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  “Just under a thousand.”

  “Hell, Brandon, you made it sound like—”

  “Like it was just me and Jeb?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s because that’s how it’s been, in terms of the decisions we’ve made. We started with five other employees, but as we’ve grown, the production output has increased, obviously. And I’ve got pressure from my employees to do bigger projects, like the other shipbuilders in the area. They see a government contract as insurance that they’ll have a job, even in a bad economy. Being at the behest of the mega-rich for sailboats isn’t enough to keep the company afloat through the rough times. And when the economy goes south, our flat-bottom boat sales fall off.”

  She stood up, needing space from the intensity of his energy. Pure angst poured off him. No wonder he’d been so crazed, so grumpy. He was supporting one thousand people, that many families. “Take me to the boatyard, Gus.”

  He stood up and stretched. “Aye aye, ma’am.”

  She turned back when at the door. “Can we get there or is the flooding still an issue?”

  He laughed. “Yankee girl, this is boat country and boats are my life. We can always get wherever we need to.” He looked out at the water again. “I think we’ll be able to drive no problem, but the water’s the best way to see Boats by Gus for the first time. We’ll take my flat-bottom.”

  “I’ll get my boots.” Or rather, Sonja’s waders. Unlike the first few times she’d boarded Brandon’s boat, she couldn’t ignore the burst of long lost emotion in her center. Joy.

  Chapter 13

  Brandon maneuvered the boat up to a huge pier that was covered with cranes, lifts, and Poppy thought she identified cradles for the untested boats. Where she’d pictured a quaint aluminum Quonset hut type of office, with maybe a huge factory-ish facility behind it, Boats by Gus encompassed a vast amount of concrete next to the river. Three buildings that looked like airplane hangars lined up in a row, with a multitude of smaller buildings sprinkled in.

  “Here.” He held out his hand and, in a motion that was becoming far too familiar and practiced, she accepted his boost up onto the pier.

  “Thanks.” She made a point of looking all around. “Is all of this yours? I mean, Boats by Gus?”

  “Yup. The small flat-bottoms are manufactured here, in the closest warehouse. The next one is where the custom sailboats happen, and the furthest is for custom commercial vessels.”

  “So that’s where the San Sofia ships will be built.” She tugged on his arm, unable to conceal her interest. “Come on, let’s start there.”

  Brandon didn’t move. When she looked up at him his face was in that “the shit’s about to hit the fan” expression.

  “What is it?” God, had she said something stupid already? She had to help him land this contract because she needed the cold hard cash to save her own business. But now there was something more going on, something deeper that she didn’t want to identify was motivating her. “Are you thinking it was a mistake to bring me here?”

  He blinked. “No, not at all. In fact, you need to see this, you’re right. I don’t want to lead you on, though, Poppy. You realize that the odds of me winning the San Sofia contract are the same as having a year without rain in the bayou, right?”

  Poppy didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Brandon had to be able to dig deep and muster his own motivation. All she could do was coach him.

  Brandon let out an exasperated breath and grasped her elbow in a brief squeeze. “Come on.”

  * * * *

  He thought he’d appreciated Poppy’s bourbon eyes in all settings—outside on the water, inside while it was storming, under the bright lights of his kitchen. Seeing her eyes widen in reaction to the vastness of his third boathouse facility took the cake.

  “You’ve got plenty of room here to build the types of boats you were showing me.” She craned her neck to view the top of the rounded roof. Their voices were tiny in the huge space, making their tour intimate, somehow. That and it was Sunday, so no one was about except for his security staff, who only came through here on their regular rounds.

  “Yes. We could easily make six of the requested twelve in the first year of the contract.”

  “Wait, the first year?” Poppy bit her lower lip. “Is that customary? Forgive me for being obtuse but I’m used to working in an industry where I can have just about whatever I want when I want it. I’ve never had to wait a year for anything.”

  Brandon’s brow arched. “Boats take a long while, and a little longer at Boats by Gus because we’re known for attention to detail and custom work.”

  “But you’re competing against builders that have some of this automated, right?”

  “Yes. And that’s the bitch right there. We’ve known for a while that we’d have to accept some automation in order to compete with the mainline builders. I wanted to do it on my time.”

  “It strikes me that this is your time.” Amber eyes on his, brooking no argument. She shrugged. “Shit happens, Brandon. And the worst stuff is never on our timetable. What you still have control over is how to approach it. You refuse to report Jeb’s theft yet, and even if you did, like you said, the money’s gone. As I see it you don’t have a choice. You have to win the San Sofia contract.”

  All the accusations he’d had against her helping him were blown out of his consciousness with the single purpose of saving his company. With Poppy’s unabashed observation.

  “I do.”

  “How long would it keep your company running?”

  “The contract will take two years, start to finish, to deliver all dozen vessels. I’d have to hire on twenty-five percent more workforce.”

  “And keep everyone else’s pay the same?”

  “That includes a ten percent bonus for each employee, new and established, for each year of the contract.”

  She whistled. “That’s incredible.”

  “There will always be the next contract to get after this, though.” He never wanted to be in the business of fighting for contracts, depending upon governmental budgets. It smacked too closely to the political work his father had done.

  “Brandon, that’s called ‘life.’ There’s always the ‘next’ whatever. That’s not what matters.” She put her hands on her hips and he thought she was going to stamp her foot in those ridiculously large rubber waders. “What matters is that you’ve already got the San Sofia orders. Once you start thinking like this, you’ll have it.”

  He stared at the woman in front of him, wondering where the hell she’d come from, and how on earth she’d landed in his bayou.

  “What?” Tilted head, highlighting the sunbeam streaks in her wavy hair.

  His arm lifted as if an unseen being did it for him and he stroked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her ears did have a little point to them, maybe this was some kind of a dream.

  “I thought Louisianans had the market on woo-woo stuff. I never expected affirmation coaching from a Yankee.”

  Crawdad-red streaks appeared on her cheekbones and he dropped his hand. His fingertips tingled from the contact with her smooth skin.

  “But you may have a point.” He spoke quickly as she remained silent. Had he pushed a boundary by touching her? He’d promised to not touch her and yet his hands, his body, craved her. “Let’s get on with the rest of the look-about.”

  * * * *

  Poppy wanted to shout to the rafters in each of the boathouses Brandon walked her through. It didn’t surprise her that she was excited for the prospects of Boats by Gus, by its ability to land an international contract. Her job for the past eight years had been to encourage and motivate her clients to discover their own style and express it without apology. So it made sense that she’d be able to transfer this skill to coaching Brandon through a critical career turning point. Well, more than that. It truly was make-or-break for him. Like sh
e’d thought her Attitude by Amber contract was.

  What startled her, snuck up on her like a cottonmouth in the muddy tributary bayou waters, was the way she felt she shared Brandon’s pride and sense of accomplishment for his entire company. He’d created this from the waterline up, providing a singularly exceptional product both to high-end and average working buyers. And employed a significant number of New Orleans natives.

  “You spend most of your time here, you said.” They stood on a platform next to a sailboat that looked completely finished to her untrained eyes. Brandon’s hands kept running over the wooden part of the hull as if it were a purring cat. Being a boat seemed like the best idea right now.

  “Yes.” He pointed to the bottom of the keel. “That’s all fiberglass, custom molded in the building we just walked through. This part is always custom, something unique to our sailboats.”

  She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “When I think of sailboats I see smaller boats with a single sail, a family with a dog on it. These, these are works of art.”

  “Thanks.” He must have received thousands of compliments from boat-smart people and yet a humble expression of gratitude for her appreciation.

  “You’ve really created something special here.”

  “I didn’t do it alone.”

  “You’re not alone now, either.”

  He turned his face from the smooth wood to her, and the speculation in his eyes sparked with amusement. “But you are. You’re alone in this big empty warehouse with a rabble-rouser.”

  “Is that a warning?” Her voice fell to a whisper on “warning.” Bam! There went her insides, all squirrelly, and instigating the pulse between her legs again. Not that she needed anything to kick-start her sexual awareness toward Brandon.

  “May I?” He leaned in infinitesimally, his meaning as clear as his Louisiana sky–blue eyes. Which were half closed, anticipating her acquiescence. Smart man.

  She closed the distance between them, all of six inches, and pressed her lips to his. When his eyes closed she did the same.

  Brandon grasped the back of her head and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her in tight. Unlike the other times they’d locked lips, he didn’t haul her up against him. He left it all to the touch of tongue on tongue, his every stroke heating her center to a scorching need she didn’t think was possible to quench.

  Poppy strained to press against him, needing to press her breasts against his chest, to feel his erection against her liquid center.

  “Not so fast.” He chuckled as he nipped her lower lip and left firm, hard kisses along her jaw, his tongue flicking in and out. The combination of pressure and heat from his tongue made her knees turn to molasses. “I’ve got you, Poppy. Trust me.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “On a wooden platform twelve feet up from a concrete floor?”

  He lifted his head from kissing her throat and regarded her. His gaze revealed nothing except the heat they shared. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever kissed here.”

  As if a bucket of ice water had poured over her heart, Poppy flinched and stepped backward, out of Brandon’s reach. She had to put space between them. Between her and the crazy, sexy way he drove her to the edge of her control. And he’d only kissed her.

  “Careful.” He let her go but kept his hands on her upper arms. “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged out of his grasp. “Sure. But I think it’d be a good idea to get off this platform.”

  “I can do us one better.” The devil-may-care spark in his eyes undid her. She raised her eyebrow at him and he grinned. Poppy caught a flash of heat that sparked off Brandon’s eyes as he turned to face her on the platform that surrounded the yacht.

  “Do you know, Poppy, that this boat already has its cabin fitted, right down to the furnishings?”

  She licked her bottom lip. “It seems as though it’s balancing only on the edge of the keel.”

  “No. If that were true we wouldn’t be able to stand so close and still be safe.” He took a step toward her, shrinking the space between them to mere inches.

  She grasped the railing, unable to move anywhere. Unable to look anywhere but up at Brandon. His face, chiseled like stone in the shadows thrown off by the large structures in the even larger shipbuilding.

  “Aren’t you concerned one of your employees will see us?”

  He shook his head. “Climb up the ladder, Poppy.”

  She looked up at the sturdy but temporary ladder that led up to the deck of the yacht. Her insides were vibrating with her need for him. Somewhere inside her, in that little chamber of her heart she walled off from everyone, even herself, she had a sense of importance. Destiny. As though going with Brandon up into the boat meant more than flirting and a possible sexcapade to break up the long weekend after a major storm.

  Poppy shot Brandon a grin and went up the wooden rungs, more like steps, conscious of him watching her, watching her ass as she climbed aboard. The thought of him observing her made her legs feel as though she’d just completed a rough spin class at her city gym, and her breath hitched with the familiar tempo she was coming to recognize as how Brandon made her feel.

  She stepped onto the oak deck and moved aside to make room for Brandon. It was easy to distract herself from her pure want by looking at the beautiful simplicity of the vessel.

  “This deck is marvelous.” She crouched down to run her hand along the smooth finish. Poppy had been on her share of upscale boats and ships but this was different. It was smaller than most sailing yawls, yet the obvious attention to detail and custom finishing made it appear far richer, far more precious than a big oil baron’s yacht.

  “I help lay the wood lengths myself.” He was next to her, their knees touching. “Not all of it, but enough to know it’ll all fit together properly. I also have the finest ship builders in the country.” He said it with obvious pride but not with arrogance. Brandon’s pride was in his workers and their product, not his own talents.

  “You’re happier here than in the other plant.”

  “Not happier. It’s more a matter of being where I know I fit in. I can work at any shipbuilder, designing vessels and helping get them produced. But this”—he stood up and took her hand to help haul her up—“this is my passion. No question.”

  Did he see the way her cheeks heated when he said “passion”? Poppy didn’t know but she knew that she wanted this man. She wanted his passion to be focused on her. It wasn’t just his unshaven stubble that seemed incongruous with the sharp hue of his eyes, or the way he was able to reduce her to a puddle of need with one sultry appraisal. Brandon knew her, got her, with little or no effort. They were tuned in to the same fateful frequency.

  Poppy felt like she knew Brandon, too—maybe better than anyone. Which was silly, as he’d dated women longer than she’d known him, hadn’t he? Certainly she’d had a couple of longer relationships. And she’d been engaged.

  Yet her week with Brandon had forged bonds deeper than any she’d ever known possible when she was with her ex. And she knew Brandon hadn’t revealed the disastrous state of his business to anyone else he was close to. Instead of going to anyone he already knew, he’d relied on her.

  “What?” He stood close but not touching.

  “You relied on me this week.”

  He slowly nodded. “Yes.”

  “And I’ve trusted you enough to stay with you.” It wasn’t just the storm. She knew that now.

  “Come here.” He enveloped her in a warm hug and she willingly went, savoring his scent as it underscored how safe she felt with him. She heard his heartbeat under his pullover and T-shirt and her fingers tugged on the material.

  “Poppy.” His sharp intake of breath on her name sent a shock of awareness through her and she lifted her face to him, her lips to his.

  “Not right here.” He looked around the warehouse from where they s
tood atop the sailboat and nodded at the entrance to the cabin. “Want a personal tour of the living quarters?”

  “I think it’s mandatory, right? Since you wanted me to think about doing some interior design work for you?” She would have been embarrassed by how throaty her voice was, how obviously turned on he had her. Except he groaned at her query and pushed on her lower back.

  “Quick, Poppy. Before I throw you down on this deck.”

  She climbed down the half dozen polished wooden stairs and found herself in another world. But Brandon’s patience was as thin as hers. His hands were on her shoulders, turning her around, and when those same hands trailed down to her ass and pulled her up against his erection, Poppy didn’t care if they were in a custom-built sailboat or dugout canoe.

  * * * *

  Brandon’s control snapped and he covered Poppy’s sweet mouth with his, eager to show her how hot she made him, how hot he found her. Her tongue circled around his with matching abandon and he couldn’t stop the low growls that percolated in his throat. He tore his mouth from hers and trailed down her throat, shoving up her top and freeing her from it when she lifted her arms overhead.

  His top came off next, with the work of her agile fingers and when the same fingers undid his jeans and reached into his boxers to grasp his hard cock he couldn’t wait.

  “Poppy, I’m sorry, but I have to have you now.”

  “How do you want it, Brandon?” Her eyes glowed with sexy want and something strummed deep in his chest. This woman understood him.

  “Right here.”

  Her answering smile was all he needed. He turned her around, helping her shove out of her pants, catching the most beautiful look at her perfectly formed ass. She arched her back and showed him what he wanted. What he needed.

  “Give it to me, Brandon.” Her voice caught and the feminine sound had a direct line to his dick. It was all he could do to focus long enough to roll on a condom.

  “Let me put protection on.”

  “Hurry.”

  He reached between her legs and was stoked to find her wet and ready. Without hesitation he entered her in one thrust, loving how she took him without anything but a moan of pleasure, bracing herself against the galley counter. Poppy knew his need before he did and she met his thrusts with total freedom.