Free Blue Moon by Linda Windsor Page A

that matter, a nemesis to slow down the project.
    Upon reaching the waterfront, she saw that Nick’s assessment hadn’t been off the mark. Looking like she’d just walked off a photo shoot, the tall redhead with the Texas drawl waved goodbye. Jeanne caught a glimpse of her lipstick, which was bright enough to paint road warnings with. White short shorts twisting with each click of her high acrylic-heeled sandals, the woman retreated to the luxury yacht.
    Slowing, Jeanne paced her advance until Pamela the Red had disappeared beyond the tinted glass enclosing the Prospect’s salon. Jeanne wanted the captain’s full attention so that matters could be set straight from the get-go. She was in charge.
    A sharp thudding noise followed by a bark preceded her arrival at the stern deck of the Fallen Angel , where Gabe, in jogging shorts and a matching sleeveless tank top, kicked back against the air compressor in a foldaway deck chair.
    â€œGo on, Nemo. Fetch,” he ordered, pointing out a bait box with a target painted on it. As Nemo leapt away, the captain sat upright, brandishing a smile worthy of a GQ cover.
    A glimpse of her hastily bound hair and makeup-free image on the water stalled her anger momentarily. Her ponytail looked like an exploded firecracker, and her eyes were still a little puffy from sleep. Why did everyone else have to look so magazine-perfect this morning?
    â€œGood morning, Jeanne. I see you’ve heard the news,” he said, clearly mistaking—at least partially—the reason for her frown. He drained the last sip of coffee from one of two mugs sitting on the steps to the bridge. The second had danger-red lipstick on the rim, and the sight of it uncapped the steam built up in Jeanne’s veins.
    â€œI hope, Captain Avery , that you have a good reason for delaying—” Jeanne broke off in astonishment as Nemo drew away from the bait box dragging a long shining blade that was big and deadly enough to skin gators alive by its hilt. “Is that a knife ?”
    â€œLooks like it.” Gabe took the knife handle carefully out of the dog’s mouth and gave him a hearty rub. “Good boy!”
    â€œYou’re playing fetch with a . . . a bowie knife?” Crocodile Dundee was the extent of Jeanne’s knowledge of knives, unless one counted a diver’s knife. She wrinkled her nose as Gabe wiped the canine slobber from the handle on his shorts.
    â€œA stick is too easy onboard and . . .” Gabe cast a meaningful glance at the water. “Too hard out there. Nemo hasn’t perfected the swim platform, you see.” With a flip of his wrist, he let the knife fly again, sending it straight into the bull’s-eye. “Fetch, Nemo!”
    Delighted, the dog barked, taking off once again.
    â€œOf course, I can’t miss at such close range, but he doesn’t know that,” Gabe said with a lady-killer wink.
    Except that she was no man-crazy, spike-heeled bombshell. And she was angry, Jeanne reminded herself. Spanning the short distance between the boat and the dock, she stepped aboard.
    â€œWell, I’m not as easily impressed, Captain. Pablo told me you decided that we weren’t leaving until after the Prospect .”
    Gabe waved her out of the way and threw the blade again at the target spray-painted on the side of the bait box. Dead center. “That’s right.”
    Without waiting for the command, the dog seized the knife by its hilt and, growling with the effort, wrung it free of the worn target.
    Jeanne placed her hands on her hips. “As I recall, I am the director of this project. You work for me. Just who do you think you are, making that decision without even consulting me?”
    His mouth thinning to a grimace, Gabe spoke to Nemo. “All done, boy. Put it away. Go on. Go on.”
    Intrigued, Jeanne followed Nemo’s progress up to the bridge deck, where he approached the captain’s bench and