in Miami how hard it would be to actually locate Lucie. Thanks to Quinn and Alana—via Mitsy—she knew that Lucie had gone to the Paxton vacation home, but the Bahamas comprised hundreds of islands and she hadn’t the slightest idea which one Lucie was on. Rhys could have no idea how much it galled her to rely on him to find her friend.

      She shuddered, remembering his threat to call the police. She should have expected his cold, contained fury, she supposed, but then, she’d planned to sneak off the boat as surreptitiously as she’d slipped onto it. She’d never have guessed, on such a short trip, that Rhys would peek inside his closet.

      Following him into the galley, she took in the khakis and dress shirt, rolled up to the sleeves, that he now wore. He had great forearms, tanned and powerful, tapering down to large, capable hands. You could tell a lot about a guy by his hands, she’d been told once, and ever since, she’d judged her dates by their grasp. Over the years, she’d found it an amazingly accurate gauge of character.

      How would it feel to hold hands with this man? she couldn’t help but wonder, watching Rhys duck his head as he entered the galley.

      Not that she’d ever find out. Pointedly turning his back to her, Rhys stormed from cabinet to refrigerator and back to the table, opening and slamming doors in his search for sustenance. Trae knew she should be doubly intimidated by his display of temper, but the collection of meat, bread and fixings he’d amassed had her salivating. Her last “meal” had been the peanuts they’d served on the plane.

      She nodded at the cold cuts. “Mind if I have some?”

      He blinked at her, as if startled by her temerity. “Help yourself,” he grumbled as he sat at the table and began constructing his sandwich. “Not like anyone can stop you from doing what you want, anyway.”

      Trae refrained from snapping back. The object was to get to Lucie, she told herself. Antagonizing the man would get her nowhere. Taking the chair opposite, she reached for the bread.

      Unfortunately, Rhys, who had just finished slathering mustard on his two-inch creation, reached for his second slice at the same time.

      They shared a startled glance at the unexpected contact, before retracting their hands simultaneously. The only difference being that Rhys came away with the bread. All Trae got was a vague impression of strength and warmth and a renewed—albeit unhealthy—curiosity about how it would feel to actually touch him.

      Slapping the bread on top of his sandwich, he looked up with a scowl. “Okay, I’m in need of a good laugh. Let’s hear your story.”

      Annoyed by her reaction to their contact—and his apparent indifference to it—she looked away, concentrating instead on building her own sandwich. “I have to find Lucie,” she said as she slapped ham and cheese on her bread. “You and your boat happen to be my only hope.”

      Lifting his sandwich, he stopped halfway, his mouth open as he stared at her. “That’s it? That’s your explanation?”

      “Would you prefer I made up something about being kidnapped by aliens?”

      “What I’d prefer is that you answer my questions. For starters, how did you know I was coming to Miami? Or to the marina? Not to mention to this boat.”

      “I overheard you. When I went to Lucie’s bedroom to use her phone.” Hard not to cower as his sharp, blue gaze probed her. “Technically, it’s your fault,” she said with false bravado. “You stole my cell phone. What was I supposed to do?”

      He shook his head in disbelief. “First you eavesdrop, then you trespass, and now you say I’m to blame for it all?”

      “Not all of it. I admit I was wrong to hide on your boat.” She bristled when he smiled in triumph, but she tamped down her temper, aware that any display of anger would only make matter worse. “I’m sorry, really I am, but how else could I hope to reach Lucie?”

      Having taken a huge bite of his sandwich, he had to be content with glowering