Heather Graham Read Free

going up to the bow to tighten the jenny. We can have drinks and lunch then, and figure out our strategy for the next week or so.”
    Juan nodded. Flynn continued onward to the bow, neatly stepping around the rigging. Juan—one of the best sailors he knew—began to roll the hemp line about the mainmast to his liking. Juan, he knew, was almost as incapable as he of sitting still. If there was something to be done, Juan was going to do it.
    Maybe that was what made them such good friends, Flynn mused. They were close in age, but more than that, they were both … restless. They liked to move. They liked to come and go as they chose, and yet they also shared a sense of duty. He shook his head. “You are crazy, amigo ,” Flynn muttered to himself. “I get as hot as the next man—I’m just aware that throwing things will never change a situation.”
    And, he reminded himself, springing forward and grabbing the proper line, I just can’t afford to lose my cool when decisions have to be made.
    “Hey, Flynn!”
    Flynn paused, turning toward the bow, curious at the tone of Juan’s voice.
    Juan continued then, his voice still carrying that strange tone.
    “Do you really believe in mermaids?”
    Flynn arched a curious brow at his friend. He dropped the length of the jenny line he had been holding and hurried from the bow to stand beside Juan, who was now frowning and narrowing his eyes against the sun’s glaze to stare out at the mildly rippling, azure water.
    “Have I truly gone loco, amigo , or is that a woman—”
    “It is a woman!” Flynn interrupted incredulously. “In trouble,” he muttered, hopping to the bow rail with swift grace and plunging into the sea with a smooth dive. He struck the water and immediately began to swim with strong strokes, his sun-browned and sinewed body cleanly and effortlessly propelled toward his destination … the girl.
    At first glance, she might have been a sun worshipper, stretched out to catch the midmorning rays, her sleek form every bit as enticing as ever an advertisement for sun lotion. But after the first start of seeing such a beauty drift by as if cast up by mischievous Neptune, it became apparent that she was drifting on what could barely be called a plank, and that an arm drifted lazily in the water because the mysterious beauty was barely conscious … if she was conscious at all.
    Flynn reached the plank and grasped it. She started, and her eyes opened, wide … frightened. They were green. Deep green, rich and verdant like a summer field. Caught by the sun’s reflection to glow and glitter with the sparkling sea, they were fringed by lashes incredibly thick … incredibly long. Enchanting.
    Absurd things to notice when she needed rescuing, not an assessment of her attributes.
    “It’s all right,” he assured her, quickly, huskily. “Just lie still. My boat isn’t fifty yards away. Relax, and I’ll get you there.”
    She stared at him, and the wild-eyed fear slowly faded from her features. Beautiful features. Completely classic. Slender cheeks and high bones, a full red mouth, defined and lusciously shaped, high forehead, high, nicely arched brows. Nice nose. Small, and straight. No, not straight, tilted just slightly …
    Flynn groaned inwardly with vast impatience with himself; he gave the water a strenuous push, and surged toward the Bella Christa .
    Juan had lowered the ladder and stood ready to help him. He reached down to lift the girl from the water. “Ahh! She weighs nothing, amigo ! So petite …”
    As Flynn climbed up the ladder, Juan was already hurrying into the cabin, calling out for Donald, Flynn’s valet on land, his chef on board the Bella Christa .
    Flynn followed Juan, heedless of the water that dripped from him to the plush carpeting of the main salon. Juan, just as heedless of the French Provincial sofa, laid the girl upon it. She whimpered slightly, and her eyelids fluttered. Then Donald, very correct in a white sailing uniform with a navy