He wondered how cold the water was.

  Chapter Eight

  Pamela gathered the remains of Danielle’s meal and put it in the trash bin near their seats, wondering what had possessed her to agree to this trip. She had to be out of her mind.

  She’d called her mom to say she’d be out of town for a while and the woman had instantly suspected it had to do with Dane and Dani.

  Pamela claimed she was taking some much-needed vacation time—which wasn’t untrue—but sidestepped the details. Her mom’s peace of mind was precious and fragile. There was no need for her to worry about where Pamela would be for the next month.

  Or with whom.

  She sat down again and took a sip of water. Dani didn’t move, and her tawny curls crushed against Pamela’s sweater that she’d balled up to make a pillow.

  Poor kid. She’d been scared and Dane yelling at her had only made it worse. He didn’t realize how gruff he sounded at times.

  Speak of the devil.

  Dane came around the corner, looking windblown and storm-tossed. His hands were stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, his shoulders slumped, his eyes glinted with frustrated determination.

  “We got some food,” she said, motioning him into the seat next to her. “She fell asleep about ten minutes ago.”

  “Feeling better now?”

  She shuddered. “I’ve never had trouble sailing before.”

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  She thought back. Had she had anything since breakfast?

  “You had coffee and a bagel in the office this morning. I haven’t seen you eat anything since. You should know you can’t sail on an empty stomach.”

  She raised her eyebrows. He sounded almost like he cared.

  “I appreciate you explaining how my momentary bout of queasiness is my own fault.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Just like you didn’t curse at Dani when she slipped.”

  “I did not!”

  “Dane.” She exhaled carefully. “I know you didn’t mean it that way, but when you said ‘damn it’ it sounded as if you were mad at her for slipping.”

  He looked away, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t mad.”

  “I know you weren’t. You were scared.”

  His head snapped up. “I overreacted.”

  She knew an accusation of fear would get his attention.

  “That’s right. Because you were scared.” She reached out, gesturing for him to sit down. “You reacted exactly the way a parent should and you should be proud of that. You didn’t even know you were a parent a week ago and now look at you, freaking out on the ferry like any new mother.”

  He sat down carefully between her and Dani, keeping his distance, as if both of them were armed, ticking and likely to go off if bumped.

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” he said wryly.

  She patted his arm, deliberately jostling him. “No problem. You deserved it.”

  “I guess I could work at being a little less…”

  “King of the jungle-ish?”

  “I was going to say abrupt.”

  This time he returned her smile and she felt their usual ease return. Then, ease turned to heat and flames shot up, like someone had just turned on the gas.

  “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me in line,” he said softly, without breaking eye contact.

  He pressed his lips together and took a step closer to her. He touched her hand, just for a moment, but it seared through her skin, lighting a pathway up and down her body. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t move.

  “You know I appreciate this, Pam.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Appreciate what?” Her throat was dry. She blinked.

  His lips lifted in a small, half smile.

  “Your…support. Instruction, bullying, interference, meddling. You know.”

  “Ah, that,” said Pamela, nodding solemnly. “I did not, in fact.”

  “Well, I do. Appreciate it.” He looked away. His words were casual, his tone light, but she recognized both the struggle and his determination to express himself.

  He was so articulate, so charming, so prepared, that it almost felt like she was eavesdropping on something that was happening within himself, not meant for spectators. This was a private Dane that few saw. Instead, her mind returned to the memory of him touching her elbow the day he hired her and changed her life.

  “You’ve got a month to make my daughter like me,” he said, stepping back. “Think you can do it?”

  It wasn’t his daughter that needed the work, as he well knew.

  To have him do what was, for him, the equivalent of throwing himself at her mercy, touched her deeply.

  “I can absolutely do it.” Her smile wobbled and she hoped he didn’t notice. “But for the next month, I’m in charge. Can you handle that?”

  “You think I can’t?”

  The uncomfortable moment now a challenge, his gaze darkened, like smooth tiger eyes underwater.

  “I know you can’t. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

  The PA system dinged, instructing passengers to prepare for arrival. They both started and looked away, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown on them.

  Good. They were getting carried away with the silly games.

  “First stop, Nanaimo,” Dane told her. “Then a half-hour ride to Gabriola, where we’ll switch to my boat. Will she stay asleep?”

  His words were clipped, to the point, as if he was building a business strategy, but he glanced uncertainly at Dani.

  “We should get some yogurt and fruit before we leave Nanaimo,” she added, without looking at Dane. “Some instant mac and cheese, too. Canned tomato soup. Those are her favorites, apparently.”

  “She told you that,” he said in disbelief.

  “And without waterboarding, too!”

  He acted as if every inroad she made with his daughter represented a barrier that he was unable to cross, as if her victory meant his defeat. Men and their zero-sum games.

  “She was hungry, so I asked. She’s not going to connect with you unless you make the first move. You have to make all the moves.”

  “She has to meet me halfway.”

  “No, Dane, she doesn’t. Until you break through to her, it’s all on you.”

  His lips tightened. He knew he needed her help but his biggest challenge would be to accept being taught.

  “We can’t stop in Nanaimo, or we’ll miss our connection.” Dane spoke in carefully measured syllables, ignoring her last comment. “By the time we land on Gabriola, everything will be closed. I’ll make a run first thing in the morning. Until then, she’ll have to live on what I’ve got.”

  If she knew Dane, his pantry was stocked with things like sun-dried tomatoes, jarred capers and artichoke hearts, a variety of imported olive oils, anchovies, pickled asparagus, and spiced green beans.

  “Any chance you’ve got Skippy peanut butter for toast in the morning?”

  His mouth opened, but he said nothing. He lifted his hands, then let them drop.

  “It’s okay, Dane. We’ll manage.”

  She reached over to pat his arm but the boat rocked just then and her hand landed on his thigh instead. And closer to his body than his knee. She jerked her hand back.

  “Sorry!”

  He blinked slowly at her, his eyebrows lifted, and she felt her face flame.

  He appraised her silently, giving no clue to his thoughts. She wished her face wasn’t on fire. She wished she wasn’t suddenly so aware of his physical presence. His maleness.

  Oh, this was bad, very bad.

  The engine noises changed just then and the ferry lurched, indicating that they were nearing their destination.

  Dani lifted her head and blinked blearily. “Are we there yet?”

  “Almost,” said Dane, with false heartiness. “Are you having fun?”

  Dani’s face closed and she climbed into Pamela’s lap. There was no need to worry about her little slip, she reminded herself. Dane couldn’t read a female if she was wrapped in the newspaper.

  “Almost there,” repeated Dane. He reached a hand out to pat his daughter’s back, then withdrew it.

  He wasn’t almost there. He had a long, long way to go.

  …

  It was late by the time they arrived at the dock and later still before they’d gotten Dani settled into bed. Pam looked exhausted and he felt that way himself.

  Aunt Rose looked after his place when he wasn’t there and she did a great job. The stainless steel appliances gleamed. The granite-topped island shone like glass. His copper-bottomed pots sparkled from the hanging rack. And as a welcoming touch, fresh-cut flowers added a splash of color making the place look homey. He suppressed his guilt about how much she’d done out of eagerness to see him again. She understood how busy he was.

  She had also left a carton of milk in the fridge and a basket of fruit on the counter. Rose was going to be in pseudo-granny heaven when she met Dani.

  At least this time, Dani couldn’t complain there was no milk. But he’d forgotten to pick up a loaf of the country white from Creative that Dani deemed acceptable and he wasn’t about to buy the sliced, massed-produced abomination sold in corner stores. They served nothing but house-made, fresh-baked bread at his establishments. From oven to table, on tiny wooden cutting boards, rustic sourdough loaves in the pub and brewery, classic French baguettes in the restaurant. Bergman meals were known for the bread that accompanied them. Factory-made, prepackaged Styrofoam crap wouldn’t tarnish his kitchens, commercial or private, not while he was alive.

  “Dani can have a glass of milk and a banana in the morning,” he said to Pam. Then he sighed. “She’s going to want toast, isn’t she?”

  “It’s kind of a breakfast staple,” said Pam. “Where do you want me?”

  She stood there with her suitcase, looking questioningly at the hallway, apparently unaware of what she’d just said.

  Where did he want her?

  The master suite. The couch. The laundry room. The deck.

  He gave his head a shake. Where the hell had that come from?

  “Take the room at the end,” he said, finally.

  “You get settled,” he added. “I’ll find us something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said quickly. “I think I’ll just go straight to bed.”

  “You were queasy on the ferry because you haven’t eaten.” He crossed his arms. “You’ll eat.”

  She smiled at that and some of her embarrassment at accidentally groping him seemed to slip away.

  This crazy bonding plan of Pam’s had thrown them into someplace new and strange. They were both on unsteady ground, seeking new footing and unsure about how to talk to each other.

  They had to get back to their normal selves.

  Him: in charge. Her: thinking she was in charge.

  “Pasta?” he inquired, as if he didn’t know.

  “Sure,” she said with a laugh, then disappeared down the hallway.

  He went into his kitchen, his domain, turning his mind to the cooking. He itched to pull out his tablet and check in with work but instead, he focused on the elemental aspect of his business he’d been away from, for too long.

  He walked into his pantry, his fingers twitching, a frisson of excitement tickling his stomach. Food. That’s what they needed. He could handle that.

  Executive powwows, meetings with lawyers and developers and potential chefs, interviews with supply representatives and appliance companies seeking the Bergman name on their ads, they all involved lunches and dinners or drinks and appetizers. And the food was almost always ignored, the delicacy of those interactions reducing it to a mere vehicle, an interactive wheel-greaser.

  The irony didn’t escape him.

  The power lay with those who were in control of their urges and appetites. You didn’t get to be Dane Bergman with spaghetti sauce on your tie.

  You didn’t get to be Dane Bergman’s right-hand woman by letting your guard down during negotiations, even to appreciate a fantastic Genovese-style tagliatelle.

  But it was reassuring to have her join him in the occasional indulgence, when it came time to recap a successful deal or celebrate a milestone in one of the restaurants. Although Pam pretended otherwise, he knew she was partial to pasta.

  Pasta, the ultimate comfort food, Pam’s weakness, and the perfect thing to calm her stomach.

  He knew what would satisfy Pam’s appetite. His own appetites, however, weren’t as clear as they once were. He’d gotten a glimpse of her as a woman and that genie wouldn’t go back in the bottle.

  He forced his attention back to his task. He was here to bond with his daughter, unwind. Be a better man.

  Not obsess about the upcoming festival.

  Not stress about irrational protesters.

  Definitely not lech after his assistant.

  I’ll feed her, that’s it.

  But before that, he thought, looking at the toaster, a bit of preparation for morning.

  Chapter Nine

  Pamela went into the room at the end of the hallway and stopped.

  It was a suite, complete with a sitting area overlooking the bay.

  This was Dane’s bedroom.

  Instantly, she felt like she was violating his privacy. But she couldn’t resist indulging her curiosity just a bit.

  The artwork on the walls represented the wild nature of the Pacific coastline. She examined the corner of one scene, a dramatic rendering of black rock, purple water, and orange sky.

  Roy Henry Vickers. An original, no doubt.

  Dane had always had a soft spot for homegrown talent.

  She walked into the bathroom where a beautiful claw-foot tub sat directly in front of the window. She imagined lying there, watching the stars, sipping a glass of wine…

  And Dane, waiting for her on that massive bed.

  Insanity, thy name is Pamela.

  This is what she got for being too busy for a love life. An overactive, ridiculous imagination.

  But casual dating and sex for the sake of sex had always seemed…meaningless to her. Sure, she wanted something long-term one day, when the right guy came along. But men tended to get itchy feet when they learned about her mom.

  Dane hadn’t though, had he?

  So now what, she was giving him a starring role in her fantasies?

  She strode out, throwing her suitcase in the room next to Dani’s.

  She unpacked quickly, touching the beautiful wood furnishings with longing. Dane’s eye for loveliness was unmatched. She tried not to think about the claw-foot tub in his room as she stepped under the shower.

  What was she doing imagining herself in his private quarters?

  She blow-dried her hair, running her fingers through it to speed up the process. She would look like a wild woman, but she’d braid it in the morning. In fact, why bother with hair products at all?

  She decided to let her hair air dry the rest of the way and threw on a pair of comfy sweatpants, a yoga top, and an old, worn T-shirt for warmth. Utilitarian, practical, comfortable. She wasn’t competing with the Dimbos, she reminded herself. She was working. The sexiest thing she had with her was her bathing suits and even those were for actual swimming, not lounging about perfecting her boob-bounce.

  The three of them were here for a reason and she had to remember that.

  The second she opened her door, she caught the scent of garlic and olive oil on the air. Instantly, her stomach rumbled.

  She found Dane standing at the kitchen island, his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing tanned forearms, his hands inside a bowl, muscles and tendons flexing.

  Behind him she saw the source of the aroma simmering in a copper-bottomed pot over a low flame. The sight of the sleek business mogul with flour on his cheek, his powerful public persona turned private and domestic, made her knees turn watery and her mind fuzzy.

  She gave her head a little shake. It’s not like he’d directed her to his own bedroom intentionally.

  She needed to reiterate their boundaries, but lightly. With humor.

  “Just so we’re on the same page,” she said. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  His head whipped up and instantly she knew she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  “The room you directed me to,” she flailed. “It was yours. Joke. I’m joking.”

  Across the room, she felt the heat of his eyes as they roamed over her, felt the strangeness, this newness, grow between them.

  “You saw through my evil plan,” he said, matching her tone. “I’m devastated, naturally, and plan to drown myself tomorrow.”

  She clutched the back of a chair. Idiot! Embarrassment coursed through her. Why would she even think of such a thing? Dane didn’t see her that way. She wasn’t that kind of woman. She wasn’t his type. He’d said so himself.

  “That’s more like it,” she managed.

  If things were weird between them, it was because they were navigating the waters of friendship. And friendship between a man and a woman always had to get past the murky channel of sexual awareness.

  But were her physical charms so nonexistent as to be laughable?

  She wasn’t disappointed…was she?

  He smiled, a slow spread of amusement over his chiseled features.

  “You’ll have to stop dressing so provocatively, though, you temptress.”

  Something about his tone made her think that perhaps he was struggling with the same awareness. She looked down at the ratty T-shirt that tied her outfit together.

  “This banquet,” she said haughtily, “is not for your table.”

  His eyes glittered and as much as the banter had her off balance, she preferred him this way, rather than the puzzled, defeated Dane she saw on the ferry.

  She sat down at the granite-topped island. Her face was still burning, but she tried to adopt a casual air.

  “What’s that?” She gestured to a foil-wrapped package he’d taken out to thaw.

  He washed his hands, covered the bowl with a cloth, and placed it in the wall oven. “I’m making stock. Tomorrow we’ll have minestrone. Surely Dani will eat that.”

  “Homemade?”

  “I’m Dane Bergman. Of course it’s homemade.”

 

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