At the Clearest Sensation

Chapter 1-2

Devlin had planned on running solo for the Tuesday evening Duck Dodge race. He generally preferred it that way. If he was dating someone, he might invite them along—but he might not. Even in the madness of a hundred boats gathering for a completely foolish race, he liked being just a man and his boat.

But something about the lady on the dock in a fluttering sundress the color of spring had made him swing over. She’d made a breathtaking image. Long dark hair curling down past her shoulders. Serious curves. He’d always been a fan of curves on a woman. She’d looked like a Latina Madonna.

The sadness had practically radiated off her, which simply wasn’t right for such a lovely evening. Despite that, she’d kept her sense of humor. He liked that in a woman even more than he liked serious curves.

“Do you sail?”

“I do, though it’s been a while.” Damn but the woman had a voice. Smooth Mexican-lilted Texan.

“It’s like a bicycle. Care to take over the jib sheets?” They crossed from the sunlight eastern edge of the lake to the shadowed western side below Queen Anne. She’d had no jacket, but the air was warm and she made no comment. Which was good, as he hadn’t even thought to toss a slick down below.

She didn’t even hesitate as she shifted sides and prewrapped the windward jib sheet around the high-side winch without having to be told that a sheet was a sailor’s word for a line used to trim a sail. With her fine-fingered hand, she tapped the winch handle resting in its holding sleeve. He’d wager that now she could grab it blind.

“You have a name, lady?” He checked local traffic.

The summer Duck Dodge series involved around a hundred sailboats every Tuesday evening. They ranged from dinghies to ninety-foot schooners and all levels of skill. He’d spent too many hours buffing his boat’s hull to go bouncing it off some weekend sailor-wanna-be.

He could feel her watching him but there was a Cal 26 that was worrying him at the moment and he didn’t dare look away.

“Belle,” her voice sounded unsure. “My name is Belle.”

“Ready to come about,” he warned her.

He didn’t really need to tack yet, but her studying gaze was actually a little unnerving.

She finally looked away, took the long tail of the windward sheet in one hand, and shifted to where she could release the leeward sheet. “Ready about.”

The way she said it finally made the connection click.

He wasn’t a big movie guy, but a sailing movie set in Seattle? No way to resist that. And Where Dreams Sail had starred the young and sultry Isobel Manella—my name is Belle. She’d been so out of place, sad on a Lake Union dock, that he hadn’t recognized her despite having gone to see that movie a couple of times, paying real money instead of waiting for it to hit the tube. Then he’d bought the damned DVD. But that sure as hell didn’t seem like a conversation she needed tonight. That explained the sudden tension in her voice.

“Belle, huh? I guess that makes me The Beast.”

“It might. The jury is still out on that,” she answered more easily.

He’d just picked up one of the most famous movie stars anywhere. Well, if she didn’t want to be recognized, he was okay with that.

“Are we coming about anytime soon?” She directed his attention back to the pre-race antics as everyone maneuvered for position near the starting line.

“Sure, why not.” Especially if he didn’t want to ram Hank’s committee boat. “Helm’s alee,” and he shoved the tiller to the leeward side.

She waited until the foresail had backed slightly, accelerating the speed with which the bow crossed through the wind and over to the opposite tack. Then she freed the line, and with timing he couldn’t fault, hauled in the other sheet quickly, catching an extra loop on the winch before the sail could fully draw. Glancing up at the sail and wind once he settled on the new tack, she took two quick turns on the winch, checked aloft once more, and took one more turn before dropping the handle back in its sleeve.

“Belle knows her boats.”

In answer she prepped the other sheet for the next tack, then shot him a million-watt smile. Jesus, talk about a screen dazzler.

“I love sailing,” she pointed at his chest. He glanced down at his t-shirt.

“I’ll get you one.”