Wicked Nights Read online

  The cruise ship guy looked over at them. “We’re ready to get started when you are. Who’s up first?”

  Time for the opening salvo. “Ladies first. I insist.”

  * * *

  PIPER KEPT HER professional smile painted on her face, but her rescue swimmer wasn’t playing fair. Cal waved her to the front of the room, inviting her to lead off the pitches with a lethally charming, “Ladies first,” when they both knew going first was the weaker position. Their judges would hold back on scoring to leave room for the last diver.

  He grinned and settled back in his seat, arms folded over his chest. If he looked good in nothing more than a pair of jeans and a faded cotton T-shirt, he cleaned up even better. He wore an open-necked shirt—she’d never seen Cal bother with a tie for anything other than funerals and weddings—and a dark suit jacket, which didn’t disguise the breadth and power of his shoulders. He had the build of a swimmer, his body advertising that it was trained to pull him through the water at a killer pace. She’d seen him swim, and it was a thing of beauty. She’d give him that much credit.

  He was also big and bad, irritatingly calm as he sank back onto his seat, leaning slightly away from her, his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. The conference-room table hid his feet, and she fought the urge to peek and see if he was wearing steel-toed work boots. It was hard to imagine him in dress shoes, but he radiated control and competence.

  He raised an eyebrow. Right. Her pitch. She hadn’t prepared slides or a formal talk, but she knew her message. She’d also loaded up her laptop with images she’d shot at the diving sites she was promoting, because a picture was definitely worth a thousand words. All she had to do was get Sal, Ben and Margie to imagine themselves in those waters, and she’d have them. She quickly tugged on her ear, hoping the lucky gesture would bring her the same good fortune she’d had every time she’d climbed the dive tower and competed.

  “You’ve got a cruise ship full of passengers, most of whom have never dived before. The number of newbies seriously outweighs the number of certified divers. I’d like to go after that segment, grow your tour numbers. Why wouldn’t those passengers want to dive?”

  She’d fallen in love with recreational diving during her own summer trips to Discovery Island. As soon as she’d turned twelve, she’d been fitted up with gear and taught to dive. Her first excursions had been off Discovery Island pier, fifteen-footers, where she could have dived to the bottom without the gas, but the tank meant she could stay under for thirty minutes. She’d loved it and she’d been hooked. Sharing her passion through her dive program just seemed...natural.

  Cal sprawled in the back of the room, all hot-eyed, hard-bodied charm as she started walking the executives through a cost comparison of land-based tours with diving excursions. There was more money to be made on booking diving than most of the other shore excursions, and pretty soon her audience of three was nodding along. Except for Cal, of course. His expression said he wasn’t convinced.

  “If the passengers have never dived before, are you proposing resort dives?”

  “Good question.” She smiled at the woman and launched into the next part of her talk, walking the room through the shallow, baptismal dives she’d planned for the harbor as she displayed different images on the screen. At thirteen to fifteen feet, anyone in reasonable physical health could give diving a try. Pointing out the window at the gorgeous, light turquoise water, she asked, “Who wouldn’t want to get in there and see what’s happening beneath the surface?”

  Cal raised a brow. She knew that look of mocking disbelief. It was, she decided, too bad for him she had every intention of winning this contract and wiping the smug look off his face.

  * * *

  PIPER HAD THE room in the palm of her hand, which further irritated Cal. Letting her go first had seemed like a smart tactical move, but now he was second-guessing himself. She’d been every bit as unprepared as he’d expected, talking off the cuff without a formal set of slides—and she’d captivated the room with her charm and casual photos. The Fiesta executives leaned forward in their seats, hanging on her every word as she walked them through a novice dive. Her sassy suit probably didn’t hurt, either, because looking at her while she talked was no hardship.

  She strolled past him as she returned to her seat, mouthing, “Gotcha,” and then shifted her monstrosity of a bag to his seat when he stood up.

  If she thought he was going down without a fight, she was even crazier than he remembered. The Piper of his childhood had relished a good fight. Even as a girl (or maybe because she was a girl with three older brothers), she’d always done her best to outrun, outjump and generally outdo anyone who crossed her path. She would have made an excellent SEAL, if Uncle Sam allowed women on the team. So he bumped her shoulder casually with his hip, leaned down and whispered sotto voce in the most condescending tone he could dredge up, “Good job, Piper.”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy for her at all.

  Firing up his PowerPoint presentation, he started stepping his audience through the slides. He’d planned a series of challenging adventure dives, along with a mission theme and faux combat training for college-aged divers and older. “All of our dive masters are former Navy SEALs. We can train divers to get to the next level.”

  The female executive looked intrigued. “So you’re proposing extreme diving.”

  “We’ll coach you to dive like a U.S. Navy SEAL.” He gave her a winning smile. “I think you’d enjoy it.”

  Piper stirred in the back of the room. Clearly, she’d concluded that the business portion of today’s agenda was done and the executives wouldn’t see her unless they turned around. She put her feet up on the chair (his chair), stretching her legs out in front of her, and he wondered briefly if her knee hurt. Then he stared at her long legs and those shoes.... Those shoes should be illegal. She stretched and her dress fell up her thigh. He swallowed. Paused. Danger.

  Quickly, he advanced to the next slide, explaining the SEAL-style obstacle course Deep Dive was building. Or, rather, Tag and Daeg were building, because Cal’s head still refused to get with the program. He was useless in the water, which made winning this contract that much more important. At least he could contribute here.

  Piper shifted and the final shreds of his focus flew out the window. The room was warm, and in a nod to the heat, she slid off the jacket. The move pulled the material of her dress tight across her breasts, making it clear that her lingerie of choice for today’s business meeting had been a pink-and-black bra, despite, or perhaps because of, her white dress. Typical Piper. She loved bold statements.

  And he was staring.

  Focus, sailor.

  He wouldn’t be distracted by happy-go-lucky, viciously competitive Piper Clark again. Although...his eyes narrowed even as he kept a pleasant smile plastered on his face. What were the odds she was doing this on purpose? She lifted her arms, twisting her hair up into a loose knot. Ran her fingers down her throat. His imagination rioted, and his body behaved as if it hadn’t gotten the memo he didn’t like Piper.

  Definitely on purpose.

  She fiddled with the buckles on her shoes, fingers stroking over her ankles, leg drawn up. The shadow of her dress on her thigh prevented him from seeing too high, but if she moved another inch, he’d have a clear shot of paradise.

  He was going to kill her.

  Ten minutes later, they wrapped up the meeting and headed for the door, the cruise ship executives promising a call in the next couple days. Cal had no idea what he’d said at the end, but it must have sounded okay because nobody was staring at him with pity in their eyes or a smirk on their lips.

  “Nice job in there,” Piper said, falling into step beside him, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Was she being polite, or did she feel threatened?

  “You cheated.” He strode toward the elevator.

  “Excuse me?” He could hear the laughter in her voice. She knew precisely what he mean
t.

  “The—” he waved a hand “—shoe thing you did in there wasn’t nice. Or fair.”

  “From where I was standing, you were the competition.”

  “Sitting,” he muttered, before he could stop himself. “And what you did was definitely cheating.”

  “Did I distract you?”

  “Piper.” He leaned over her to reach the elevator buttons first. “You showed me the goods. In a business meeting.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Mission accomplished. I’m going to win our bet, Cal. Maybe you should prepare yourself.”

  She brushed past him into the elevator, and there was no way she mistook his attraction to her. He, on the other hand, decided to take the stairs. Followed by a ten-mile run.

  4

  PIPER HAD DISCOVERED her love of jumping when she was two. That was the story her mother told, at any rate. Toddler Piper had climbed up onto the back of the couch and then jumped off, both chubby fists raised in the air over her head. After achieving a remarkable amount of air for someone who’d weighed a mere twenty pounds, she’d crash-landed on the family dog, who’d proved to be both a good sport and an ally, letting her repeat her jump move twice more before her mother had been alerted by the noise and intervened.

  When she was five, she’d discovered the springboard at the community pool. Then, at ten, she’d joined the local swim team. Racing was fun, but diving was better. When she’d dived, she’d flown. Performing gymnastics midair was an adrenaline rush better than any jump, and she’d ripped through the water leaving almost no trace of her entry. She’d won every meet and moved on to college and the NCAA championships. A berth on the national team headed to the world championships? No problem. She’d earned that, too. She’d been the golden child, the star diver—right up until she wasn’t. It had turned out the one thing Piper’s diving career hadn’t prepared her for was losing.

  The Accident—and she always thought of the day in capital letters—had been just that. An accident. And it hadn’t happened at the pool, either. She hadn’t made a misstep on her vault or misjudged her somersault or twist. She simply hadn’t known Lance Peterson had started drinking at eight o’clock in the morning and stopped approximately twenty minutes before he’d invited her to take a spin on a Jet Ski with him. He’d seemed fine, but no, in the absence of an open container in his hand, she hadn’t insisted on a Breathalyzer or quizzed him on his drinking. Hindsight, however, was everything.

  Being naively oblivious, she’d hopped on the Jet Ski when Lance had invited her to ride, because it had been that kind of afternoon: a group of casual friends hanging on the beach and enjoying ice cream and the sunshine. In the middle of the harbor, she’d realized Lance was impaired when her close proximity to him had made misinterpreting the alcoholic fumes wafting from him impossible. Of course she’d promptly snapped, “Go back,” in his ear, digging her arms tighter around his waist. Driving drunk was horrifically stupid, and she’d already been measuring the distance to shore. The swim hadn’t looked too bad, although even she had preferred not to take a chance with all the boat traffic zipping through the harbor. Unfortunately, Lance had made an easy dismount impossible, cutting in and out, whooping as he’d driven the Jet Ski left and then right. She’d have to pick her moment or convince him to head back.

  “Lance—” She’d gotten his name out, Cal’s motorboat had come around the breakwater and Lance had cut it too close. So close that she’d seen Cal’s face, the look of fierce, calm concentration as he’d thrown the wheel right, ramming the boat into the breakwater as he’d tried to avoid the smashup. They’d hit anyhow. The Jet Ski had smashed into her leg as they’d flipped, and the whole world had narrowed to the pain radiating through her knee as she’d sunk down, eyes open. She didn’t have too many memories after the initial impact, which doctors had assured her was her body’s way of coping with the trauma. She did, however, remember Cal ripping through the surface of the water, swimming hard and fast to get to her.

  Now, for the first time since the accident, she was standing on her own two feet. She had a loving, protective, competitive family back on the mainland. Her family had suggested medical school and then law school, before all but begging her to join the family business. She didn’t want that.

  Her family was a ranch family. Her great-grandfather had started a small almond farm in midstate California, and the rest of the family had stuck close. Moneywise, there was more than enough in the good years—but they’d never made get-rich money. Other than summers on Discovery Island, her childhood had been full of tractors, ATVs, horses and trails. She’d spent more time outdoors than in, excelling in 4H competitions, winning blue ribbons and awards. Sure, she could have gone home, and they’d have made room for her in the family business, but...she wanted to create one of her own.

  She didn’t want anything handed to her. Her three brothers had all happily settled down to ranch, competing amiably to see who could claim the most rodeo buckles, grow the biggest crop or innovate the most. Diving had made sense to them when she’d been diving for a berth on a national team, but owning a dive shop on a vacation island wasn’t aspirational enough for them. None of them had accepted that her new dream included four walls, a sometimes temperamental dive boat and racks of tanks.

  Dream Big and Dive’s name came from the heart. Piper had learned firsthand that you had to let go of some dreams, but this time she was holding on. She wasn’t letting Cal Brennan beat her, not when her shot at owning the dive shop was on the line. Her soon-to-be place had a prime location, right off the boardwalk fronting the water, with plenty of foot traffic and easy access to both the marina and the beach where she loaded the dive boats.

  Standing there in the front of the shop, she could just read the chalkboard outside, announcing the week’s dive sites and inviting newbies to come on in and sign up for a baptismal dive.

  Her cell phone rang, blaring the Jaws theme song. Right now, the ringtone was all too appropriate. Her partner, Del Rogers, was the shark circling in her waters. Her former coach had franchised a string of dive shops in California and Hawaii, including Dream Big and Dive. Del had won dozens of gold medals and multiple U.S. championships, and photos of him caught in midair as he dived off the platform covered the wall in his San Diego office. He was a force to be reckoned with, and unfortunately for her, he was entertaining an offer on the shop. An all-cash, superattractive and almost-impossible-to-beat offer. The offer worried her, but she’d made a career of winning, and she’d overcome the odds this time, too.

  “Piper,” he barked in the same voice that had demanded more of her fifteen-year-old self. More sit-ups, more push-ups, more air or more rotations. She’d always given it to him, and he’d coached her to be the very best.

  “Good to hear your voice.” Not.

  No chitchat. Del went straight to business. “Have you made a decision on the Discovery Island site?”

  “I still want to buy out your interest,” she said, playing for time. Her desires weren’t the problem. Finding the cash was.

  “Good.” There was a brief pause—she’d spent more time hanging in the air over the pool—followed by, “When?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with the bank in two weeks.” Of course, talk was cheap. All she’d had to do to get the meeting was pick up the phone and dial. Unless she changed her cash flow, however, the outcome would be the same as the past two meetings. The banking professional would listen—professionally—and then recommend her application be denied.

  “I’m going to take that offer for my share.” And...with nine words, Del benched her. She fought the urge to fling the phone because she couldn’t afford to replace her phone and she definitely couldn’t afford to buy the dive shop. “Money talks and cash sounds mighty good to me.”

  “Del—”

  He talked over her. “You’ve had a month to meet my asking price. I need to unload the place. It’s not cash flowing, and I’m overextended as it is.”

  “I’m closing th
e Fiesta contract. Give me two weeks.” She was convinced she could turn the shop around and bring in enough business to make the place viable. Del, however, remained unconvinced.

  “This is business.”

  Her business.

  Del had never accepted excuses. He’d always said, “Show me.” She scrambled for something to sway him. “Have I ever not won? You know how I perform in crunch situations.”

  The brief pause on the other end lasted a year. Possibly three. Piper wasn’t entirely sure, but time slowed down in a very Matrix-like way.

  Del exhaled roughly. “Two weeks. I won’t accept any offers for two weeks. If your offer isn’t in my hands, it’s game over.”

  “Got it.”

  She had her time. Now all she had to do was deliver. She was used to crunch situations and performing under pressure. Just pretend you’re climbing the dive tower, mere points out of the lead. One perfect dive. That was all it would take.

  5

  PIPER RODE HER Harley down to the Pleasure Pier. A little sugar, a little fun. That was what she needed after her unwelcome call with Del had torpedoed her afternoon, and the Pleasure Pier was perfect.

  Built more than a hundred years ago by one of Cal’s enterprising island ancestors, a man who’d decided to combine beer sales with fish sales (pure genius, in Piper’s opinion), the pier stretched out into the bay, living up to its name. The piles were painted the green of Doublemint gum and winked with white lights. The place stayed true to its roots, selling fishing licenses and fresh fish. The occasional angler parked on the edge, trying his luck in the water below before hauling the catch over to the weighing stations and a dusty wall of old photos of oversized, prizewinning marlin and swordfish, and successful fishermen. For the less fish-inclined, the pier sold saltwater taffy, ice cream and churros. An old-fashioned lemon-yellow swing ride lit up the far end by the beer kiosk.