Rachel Gibson - Lola Carlyle Reveals All

“No. Just find the net,” she instructed as she opened the door to the swimming platform. She moved down the steps and reeled as she spoke. “And there should be some sort of hook puller, too.”

He found a fishing net in the fender storage where he’d discovered the fishing poles and tackle, and something that resembled a pair of pliers.

Damn if she hadn’t outfished him.

“Hurry,” she called up to him as he made his way down the stairs. The chop had risen about another half a foot, and now seawater splashed over the platform and Lola’s bare feet.

The first fish cleared the surface of the water, a small brilliant blue with a bright yellow tail and eyes. Max had no idea what kind of fish it was, but the second was obviously a variety of grouper. Its skin was a slick beige with brown stripes and gray spots. It made up for its less-than-impressive coloring with a weight Max guessed to be around fifteen pounds. He scooped the fish up into the net, the little blue flipping its yellow tail.

They headed toward the aft deck once again, and Lola fired instructions over her shoulder while Max carried the net and fish up the stairs. “You need to take the hooks out, and then we need to find an ice chest or something cold to put them in. You can gut them right now if you want.”

No problem, but they weren’t his fish. “I thought you said you fished with your grandfather on his charter boat.”

“I did, but he took the hooks out and gutted them for me.” Her brows lowered over her brown eyes as she looked up at him. “Those are men’s jobs.”

“So, your only job is to reel them in?”

“Of course,” she answered as if he were dense.

But Max hadn’t been born that dense and knew she was making up the rules as she went along. He pulled the little blue from the net and removed the hook from its mouth. He set it on the deck, where it flipped itself onto its other side.

“Aren’t they just beautiful?” Lola gushed, extremely proud, as if she’d created them herself.

“They’re okay.” He hauled the grouper from the net and removed the hook. So, she’d caught two fish. Big deal. “During a training mission in Malaysia, I shot the head off a cobra and ate it for breakfast.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “And you’re telling me this… why?”

He laid the fish side by side but didn’t answer. He didn’t know why he’d told that stupid story. Other than maybe he wanted to impress her, which was embarrassing to admit, even to himself.

“Do you feel threatened?”

He looked up at her. “By what?”

“By me. Does my catching fish threaten your masculinity?”

Max chuckled as he stood. He didn’t feel threatened, just ridiculous. “Honey, my masculinity is just fine. It would take more than your tiny ol‘ fish to make me feel like less of a man.”

“You sound jealous.”

Maybe a little, but he’d never cop to it. Never. “Of these little things? Not in this lifetime.”

Baby hopped off the bench and wandered over to the fish. The grouper slapped its tail against the deck and the little dog jumped back. “Keep your eye on Baby while I find an ice chest,” she instructed, then walked into the galley.

The dog put his ears back and inched closer. He licked the grouper’s tail and got smacked on the nose. Once again he backed off.

Max glanced at the galley door, then lowered his voice. “Quit being such a pussy dog and get over there. Come on.” He couldn’t bring himself to call the dog by its pansy name, so he settled on, “Get over there, B. D., and show that fish who’s boss.”

Buoyed by other male encouragement, Baby moved to the head of the fish, sniffed it twice, then licked its eye. “Yeah, that’s a good boy.”

“Baby!” Lola walked from the galley and hit the lid of a Styrofoam cooler with her hand. “Get away from those fish.” She set it on the deck, then looked up at Max. “I thought you were going to watch him.”

Max didn’t recall making any such commitment. “Your dog doesn’t listen real well.”

Inside the chest, Lola had placed two frozen reusable gel packs. “The ice in the freezer is pretty melted, but these are still solid,” she said. Then she glanced up at him and added, “Go ahead and put them in.”

He also didn’t remember signing on as her toady. “That honor belongs to you.”

“That’s okay. Your hands already smell like fish.” She looked down at herself. “And I’m wearing white.”

“Uh-huh.” He knelt beside the cooler and placed the fish inside. His fishing chair scooted a few inches across the deck and he glanced over at his own pole almost bent in half.

“Christ,” he swore, and quickly rose, hardly feeling the pain in his side as adrenaline shot through him. He grabbed the pole and reeled in line as he moved to the platform. “Bring the net,” he hollered at Lola. The platform rolled with the waves and ocean water rushed over his feet. He pulled the tip of the pole up and reeled like mad. Compared to the two lake trout he’d caught, this fish felt like a Buick.

He caught his first glimpse of red just below the light blue surface. Lola scooped it into the net, and he immediately lifted it from her. With his pole in one hand, he studied the brilliant red snapper. It had to weigh at least twenty-five pounds.

Once again, he followed Lola to the aft deck and removed the hook. “Would ya look at that,” he said as he knelt and laid it on the deck. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long time, with its pretty red scales and spiny fins.

“It’s just a fish.”

He stood and took a step back to admire his catch. “It’s huge.”

Lola folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Well, I caught more than you did.”

“Both your fish don’t weigh as much as mine.”

“Haven’t you heard? Size doesn’t matter.”

He looked over at her. “Bull.” A pout pinched her full lips and he smiled. “Only a guy with a small package believes that crap.”

Her brows drew together and a frown creased her forehead. “I just know it’s true.”

Max shook his head and laughed. “I could prove you wrong.”

“Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.”

“Anytime, Lolita.”

Lola set white rice on the back burner to boil, then mixed oregano, thyme, cayenne pepper, a dose of paprika, and a dash of salt into a bowl.

Anytime, Lolita, Max had practically whispered into her ear. Well, maybe not whispered, and not into her ear, he’d been standing too far away for that. But it had felt as if he’d whispered into her ear. He’d lowered his voice like an intimate caress that lifted the hair on the back of her neck. A not-altogether-unpleasant experience. Which was bad. Really bad. And dangerous.

The first night she’d seen Max, she’d known he was dangerous, she just hadn’t known the danger was in seeing him as a man, not as a thief and a pirate. She didn’t want to look into his battered face and see the stunning contrasts beneath the bruises. The light blue of his eyes and his dark skin and hair. The hard set of his jaw and chin conflicting with the fullness of a mouth that might appear soft on any other man, but not Max. His blood was made up of ninety-nine percent pure testosterone, leaving no doubt that he was one hundred percent heterosexual male.

She did not want to see Max the man. A man to slay dragons. A man who rescued damsels and drowning dogs, then caught and gutted the biggest fish.

Only after he’d admired his catch from every angle and bragged about its size as if it were the biggest fish ever taken alive did he finally gut all three fish. He’d flayed them like a pro, and since they’d caught more than they could eat at one meal, they’d packed half the snapper filets and the grouper in baggies and placed them in the back of the freezer.

While Lola had searched the galley for spices, Max had left to start the engines and clean up. In the pantry, she’d found fresh olive oil, five lemons, and the rice. While the rice cooked, she coated four fillets with the spices and added a dash of black pepper. When the olive oil was heated to the right temperature, she placed the fillets in the pan and cooked them for about seven minutes on each side.

She didn’t consider herself a gourmet cook, but part of her recovery from bulimia had been learning how to have a healthy relationship with food. Learning how to eat again. And learning how to eat meant learning how to cook more than one microwavable Lean Cuisine a day. She’d taken a few classes, but mostly she’d learned by reading the many cookbooks she’d collected from all over the world.

She owned a hundred and twelve of them, and some she couldn’t even read because they were written in French, Italian, or Spanish. She’d purchased them all during the last few years of her modeling career when her sickness had been out of control. When every thought had been of how many grams of fat in a chicken breast. Of pocket calorie counters and calculating how many minutes on the treadmill and stair-stepper to burn off a cup of yogurt. And then, ultimately, her total loss of control and her insane binges that always resulted in self-disgust and a trip to the bathroom.

Not a very glamorous picture, but Lola had been one of the lucky ones. She’d never picked up a needle or downed amphetamines, the price many paid for the glamorous life. The price for an unrealistic body image that the industry and the weight-conscious public demanded. Now, three years later, Lola still watched what she ate, but she watched to make sure she didn’t lose weight. Her personal trigger that could potentially start another downward spiral.

The galley door opened and Max entered, bringing a slice of the afternoon sun at his back and Baby at his bare heels. The top of his head only cleared the cabin ceiling by two inches, and it seemed he filled the space with his wide shoulders. He’d cleaned up and changed into a jeans shirt he’d found in the stateroom. It didn’t fit him, of course, and he’d had to slice off the short sleeves to accommodate his biceps. He’d left the front unbuttoned across his big chest.