The eastern sky was still tinted a light peach when Alain held the door for Rachel to seat herself. She wore no jewelry or rings, and had dressed sensibly for the day of sailing awaiting them. Rachel handed her leather grip to Alain and he stowed it in the trunk. It was heavy, with the right clothing for any sailing weather, thanks to her father’s quick action in shipping her sailing gear by overnight courier.
Alain paused before he fired the powerful engine, both hands on the wheel, and turned to face her. She waited, watching him in silence. The past months of tireless work, side by side, had forged a strong bond between them — despite the recent reserved, professional atmosphere. Lately Alain had become more intense, almost guarded. At times, she caught him staring at her with apparent indecision and frustration flashing in his eyes.
After their lunch in Cassis, Rachel had decided to follow Alain’s example, suppressing her feelings to keep their relationship purely professional. At night, in the safety of her house, she could let her guard down, allowing the wicked, sensual images to infiltrate her mind. Images of his broad chest under a soft, cotton shirt, images of his muscular shoulders, tapering to his narrow hips, images of his strong arms. It would feel so good to be held by this strong, confident man.
But that was not to be — this was over, she mused and fastened her seatbelt with a determined action. She waited, patiently. Alain, once again, seemed to consider something.
“Ready?” he finally asked, and she nodded.
“I’m impressed — Marque told me you’ve sailed competitively in Cowes Week on your father’s yacht,” he opened neutrally and fired the engine.
“Yes, but we didn’t place well in the end — our navigation system failed on the second day.”
Alain nodded in silent understanding.
“Arianne taking care of Iain and Mia?”
Rachel shot a surprised look in Alain direction. How bizarre — he remembered their names. “Yes,” she replied, a little flustered. Then she added, pouting, “But I probably won’t be missed — she spoils them rotten.”
• • •
The wind was warm at a steady twenty-two knots when Alain and Rachel arrived in St. Tropez. On the horizon, a line of bright white sails in tight formation told the story of a fierce battle out at sea, yachts strategically jockeying for position to optimize the wind.
The marina was crammed with yachts, long masts bobbing and swaying, seemingly impatient to start the race as the metallic clangs of their halyards edged them on. Rachel shielded her eyes and stared at Pure Joy’s tall, dominating mast where she was moored along the wooden jetty.
“Permission to come aboard,” she announced half joking when they reached the sleek yacht, bobbing impatiently at its mooring lines. Marque straightened from where he was plotting a course at the chart table, a determined look in his eyes. He seemed eager to discuss strategy with Alain. Selecting the right sails for the wind conditions would be crucial and could make the difference between edging out an extra knot, or a colorful explosion as the sail was blown to tatters. Marque extended his hand to help her onboard.
“Welcome on Pure Joy, Rachel.” Then, leaning into her, he welcomed her with a warm hug after she stepped onto the teak deck.
With quick efficiency Marque introduced Rachel to the rest of the crew — Jean and his wife Sophie, Pierre and his fiancée Yolande, and Christophe and Pascale. “Stow your gear and let’s get the show started.”
• • •
Rachel appeared back on deck moments later and Alain inhaled sharply. She had pleated her hair in a tight French plait in preparation for the task ahead, and it emphasized her high cheekbones. His gaze drifted slowly to take in her fine neckline. Her skin had gained a soft, honey-colored glow since she arrived in Provence six months ago.
She was dressed in charcoal quick-dry shorts that showed the perfect shape of her tight buttocks and long legs, and a white, fast-wicking crew top.
His eyes wandered briefly to the inviting shape of her breasts, and, remembering the night in Monaco, the image of her bare, hardened buds flashed through his mind. His pulse rushed and he breathed deeply, suddenly in need of more air, and he busied himself with the unnecessary task of securing a halyard to the jib with an overhand knot.
Marque took Rachel by the elbow and steered her toward Alain. “Alain, can you allocate Rachel while I radio race control?”
Alain focused on gathering the jib sheet into a neat coil in an over-arm motion, acutely aware of Rachel’s quizzical expression. He hooked the coiled sheet onto a cleat and finally looked up to face Rachel’s eyes.
“So, where do you want me?”
His heart thumped as her question provoked an image of a naked Rachel pinned under him, the tender flesh of her exposed breasts silky smooth to his touch, hardened nipples inviting him.
Blood flushed red in Rachel’s neck and ears as she suddenly realized the double meaning of her question.
Alain studied Rachel, hands on hips, balanced on the balls of her feet, as she absorbed the gentle sway of the deck under her feet. Anticipation thrilled through him at the thought of having her so close for the whole day. She looked radiant and gorgeous, the wind playing with a stray lock of hair on her cheek. He had the sudden urge to tuck it away gently, stroking her smooth skin. Alain pushed a hand through his hair, grimaced and wrestled his lust down onto the deck.
“Why don’t you take up position as main trimmer?” he suggested on impulse, hoping that by placing her at the stern he would not be so distracted by her presence.
Rachel nodded in agreement, grabbed her waterproof jacket, and made her way to the stern. Alain busied himself with another jib sheet, sneaking a quick glance at the perfect shape of Rachel’s firm buttocks as she stepped lightly across the rolling deck.
It was going to be a long day.
• • •
By the time the warning gun fired, Marque had briefed the crew on their positions and the outline of the course. Rachel watched the faces of the other crewmembers while they moved under power toward the race committee boat bobbing in the distance. Rising excitement tingled in her stomach when Marque walked them through the strategy he and Alain had selected. She glanced at the high-end equipment and custom-made composite sails, and was again reminded of the importance of this event — especially for Marque and Alain. To them, this yacht was more than just a vessel to enjoy — it was honed to perfection with the sole purpose of winning. Their competitive nature would not accept anything but first place today, and she shivered at the thrill of the race lying ahead, confident in her ability to help this team achieve that goal.
The competing yachts approached the anchored boat of the racing committee in tight formation, their skippers glancing nervously upward to read the wind on their sails. Alain and Marque watched the competition, as they plotted to position Pure Joy. The minutes ticked off toward the start and the skipper’s orders on the yachts took on a new urgency. Their sharp commands rang out above the wind, deliberate in their quests to jockey for position, timing their runs with the common objective of placing their vessels on the perfect tack when the gun sounded. In the chaos before the gun, the yachts were running in tight, crisscross patterns, narrowly missing each other, the noise of the wind rushing over their sails urgent and fearsome.
Rachel watched Marque, anticipating his next order, his calm and deliberate actions that of someone in complete control. His eyes constantly scanned the sails above them, trusting Alain to judge the speed and distance of the fast-approaching vessels on their leeward side.
Marque took them on a long tack high upwind, leaving the chaos of other yachts behind. The urgent shouts of crewmembers, followed by the wrenching crash when two yachts collided, sounded behind them.
Rachel glanced back and inhaled sharply at the sight of the fatally entangled yachts, the crew desperately working to restore order. One crewmember had been flung into the churning waters, and a bright orange lifebuoy flew in a slow arch toward him through the air.
“Ready to tack!” Marque’s booming warning came, and Rachel readied herself for the sudden change in wind and direction that would come when Marque spun the wheel. The tack was completed cleanly and sharply. She glanced up, looking for the racing committee’s boat on their starboard side. With some irritation, Rachel noted how far they had traveled on their last run.
Too far. We’ve gone too far.
The run back to the starting line seemed too long a distance to cover before the gun would sound the start. Marque’s gaze danced on the digital readouts of the instrument panel before a small smile rose to his lips.
Rachel glanced toward Alain who stood proudly at the mast, one hand loosely on the stay, his head thrown back as he stared toward the tip of the mast, reading the power over the sail with an expert’s eye.
“More on the main!” Alain ordered from his position, and Rachel worked the winch to take in a couple of turns. She glanced up at the white carbon sheet, pulled flat and tight as a wing, and waited for Alain’s response.
“One more!” his sharp request came to her. Rachel swore softly and leaned her whole body into the winch to take in one more turn against the force of the wind on the sail. The sound of the wind rushing over the tight sail whistled madly in her ears.
They picked up a knot. Then one more.
She glanced ahead and smiled in silent admiration at the distance they had covered. Pure Joy thundered down toward the starting line, her brilliant white sails taut as steel, the aerodynamic bow slashing through the water, throwing white spray high into the air. Rachel glanced frantically at the clock, but at the instant the gun boomed, Pure Joy crossed the line in full flight. Marque had timed it to perfection.
Alain turned and watched Rachel as she tightened the main line at his instruction, her body crouched low and balanced over the winch. Wet spray glistened on her bare legs, but she seemed oblivious to that, focusing all her efforts on the task of tightening the mainsail. She paused and stared up at the mast, her eyes burning with concentration, judging the effect on the sail.
Intrigued, Alain watched the beating pulse of her racing heart throbbing in her neck, visible just below her jaw line. A tiny line of perspiration ran slowly down from behind her ear, down the curve of her neckline and over the hollow of her collarbone, plastering a few strands of hair against the wetness of her skin.
He blurred as the impulse tore at his loins — the impulse to run his tongue up the saltiness in her neck toward her ear and to bite her softly on the earlobe. He imagined her pinned on her back, his hands on her wrists, and she looked up at him, laughter dancing in her eyes, teasing him.
He leaned into her, ran his warm lips down her neckline, and she jolted with pleasure as he touched his lips to her neck. His tongue teased her soft skin, sensing the flutter of her rushed heartbeat. He noticed his own slow arousal and she moaned when he traced his tongue down her chest, deeply inhaling her sweet aroma.
“Prepare spinnaker!” Marque’s brusque warning shocked Alain back to reality. He shot Marque’s smiling face a daggered look and turned his attention to the horizon, seeking out all the telltale signs of currents or shifting winds.
Marque had taken them on a long, downwind tack, away from the fleet. They were running with the stronger wind, but had a longer leg to sail, and some of the other lighter yachts had gained on them.
Alain made a quick study of the wind speed and hooked the lanyard onto one of the three spinnakers they had selected for the race. When they turned downwind, he was ready, and with Christophe’s assistance, they raised the spinnaker in a smooth, well-drilled move. In one slow, controlled balloon of bright red, the massive sail majestically filled with wind, surging the vessel downwind on the next leg.
• • •
Rachel watched as Alain heaved with his full strength on the spinnaker line, the sinewy muscles in his roped forearms rippling in the sun. His dark hair, wet from the sea spray, was plastered to his high forehead. His powerful body moved with catlike agility as he reached up high, and then pulled hard on the line, the shadow of the massive red sail momentarily blocking out the sun when it ran up the mast in one smooth, silent motion.
With quick, strong fingers, Alain secured the line onto a cleat and took a small step backward to study the wind on the sail. His deep chest heaved rhythmical from the exertion where he stood, head tilted back, his strong back arched. His skin glistened from the wet spray on his arms, biceps rippling as he held onto the mast for balance.
A deep urge stirred in her at the thought of Alain’s hands stroking down her back, pulling her closer. She shuddered involuntary at the memory of his skillful tongue, teasing her to the point where she would cry out with anticipation and a need for more. She swallowed hard and glanced at Marque, guilty. If he had noticed anything, she was none the wiser, as Marque was staring out ahead, his eyes on the horizon with a shrewd smirk playing on his lips.
Six hours later, after they tacked for the final run on the homeward leg, Pure Joy had pulled out a ten-boat lead on the small group of chasing frontrunners. With the stronger wind blowing on her starboard side, no one could catch them. Rachel glowed in the euphoria and excitement of winning when they sailed back into the marina and headed for their berth.
• • •
Alain remained on the yacht long after they had moored Pure Joy and stowed her sails, and long after the last of the crewmembers disappeared to enjoy a deserved hot shower. He stood at the bow, in deep thought, arms crossed on his chest, absorbing the gentle sway of the vessel. His dark eyes were restless, flicking across the horizon, tinged with an angry red as the sun finally settled below the skyline.
Then he raised his hands and crossed them behind his head and sighed, relieved. He had changed his mind — Rachel would be his. Not just for one night, but for as long as they lived. She was everything he desired, and he was prepared to face the consequences. He would face her husband, openly stating his intentions. It would not be done by a written note — not like his mother did it. But first, he must convince Rachel of his love, and given how he had treated her that might be an uphill battle.
With an easy motion, Alain stepped from the yacht onto the jetty to join the others in the clubhouse.