The Tycoon Meets His Match. Barbara Benedict

“We need to lower the anchor.”

      Gazing around them, hand still extended, she looked as if someone had just yanked the rug from beneath her feet. “We’re stopping here? In the middle of the water? Not at the pier over there?”

      “It’s for smaller boats. If I take this yacht any closer to shore, she’s likely to run aground. I generally use the skiff to get to the beach.”

      “Oh.” Grinning sheepishly, she pulled the switch. “Don’t mind me. I’m not very nautical.”

      No kidding, he thought, eyeing her fitted green skirt and bare feet. “It won’t be easy climbing in and out of the skiff in that outfit,” he told her. “Why don’t you look through Lucie’s bags? I took then down to the cabin earlier. Maybe you can find something more suitable. You can change down below while I finish docking.”

      “Good idea. Thanks.”

      He said nothing as she went below, knowing that in truth, he wasn’t being helpful at all. While she was below, he planned to get the skiff in the water. If he hurried, he could get to the island—and, more important, to Lucie—before Trae realized he was gone.

      It took less than five minutes to get the skiff in the water. He was about to shove off when he heard Trae behind him. “Oh, here you are. For a minute, I thought you’d left without me.”

      Rhys saw no reason to grace that with an answer.

      Besides, he was robbed of speech when he saw her new outfit. Riding low on her hips and high on her thighs, the red shorts showed off an alarming expanse of smooth, tanned leg. The white T-shirt left even less to the imagination.

      He didn’t help her into the skiff, knowing better than to risk coming in contact with all that exposed flesh. More to the point, Trae didn’t allow it. Dragging a suitcase behind her, she stepped over the rail and dropped into the boat before Rhys could recover his wits. “I figured Lucie might want her things,” she offered in explanation.

      Cursing her soundly under his breath, he shoved off and motored their way to the beach.

      None too happily, either. Having Trae around changed everything. How could he hope to talk Lucie out of what was so clearly a case of cold feet with her so-called best friend chattering in her other ear? That they’d eventually get married wasn’t in doubt—he and Lucie had talked about and planned for this far too long—but Trae’s interference could cause a lengthy and costly delay. Look at the damage she’d done already.

      Frowning, he thought about their engagement party. Trust Trae to bring that up—he’d known for years that she’d been behind Lucie’s “impulsive whim” to visit London. How like her to toss it in his face, as if he were to blame for Lucie’s erratic behavior. Mitsy Beckwith had always maintained “that Andrelini person” was a bad influence on her daughter, and in this one thing, Rhys was in total agreement.

      He had to get rid of her. For Lucie’s sake, if not his own.

      Trae sat on the other side of the skiff, also thinking about Lucie and how she was going to help her. That Rhys would do his best to stop her efforts, she didn’t doubt for a second. Look at how he’d tried to sail off without her.

      Not that she hadn’t anticipated it. Figuring she had maybe five minutes while he moored the yacht, she’d grabbed the first clothes she could find. An unfortunate choice, it turned out, since she could scarcely breathe in Lucie’s short shorts and T-shirt. There had been no time to change into something else, though, not if she hoped to get to the skiff first. Yet despite her rush, Rhys had still managed to get there before her.

      Eyeing his house as they approached the shoreline, she felt her first misgivings. Rising up from the beach, the vast white colonial sprawled along the grassy knoll like a sleeping giant. A collection of structures in assorted pastels—each topped with a red–tiled roof—formed a maze around the main dwelling. So much for the simple vacation cottage she’d pictured. “Wow,” she thought aloud. “It sure is…big.”

      “Some structures house the staff, but most are sheds and outbuildings.”

      Awed by the vastness of the place, Trae saw how it gave him a distinct advantage. It being his house and all, he’d know exactly where to find Lucie.

      While Trae hadn’t the slightest clue.

      Hazarding a guess, she decided to try the main building. To reach the wraparound porch ahead of him, though, she’d have to take off running the instant they reached the dock. With any luck she should have a step or two while Rhys had to stop and tie off the skiff.

      Poised and ready to leap onto the dock, she was caught completely off guard when Rhys sped past the dock to run the boat up onto the beach. Yanking up the motor in a swift fluid motion, he leaped into the water and took off running.

      “You just wrecked your five-hundred-dollar shoes,” she called out as she scrambled after him.

      Not that he seemed to care. With all his money, he probably had another hundred pairs waiting upstairs in a closet.

      Watching Rhys reach the porch steps, she said goodbye to her last hope of outracing him to her friend. All she could do now was stand outside and yell. “Lucie,” she shouted at the house, hoping her friend would hear her. “Lucie, come outside. We need to talk.”

      As if in answer, the door burst open, but it wasn’t Lucie who collided with Rhys. A short, dark, middle-aged woman pulled up short, her alert gaze flashing between them. His housekeeper, Trae assumed, because of the black dress and white apron.

      “I heard shouting,” the woman said, looking from one to the other of them. “Is something the matter, Mr. Paxton?”

      “No.” His curt, clipped denial clearly surprised him as much as his housekeeper. “Everything’s fine, Rosa. I’m just looking for Miss Beckwith. Is she upstairs?”

      “She’s not here, Mr. Paxton,” Rosa said, a frown creasing her weathered features. “Didn’t she call you? She left late last night.”

      Rhys turned back to glare at Trae, as if somehow this, too, was her fault. Reining in his temper, he addressed his housekeeper again. “Did she say where she was going?”

      Rosa shook her head. “All I know is she told my boy Raymond to take her to Miami in that old fishing boat of his.”

      “That’s it? She said nothing else?”

      Rosa shook her graying head. “Only that she was sorry. And that she left her wedding dress upstairs. She hoped you’d send it back to her mother.”

      Watching his shoulders sag, Trae might have felt sympathy had she not been struggling with her own disappointment. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on finding Lucie here, safe and sound.

      Inhaling deeply, she approached the porch. “This changes things considerably,” she told Rhys. “We can’t waste time here. We need to hurry back to Miami and see if we can find her at the docks.”

      “You’re right, of course,” he said, running a harried hand through his hair. “Only, just so we’re clear, there’s no ‘we’ about this. I’m returning to Miami alone.” Straightening, he started off for the skiff.

      She grabbed his arm. “Whoa, wait a minute. You can’t just leave me here.”

      “And why not? I’m under no obligation to transport a stowaway. Besides, you don’t have a passport. You can’t expect me to take the chance that I’ll be stopped by the harbor patrol.”

      “That’s low, Paxton. Even for you.”

      Shrugging, he removed her hand from his arm. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage to scheme your way off the island before too long. In the meantime, Rosa will make sure you have food and a place to sleep.”

      Watching him walk off, Trae felt the heat rise up in her body. “What happened to working together? I thought we had a truce.”

      “Actually,”