Damn. Damn. Damn.

Matteo De Luca stood at the helm station of the Serafina with his arms crossed, sea-green eyes narrowed on the aft deck through the salon windows. Behind him, the instrument panel glowed steady and green—engines happy, generator humming, wind at eleven knots out of the southwest, nothing wrong with any of it. Everything on this boat ran exactly the way it was supposed to except the one thing he actually cared about right now, which was currently getting cornered by a bar cart.

Dario was very pointedly not looking at him. Which meant Dario had clocked the scowl and decided self-preservation was the better part of loyalty.

Fine. Let him look away.

Anchor holding. Stabilizers steady. Bar cart, unfortunately, also steady.

Whitmore—tipped like a king, complained like a toddler, wore his sunglasses pushed up on his head even at night like he was perpetually one photo op away from a yacht brochure—had leaned in close. Too close. Hand on her elbow like he had any business touching her elbow.

She's not even reacting.

Same smile she gave everyone. Billionaires. Drunk hedge-fund guys. Seasick kids clutching the rail on their first tender ride. Professional. Polished. The kind of smile that could survive a hurricane and still ask if anyone wanted more ice.

Lately, though, she'd started smiling at him differently.

He wished he hadn't noticed. He noticed anyway. That was the whole problem with him lately, wasn't it—engine room could be flooding and some part of his brain would still be tracking where she was on the boat.

Not his business. Not his department.

Except it was his boat. His crew. Ninety-two feet of teak and steel he'd been running across the Med for three seasons, tan gone permanent in the shape of his watch and the collar of his uniform, salt somewhere in his blood at this point probably. And if he wanted to invent a reason—safety reason, obviously, purely nautical—to go down there and put himself between her and a man who thought a tip covered manners, he could. Captain's prerogative.

He was already moving before he finished deciding that.

This was, apparently, forty percent of being captain now. Diesel leak, he could fix blind in the dark. Electrical fault, easier still. A guest who didn't understand where his hands went—that was the one thing on this boat he couldn't just torque back into spec.

"Everything all right down here?" Easy voice. Easy grin. The one that made guests relax before they'd even registered why.

Whitmore barely glanced over. "Just getting to know the staff, Captain. She's a delight."

The staff. Christ. Like she came standard with the teak.

"She's the best in the business," Matteo said, grin never slipping, something else entirely moving underneath it. "Which is why I need to borrow her. Squall's rolling in from the southwest—want to walk the party through tonight's plan before it hits."

There was no squall.

He'd checked the weather himself forty minutes ago, same as he always did, forecast be damned. Clear skies to the horizon. He was, technically, lying to a paying guest about meteorology. He'd do it again in about four seconds if he had to.

She looked at him—one beat too long, pretty eyes flicking up. She knew. Of course she knew. Four years crewing the same waters and nobody read him faster, not the harbor pilots, not his own mother.

"Of course, Captain." Not even a flicker. "Mr. Whitmore, if you'll excuse me—I'll have that Sancerre sent up in five minutes."

She fell into step beside him, easy, automatic, the kind of rhythm three seasons builds into two people without either of them noticing it happening. Neither of them said a word until they were in the shadow of the wheelhouse stairs, out of sightlines, out of earshot.

"There's no squall," she said.

"There might be."

"Matteo."

"There is always a chance of a squall. It's the sea. Unpredictable. Like some men's grip on personal space."