Megan's Mate

  afternoon. I could reschedule.”

  “You want me to baby-sit.”

  “I know you're busy, but—”

  “Mandy, I thought you'd never ask me.” Megan's eyes lit up. “When can I get my hands on her?”

  Kevin figured this was the best summer of his life. He missed his grandparents, and the horses, and his best friend, John Silverhorn, but there was too much to do for him to be really homesick.

  He got to play with Alex and Jenny every day, had his own fort, and lived in a castle. There were boats to sail, and rocks to climb—and Coco or Mr. Dutch al­ways had a snack waiting in the kitchen. Max told him really neat stories. Sloan and Trent sometimes let him help with the renovations, and Holt had let him drive the little powerboat.

  All his new aunts played games with him, and sometimes, if he was really, really careful, they let him hold one of the babies.

  It was, to Kevin's thinking, a really good deal.

  Then there was Nathaniel. He snuck a look at the man who sat beside him, driving the big convertible up the winding road to The Towers. Kevin had decided that Nathaniel knew something about everything. He had muscles and a tattoo and most always smelted like the sea.

  When he stood at the helm of the big tour boat, his eyes narrowed against the sun and his broad hands on the wheel, he was every little boy's idea of a hero.

  “Maybe...” Kevin trailed off unta Nathaniel glanced down at him.

  “Maybe what, mate?”

  “Maybe I could go back out with you sometime,” Kevin blurted out. “I won't ask so many questions next time, or get in the way.”

  Was there ever a man, Nathaniel wondered, who could defend himself against the sweetness of a child? He stopped the car at the family entrance. “I'll pipe you aboard my ship anytime.” He flicked a finger down the brim of the captain's hat he'd carelessly dropped on Kevin's head. “And you can ask all the questions you want.”

  “Really?” Kevin pushed the brim back up, so that he could see.

  “Really.”

  “Thanks!” Kevin threw his arms around Nathan­iel in a spontaneous hug that had Nathaniel's heart sliding down the slippery chute toward love. “I gotta tell Mom. Are you going to come in?”

  “Yeah.” He let his hands linger on the boy a mo­ment before they dropped away.

  “Come on.” Bursting with tidings, Kevin scram­bled out of the car and up the steps. He hit the door running. “Mom! I'm back!”

  “What a quiet, dignified child,” Megan com­mented as she stepped into the hallway from the par­lor. “It must be my Kevin.”

  With a giggle, Kevin darted to her, rising on his toes to see which baby she was holding. “Is that Bianca?”

  “Delia.”

  Kevin squinted and studied. “How can you tell them apart? They look the same.”

  “A mother's eyes,” she murmured, and bent to kiss him. “Where've you been, sailor?”

  “We went way, way out in the ocean and back, twice. We saw nine whales. One was like a baby. When they're all together, they're called a pod. Like what peas grow in.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And Nate let me steer and blow the horn, and I helped chart the course. And this man on the second deck was sick the whole time, but I wasn't 'cause I've got good sea legs. And Nate says I can go with him again, so can I?”

  Nearly nine years as a mother had Megan follow­ing the stream of information perfectly. “Well, I imagine you can.”

  “Did you know whales mate for life, and they're not really fish at all, even though they live in the water? They're mammals, just like us and elephants and dogs, and they've got to breathe. That's how come they come up and blow water out of their spouts.”

  Nathaniel walked in on the lecture. And stopped, and looked. Megan stood, smiling down at her son, his hand in hers and a baby on her hip.

  I want. The desire streamed through Nathaniel like sunlight, warm, bright. The woman—there had never been a question of that. But he wanted, as Sloan had said, the whole package. The woman, the boy, the family.

  Megan looked over and smiled at him. His heart all but stopped.

  She started to speak, but the look in Nathaniel's eyes had her throat closing. Though she took an un­conscious step back, he was already there, his hand on her cheek, his lips on hers with a tenderness that turned her to putty.

  The baby laughed in delight and reached for a fist­ful of Nathaniel's hair.

  “Here we go.” Nathaniel took Delia, hefted her high so that she could squeal and kick her feet. When he settled her on his hip, both Megan and Kevin were still staring at him. He jiggled the baby and cocked his head at the boy. “Do you have a problem with me kissing yourmom?”

  Megan made a little strangled sound. Kevin's gaze dropped heavily to the floor. “I don't know,” he mumbled.

  “She sure is pretty, isn't she?”

  Kevin shrugged, flushed. “I guess.” He wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel. Lots of men kissed his mother. His granddad and Sloan—and Holt and Trent and Max. But this was different. He knew that. After all, he wasn't a baby. He shot a look up, lowered his eyes again. “Are you going to be her boyfriend now?”

  “Ah...” Nathaniel glanced at Megan, was met with a look that clearly stated that he was on his own. “That's close enough. Does that bother you?”

  Because his stomach was suddenly jittery, Kevin moved his thin shoulders again. “I don't know.”

  If the boy wasn't going to look up, Nathaniel fig­ured it was time to move down. He crouched, still holding the baby. “You can take plenty of time to think about it, and let me know. I'm not going any­where.”

  “Okay.” Kevin's eyes slid up toward his mother's, then back to Nathaniel's. He sidled closer and leaned toward Nathaniel's ear. “Does she like it?”

  Nathaniel clamped down on a chuckle and an­swered solemnity with solemnity. “Yeah, she does.”

  After a long breath, Kevin nodded. “Okay, I guess you can kiss her if you want.”

  “I appreciate it.” He offered Kevin a hand, and the man-to-man shake had the boy's chest swelling like a balloon.

  “Thanks for taking me today.” Kevin took off the captain's hat. “And for letting me wear this.”

  Nathaniel dropped the hat back on Kevin's head, pushed up the brim. “Keep it.”

  The boy's eyes went blank with shocked pleasure. “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Look, Mom, I can keep it. I'm going to show Aunt Coco.”

  He raced upstairs with a clatter of sneakers. When Nathaniel straightened again, Megan was eyeing him narrowly.

  “What did he ask you?”

  “Man talk. Women don't understand these things.”

  “Oh, really?” Before she could disabuse him of that notion, Nathaniel hooked his fingers in her waist­band and jerked her forward.

  “I've got permission to do this now.” He kissed her thoroughly, while Delia did her best to snuggle be­tween them.

  “Permission,” Megan said when she could breathe again. “From whom?”

  “From your men.” He strolled casually into the parlor, laid Delia on her play rug, where she squealed happily at her favorite stuffed bear. “Except your fa­ther, but he's not around.”

  “My men? You mean Kevin and Sloan.” Realiza­tion dawned, and had her sinking onto the arm of a chair. “You spoke to Sloan about... this?”

  “We were going to beat each other up about it, but it didn't come to that.” Very much at home, Nathan­iel walked to the side table and poured himself a short whiskey from a decanter. “We straightened it out.”

  “You did. You and my brother. I suppose it didn't occur to either of you that I might have some say in the matter.”

  “It didn't come up. He was feeling surly about the fact that you'd spent the night with me.”

  “It's none of his business,” Megan said tightly.

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. It's water under the bridge no
w. Nothing to get riled about.”

  “I'm not riled. I'm irritated that you took it upon yourself to explain our relationship to my family without discussing it with me.” And she was un­nerved, more than a little, by the worshipful look she'd seen in Kevin's eyes.

  Women, Nathaniel thought, and tossed back his whiskey. “I was either going to explain it to Sloan or take a fist in the face.”

  “That's ridiculous.”

  “You weren't there, sugar.”

  “Exactly.” She tossed back her head. “I don't like to be discussed. I've had my fill of that over the years.”

  Very carefully, Nathaniel set his glass down. “Me­gan, if you're going to circle back around to Du-mont, you're just going to get me mad.”

  “I'm not doing that. I'm simply stating a fact.”

  “And I stated a fact of my own. I told your brother I was in love with you, and that settled it.”

  “You should have...” She trailed off, gasped for air that had suddenly gone too thin. “You told Sloan you were in love with me?”

  “That's right. Now you're going to say I should have told you first.”

  “I... I don't know what I'm going to say.” But she was glad, very glad, that she was already sitting down.

  “The preferred response is 'I love you, too.'“ He waited, ignored the slow stroke of pain. “Can't get your tongue around that.”

  “Nathaniel.” Be calm, she warned herself. Rea­sonable. Logical. “This is all moving so fast. A few weeks ago, I didn't even know you. I never expected what's happened between us. And I'm still baffled by it. I have very strong, very real feelings for you, oth­erwise I couldn't have stayed with you that first night.”

  She was killing him, bloodlessly. “But?”

  “Love isn't something I'll ever be frivolous about again. I don't want to hurt you, or be hurt, or risk a misstep that could hurt Kevin.”

  “You really think time's the answer, don't you? That no matter what's going on inside you, if you just wait a reasonable period, study all the data, balance all the figures, the right answer comes up.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “If you're saying do I need time, then yes, I do.”

  “Fine, take your time, but add this into your equa­tion.” In two strides he was in front of her, dragging her up, crushing her mouth with his. “You feel just what I feel.”

  She did—she was very much afraid she did. “That's not the answer.”

  “It's the only answer.” His eyes burned into hers. “I wasn't looking for you, either, Megan. My own course was plotted out just fine. You changed every­thing for me. So you're going to have to adjust your nice neat columns and make room for me. Because I love you, and I'm going to have you. You and Kevin are going to belong to me.” He released her. “Think about it,” he said, and walked out.

  Idiot. Nathaniel continued to curse himself as he spun his wheels pulling up in front of Shipshape. Ob­viously he'd found a new way to court a woman: Yell and offer ultimatums. Clearly the perfect way to win a heart.

  He snatched Dog out of the back seat and received a sympathetic face bath. “Want to get drunk?” he asked the wriggling ball of fur. “Nope, you're right, bad choice.” He stepped inside the building, set the dog down and wondered where he might find an al­ternative.

  Work, he decided, was a wiser option than a bot­tle.

  He busied himself with an engine until he heard the familiar blat of a horn. That would be Holt, bringing in the last tour of the day.

  His mood still sour, Nathaniel went out and down to the pier to help secure lines.

  “The holiday's bringing in a lot of tourists,” Holt commented when the lines were secured. “Good runs today.”

  “Yeah.” Nathaniel scowled at the throng of people still lingering on the docks. “I hate crowds.”

  Holt's brow lifted. “You were the one who came up with the Fourth of July special to lure them in.”

  “We need the money.” Nathaniel stomped back into the shop. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.”

  “Who's ticked you off?”

  “Nobody.” Nathaniel took out a cigar, lit it defi­antly. “I'm not used to being landlocked, that's all.”

  Holt very much doubted that was all, but, in the way of men, shrugged his acceptance and picked up a wrench. “This engine's coming along.”

  “I can pick up and go anytime.” Nathaniel clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Nothing holding me. All I got to do is pack a bag, hop a freighter.”

  Holt sighed, accepted his lot as a sounding board. “Megan, is it?”

  “I didn't ask for her to drop in my lap, did I?”

  “Well...”

  “I was here first.” Even when he heard how ridic­ulous that sounded, Nathaniel couldn't stop. “Wom­an's got a computer chip in her head. She's not even my type, with those neat little suits and that glossy briefcase. Who ever said I was going to settle down heie, lock myself in for life? I've never stayed put anywhere longer than a month since I was eighteen.”

  Holt pretended to work on the engine. “You started a business, took out a mortgage. And it seems to me you've been here better than six months now.”

  “Doesn't mean anything.”

  “Is Megan dropping hints about wedding bells?”

  “No.” Nathaniel scowled around his cigar and snarled. “lam.”

  Holt dropped his wrench. “Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You're thinking of getting mar­ried, and you're kicking around here muttering about hopping a freighter and not being tied down?”

  “I didn't ask to be tied down, it just happened.” Nathaniel took a deliberate puff, then swore. “Damn it, Holt, I made a fool of myself.”

  “Funny how we do that around women, isn't it? Did you have a fight with her?”

  “I told her I loved her. She started the fight.” He paced the shop, nearly gave in to the urge to kick the tool bench. “What happened to the days when women wanted to get married, when that was their Holy Grail, when they set hooks for men to lure them in?”

  “What century are we in?”

  The fact that Nathaniel could laugh was a hopeful sign. “She thinks I'm moving too fast.”

  “I'd tell you to slow down, but I've known you too long.”

  Calmer, he took up a ratchet, considered it, then set it down again. “Suzanna took her lumps from Du-mont. How'd you get past it?”

  “I yelled at her a lot,” Holt said, reminiscing.

  “I've tried that.”

  “Brought her flowers. She's got a real weakness for flowers.” Which made him think that perhaps he'd stop on the way home and pick some up.

  “I've done that, too.”

  “Have you tried begging?”

  Nathaniel winced. “I'd rather not.” His eyes nar­rowed curiously. “Did you?”

  Holt took a sudden, intense interest in the engine. “We're talking about you. Hell, Nate, quote her some of that damn poetry you're so fond of. I don't know. I'm not good at this romance stuff.”

  “You got Suzanna.”

  “Yeah.” Holt's smile spread. “So get your own woman.”

  Nathaniel nodded, crushed out his cigar. “I intend to.”

  Chapter 10

  The sun had set by the time Nathaniel returned home. He'd overhauled an engine and repaired a hull, and he still hadn't worked off his foul mood.

  He remembered a quote—Horace, he thought— about anger being momentary insanity. If you didn't figure out a way to deal with momentary insanity, you ended up in a padded room. Not a cheerful image.

  The only way to deal with it, as far as he could see, was to face it. And Megan. He was going to do both as soon as he'd cleaned up.

  “And she'll have to deal with me, won't she?” he said to Dog as the pup scrambled out of the car be­hind him. “Do yourself a favor, Dog, and stay away from smart women who have more brains than sense.”

  Dog wagged his tail in agreement or sympathy, then toddled away to water the hedges.


  Nathaniel slammed the car door and started across the yard.

  “Fury?”

  He stopped, squinted into the shadows of dusk, to­ward the side of the cottage. “Yeah?”

  “Nathaniel Fury?”

  He watched the man approach, a squat, muscled tank in faded denim. Creased face, strutting walk, a grease-smeared cap pulled low over the brow.

  Nathaniel recognized the type. He'd seen the man, and the trouble he carried with him like a badge, in dives and on docks the world over. Instinctively he shifted his weight.

  “That's right. Something I can do for you?”

  “Nope.” The man smiled. “Something I can do for you,”

  Even as the first flash of warning lit in Nathaniel's brain, he was grabbed from behind, his arms vi­ciously twisted and pinned. He saw the first blow coming, braced, and took a heavy fist low in the gut. The pain was incredible, making his vision double and waver before the second blow smashed into his jaw.

  He grunted, went limp.

  “Folded like a girl. Thought he was supposed to be tough.” The voice behind him sneered, giving him the height and the distance. In a fast, fluid movement, Nathaniel snapped his head back, rapping his skull hard against the soft tissue of a nose. Using the rear assailant for balance, he kicked up both feet and slammed them into a barrel chest.

  The man behind him cursed, loosened his grip enough for Nathaniel to wrest himself away. There were only seconds to judge his opponents and the odds.

  He saw that both men were husky, one bleeding profusely now from his broken nose, the other snarling as he wheezed, trying to get back his breath after the double kick to his chest. Nate snapped his elbow back, had the momentary pleasure of hearing the sound of bone against bone.

  They came at him like dogs.

  He'd been fighting all his life, knew how to men­tally go around the pain and plow in. He tasted his own blood, felt the power sing up his arm as his fist connected. His head rang like church bells when he caught a blow to the temple. His breath burned from another in the ribs.

  But he kept moving in as they circled him, lashing out, dripping sweat and blood. Avoiding a leap at his throat with a quick pivot, he followed through with a snapping, backhanded blow. The flesh on his knuck­les ripped, but the pain was sweet.

  He caught the quick move out of the corner of his eye and turned into it. The blow skimmed off his shoulder, and he answered it with two stinging jabs to the throat that had one of the men sinking bonelessly to his knees.

  “Just you and me now.” Nathaniel wiped the blood from his mouth and measured his foe. “Come on.”

  The loss of his advantage had his opponent taking a step in retreat. Facing