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Chapter One
Was this ridiculous ship ever going to dock?
Sterling Andrews crept to the lower level of the boat, bumping into the walls of the narrow staircase. Her stomach lurched—it’d been in a suspended state of animation for the past hour, and she swiped at the light film of sweat across her brow. So much for finding a man tonight. She needed a restroom. Pronto.
It wasn’t until she’d boarded the luxury yacht with the insane plan to find a man to break her out of her boring, predictable—responsible—rut that she’d figured out she was prone to seasickness. Were you supposed to feel such a large boat sway from side to side? Somehow, she didn’t think so.
Reaching the end of the staircase, she rested her hand on the wall to catch her breath. This was officially the most hideous night of her life. She was sick as a dog on a boat full of strangers, and to top it all off, what seemed like a great fashion choice when she left the house now left her feeling ridiculous.
The strappy four-inch stilettos, combined with vertigo from seasickness, wreaked havoc with Sterling’s balance. Her legs were cold under the shitload of crinoline that only just covered her ass, and she could barely breathe from the bodice that fit snugly around her torso.
Her best friend, Penn Foster—the brains behind the swanky charity event on the yacht and consequently this insane plan—had chosen the outfit, which was totally inappropriate for a professional organizer. Penn was in big trouble.
Sterling gathered her bag close and took a deep breath before heading down to the most interior quarters. Maybe down here the sway of the boat wouldn’t be so noticeable. Just then her stomach decided to do the rumba and she lost her balance. Luckily, the wall was courteous enough to break her fall. A breeze whipped up the stairway, taking with it the hem of her skirt, and the cool air whooshed across her bare backside like a chilly, lecherous hand.
Penn was so dead.
Forcing herself to forge on, she wobbled down the hallway with one hand on the wall for support, but she stopped short at the sound of male voices around a sharp corner.
“It’s time you got back on the horse, brother.” The sound was deep and coarse, like gravel against concrete. “Treat this as your coming-out party.”
“You’re an ass.” The second voice was lighter, but no less potent—a strong caress against her skin.
The first man chuckled. “You have your pick of the litter on this boat. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen any prospects.”
Sterling hugged the wall and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. If she didn’t get farther inside she was going to retch all over this deck.
“Picking up women is like riding a bike,” the first man continued. “Granted, it’s been a while and you might fall off the first time, but it’s not something you forget.”
Sterling bent forward, trying to poke her head around the corner to catch a glimpse of who was in need of riding lessons. Two men stood in the doorway, their profiles to her. The first man she recognized right away—Neil Harrison, the oldest of the Madewood brothers, and Penn’s employer. They’d met when she first stepped on the boat. His white chef’s coat, crisp and clean, accentuated his tall, broad frame. Black ink peeked out from under the collar of his jacket, making her wonder what kind of tattoo he had hidden beneath his clothes.
The second man was stunning. Instead of a white jacket, he wore a black dress shirt—untucked—and dark jeans with the perfect amount of fading. He was definitely underdressed for the swanky event going on above deck. If he were wearing a suit, she would have thought his shaggy black hair was in definite need of a haircut, but dressed as he was, the long strands jutting haphazardly from his head only sharpened his edge.
She recognized him from the pictures she’d seen in the newspapers—none other than bad boy Jack Vaughn, the youngest Madewood brother. Even though they were all known to society as the Madewoods, their foster mother had insisted each son keep his own family name.
The entire city of Toronto knew the Madewood family’s business. Being the foster sons of a prominent socialite and business owner meant the four brothers were big news on the local circuit. And the younger son had quite the reputation. Not a week would go by without a mention of Jack Vaughn in Hello Canada magazine, partying with the super-elite around the world. Well, at least until two months ago when their mother, Vivian Madewood, passed away.
The charity event on the yacht was in support of Cooking for the Future, a program their mother had started when she realized how the culinary arts helped her own foster children. Vivian wanted to continue that passion and help more than just four lucky boys. She’d been an inspiration for the entire city, and Sterling was sad to hear she’d passed.
“You’ve had it rough the last few months.” Neil clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I can pick up women on my own time,” Jack said. “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
The ship pitched and nausea rose in her stomach. It traveled north like a warning bell, alerting her to seek out a toilet or the railing of the boat—whichever was closer. She turned quickly and ran into a wall. Or rather, a boy carrying two trays of dirty glasses. Glasses that decided they no longer liked their position on the trays. They crashed to the floor, a loud, obnoxious taunt. Just one more reminder of how bad her luck had been the last twelve months.
She raised her hand to her mouth and mumbled through her fingers, “I’m so sorry.” With glass crunching under her feet, she crouched to pick up the pieces. At least the mess distracted her from her stomach.
“No, Miss,” the young man pleaded. “Leave that for me.” He bent down beside her and picked up his own share of glass. “Please, Miss, don’t—”
“What’s going on here?”
A shiver ran up her spine at the sound of the deep voice behind her. It was even sexier in closer proximity. She tilted her head and confirmed her suspicion. Jack Vaughn.
Beside him, Neil asked, “Sterling, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, Chef.” The boy tensed and stood steel-rod straight. She was waiting for him to salute. “I’ll clean everything up right away.”
“Nonsense.” She stood, too, and turned to face the two men. “This w
as all my fault. I’ll clean it up.”
Jack’s intense stare sent a wave of heat inching up her neck, and when he spoke, he held her gaze steady. “George, would you mind heading back to the kitchen to get something to clean this up?”
“Of course, Chef.” George turned on his heel with precision and headed off to follow orders.
She swallowed and tried to break from Jack’s hypnotic stare by darting her gaze to Neil.
“This is Penn’s friend Sterling,” Neil said to Jack with a grin. “I think she was roped into coming so Penn could utilize her super organization skills.”
She smiled. So not the case. She was here to meet a man. But she’d go with it. “You’d be right.”
Jack held out his hand, a wide grin stretching across his face, revealing even, white teeth and a sexy dimple. “Jack Vaughn.”
“I know who you are,” Sterling said softly and fit her hand in his.
“My reputation precedes me.” His flirty grin was no longer so flirty.
“You do have quite the reputation.” She squeezed his hand trying to let him know she was cool with his “reputation.” In fact, he was exactly what she was looking for tonight—as long as her stomach didn’t mess it up for her.
His gaze was definitely serious now. His demeanor had changed within a matter of seconds with one mention of his reputation. Well, hell. Flirting was so much harder than it looked on TV. She would have thought a man like Jack Vaughn would be proud of his reputation. Someone who took pride in the fact that he was infamous. But maybe not. She knew all too well that people’s assumptions were way off base most of the time.
