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  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Acclaim for Julie Cannon’s Fiction

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  In the middle of a three-week fishing trip, commercial fisherman Roberta (Bert) Coughlin rescues Alissa Cooper from her burning yacht and has no choice but to take the pampered rich girl along.

  Alissa and Bert are from very different worlds. Bert struggles to succeed with the whims of Mother Nature. Alissa owns a successful advertising agency and is the epitome of high class and high fashion. When Alissa volunteers to help on the boat, Bert is more than a little surprised at how well she does.

  The attraction between them grows, and one stormy night their pent-up desires crash together like the waves against the ship. When the ship returns to port, both women realize their lives are too different for anything other than their brief affair. They are simply too different. Their families are too different. Their lives too different. Then why do they keep coming back to each other?

  Acclaim for Julie Cannon’s Fiction

  In Smoke and Fire… “Cannon skillfully draws out the honest emotion and growing chemistry between her heroines, a slow burn that feels like constant foreplay leading to a spectacular climax. Though Brady is almost too good to be true, she’s the perfect match for Nicole. Every scene they share leaps off the page, making this a sweet, hot, memorable read.”—Publishers Weekly

  Breaker’s Passion is… “an exceptionally hot romance in an exceptionally romantic setting. …Cannon has become known for her well-drawn characters and well-written love scenes.”—Just About Write

  In Power Play… “Cannon gives her readers a high stakes game full of passion, humor, and incredible sex.”—Just About Write

  About Heartland… “There’s nothing coy about the passion of these unalike dykes—it ignites at first encounter and never abates. …Cannon’s well-constructed novel conveys more complexity of character and less overwrought melodrama than most stories in the crowded genre of lesbian-love-against-all-odds—a definite plus.”—Richard Labonte, Book Marks

  “Cannon has given her readers a novel rich in plot and rich in character development. Her vivid scenes touch our imaginations as her hot sex scenes touch us in many other areas. Uncharted Passage is a great read.”—Just About Write

  About Just Business… “Julie Cannon’s novels just keep getting better and better! This is a delightful tale that completely engages the reader. It’s a must read romance!”—Just About Write

  “Great plot, unusual twist and wonderful women. …[I Remember] is an inspired romance with extremely hot sex scenes and delightful passion.”—Lesbian Reading Room

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  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

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  © 2016 By Julie Cannon. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-480-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: April 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Come and Get Me

  Heart 2 Heart

  Heartland

  Uncharted Passage

  Just Business

  Power Play

  Descent

  Breakers Passion

  Rescue Me

  I Remember

  Smoke and Fire

  Because of You

  Countdown

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  Acknowledgments

  With this, my fourteenth book, I continue to be amazed that I am doing this and I have the support of so many people to make it possible. Obviously, my number one thanks to my publisher, Len Barot, for making it all happen for all the writers and readers of Bold Strokes Books. My editor extraordinaire, Shelley Thrasher, who keeps me honest and teaches me something with every manuscript. All the people behind the scenes that make our stories come alive and our dreams come true.

  Dedication

  For my family and all the fun times we have on our boat.

  PROLOGUE

  “You’re under arrest for…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, the pain and humiliation drowning out the words I thought I would never hear in my life. The snap of the handcuffs was louder than I expected. The muscles in my shoulders tensed and my head started to pound. This couldn’t be happening, not to me. I was always so careful, never letting my emotions override my logic.

  When did it start to go wrong? When did I begin to lose control? When had my life gone from carefully choreographed to a bad B movie complete with two guys who looked exactly like Munch and Stabler in Law and Order SVU and prison gray? Or was it prison orange now?

  The woman across the room glared at me, her eyes filled with hate. I wanted to turn away, my shame almost too much to bear, but I forced myself to look at her, the woman I’d given my heart, and so much more to. The one woman I’d let in. The woman whom I daydreamed about and was building a life with. Or I was until these two men came knocking on my door three weeks ago.

  Now all I saw was the bitch who had connived her way into my heart and would forever be the source of my worst nightmare. My girlfriend, partner—my God, I was even thinking about proposing to her! My knees almost buckled at what that betrayal could have cost me. But right now, as the two FBI agents escorted Ariel Sinclair out of my office in handcuffs, I couldn’t think about anything but what I needed to do to make sure no one ever made a fool of me again.

  My hands shook as I closed my office door. By sheer force of will I calmly crossed the room and sat behind my desk. The leather chair conformed to my rigid spine as I leaned back and stared at the items in front of me.

  Next to the requisite stapler, telephone, and in-box sat the framed picture of me and Ariel in Beijing—the only personal photo in my large office. I had gone to the
famous city six months ago to negotiate a contract with a local manufacturer of cereal that would propel my company far above my closest competitor. The deal was critical to my long-term-growth strategy, and I was so optimistic I would get it I’d taken Ariel along.

  I stared at the picture. We were standing together, our arms around each other as the sun set over the mountains, the Great Wall stretching out behind us. We had hurried back to the hotel, our desire for each other exploding the instant the hotel room door closed behind us. We’d made love fast, feeding off each other, straining for connection, driving for release.

  I studied the photo, dissecting every inch of Ariel as I searched for what I’d missed. So this was what a corporate spy looked like, at least the one that had infiltrated my company. Did her smile really illuminate her eyes? Was the arm wrapped around my shoulders forced? Was she really holding me, or was I just a prop in her game? Did Ariel feel anything for me? Was every word scripted, every touch a part of the job description of an industrial spy? Did she get paid according to the number of orgasms she gave me, or was that just part of her sick way of dominating me?

  “God damn it!” I shouted and hurled the picture across the room. It hit the wall, the glass breaking into pieces. Those were the first words I’d uttered since the two FBI agents had entered my office ten minutes ago. Ariel had said plenty, professing her innocence to deaf ears. I had seen the evidence, most of which I hadn’t provided, and it was overwhelming. What the Munch clone had told me shocked me. How had Ariel obtained so much information? Obviously being the boss’s girlfriend opened a lot of doors, computer files, and mouths.

  Agitated, I paced back and forth in front of the large window. The lights of the city sparkled in the dark night, and the sight always reminded me of the stars in the clear sky when I was on my boat. Tonight they mocked me almost as if every one of them were a sign of Ariel’s betrayal I’d missed due to my stupidly falling under the spell of a beautiful, charming woman.

  “Never again,” I said as if standing in front of my maker. “Never again will I let my heart or my body rule my brain. It will never happen again.” I emphasized every word.

  Feeling the first brick of my resolve start to rebuild, I squared my shoulders and threw the broken frame and photo into the trash can under my desk. The move was functional and symbolic at the same time. Ariel was trash, what we’d had together tossed out with the day’s garbage.

  Even though no one could see me, I held my head high as I walked across the plush carpet on the floor, past the plaques on the wall and statues on the tables that all symbolized my success. My professional life remained intact, although a bit tattered, but only I and a few other people knew what had happened. My personal life, however, was in shambles, splintered into a thousand pieces by one conniving bitch. Everyone would continue to see the first, and no one would ever see the second.

  I closed my office door behind me. My new life began tomorrow at eight a.m.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Alissa

  I gripped the wheel tight, the polished silver slick and almost slipping through my wet hands. The wind whipped the few strands of my hair that always refused to be secured in my ponytail, irritating the hell out of me. The slip was smaller than I was used to, and the people on the dock watching me pull in didn’t bother me in the least.

  When I went to buy my boat, the first salesman I encountered had told me in a somewhat condescending tone that the boat I was looking for, the Catalina 357, was too big for one person to sail alone. I knew he really meant that a woman couldn’t control a sophisticated craft like the 357.

  I’d caught him checking me out more than once as he showed me around the gleaming showroom asking questions to determine if I was a serious buyer, had a sugar daddy, or was just a lookie-loo. He didn’t need to know if I planned to finance or pay cash; he just needed to tell me what I wanted to know about the boat.

  He copped a serious attitude when I told him as much, and I walked out and bought a bigger model, the Catalina 387, from a dealer a few miles away. I couldn’t help but grin when I returned to the original dealer later that day and told the manager as much. I winked at the salesman as I walked out, reminding him of the steep commission he’d lost due to his stupid, chauvinistic attitude.

  I’d been sailing my boat single-handedly after that for years. Occasionally I’d had company—friends and family and on those rare occasions when I’d met somebody who not only held my interest for more than a night or two but knew what they were doing on the water as well.

  My mother exposed me to the love of water when I was old enough to fit safely into a life vest. She’d been on the U.S. Olympic team competing in the double sculls and eights, where she and her teammates captured two gold medals in women’s rowing. She still met with her fellow crew members at least once a year, and one time I’d been invited to go along. Listening to those women, now in their late fifties, talk about what they had accomplished well before I was born was inspiring. Now, one was an aeronautical engineer for NASA, two were attorneys, one a physician, one CEO of a software company that just went public, one a foster mother

  of no less than seventeen children, one a Peace Corps volunteer, and, of course, my mother. As a child instead of asking for a bedtime story I’d ask my mom to tell me about rowing in the Olympics and the medal ceremony. When other little girls were pretending to be moms and teachers, I practiced my wave on the gold-medal stand.

  My dad taught me the importance of hard work, dedication, and wanting something bad enough to sacrifice for it. He also taught me how to sail, and his words were echoing in my head as I pulled into the slip. Keep the vessel in the middle of the channel. Keep your movements slow and even. It’s just like parking a car. Watch your angles, your speed, the dock on either side. Don’t look at the people around you. Pull right into the center of the slip, then angle to the side where you’re going to dock. Slowly use the engines to maneuver, slowly, slowly, and stop. Perfect.

  The harbormaster had assigned me to slip fourteen on the other side of Boston Harbor from the one I paid a small fortune for. An adjacent slip was undergoing construction, and I’d requested and been given a different one until work was completed. No need to tempt fate that a stray nail, piece of plywood, or slab of concrete would find its way aboard my boat. The crisp late-April air signaled that spring was on the way.

  My parents had sent me to the best schools in an attempt to instill more discipline and rigor in me, but it didn’t work. I was creative, not one to follow the rules or stay between the lines, as the saying goes. My mind had a hard time shutting down, the creative juices spilling out and over the cup. More often than not I was in trouble, taking my friends along with me until they wised up and realized the thrill wasn’t worth the punishment. My dad had a favorite saying: “You can choose your actions, but you can’t choose the consequences.” I never suffered the consequences, because to me the experience was worth it.

  Two days after I graduated with a master’s degree in advertising from the University of Florida, I moved to Boston and started work at Bloom and Gross. B&G, as the firm was known, was one of the premier ad agencies in the Northeast. Our client list contained many household names, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—another of my father’s sayings.

  I was twenty-one years old, young, pretty, and talented. At least that’s what everyone at B&G told me. Well, not the young-and-pretty part; those just helped me get laid. During the eight years I was there I was given challenging assignments, made a name for myself, and took home a load of money. I was working eighty hours a week and had no time to spend it, so when I left B&G to start my own firm, I had money in the bank and a reputation that followed me.

  Alissa Cooper Advertising. Okay, so it’s not the most clever agency name, but why mess with a sure thing? Alissa Cooper was in the black in only two years. After eight years and fourteen employees, eight of them new as a result of the Ariel fallout, I had gross revenue of 2.6 million dollars. That�
�s when I bought the 387, christened it Adventures, and spent as much of my precious free time on the water as I could.

  Now, after securing the bow and stern to the dock, I locked the main cabin and headed to the office.

  “Miss Cooper.” The tall, thin old man behind the counter greeted me. “Get her tucked in?” He was referring to the docking of my boat.

  “Yes, Robert, I did.” I glanced around. The harbor office hadn’t changed in forever, though boxes of gum and tubes of sunscreen and ChapStick had replaced the rain parkas folded into a four- by five-inch pouch that had sat on the counter during my last visit. Robert reached behind him and grabbed a manila folder with my name stenciled in bold black letters on the tab.

  We exchanged small talk as I filled out the paperwork. I didn’t bother reading the fine print. Because I’d requested a temporary accommodation for Adventures, I handed over my American Express card, initialed the bottom of pages one and two, and scrawled my name above the line on page three.

  “Can I get you anything else, Miss Cooper?” Robert asked, always one to go the extra mile.

  “No, thanks, Robert. I’m headed home. See you tomorrow.” I pocketed my copies of the paperwork as the bell on the top of the door rang twice when I pulled it shut behind me.

  The late-afternoon sun was warm on my back. I’d been out on the water all day, and the burning on the nape of my neck signaled that I’d forgotten to put sunscreen on again. I’d seen firsthand the damage the sun can do to unprotected skin and had made it a habit to liberally apply SPF 30. But I always forgot that one spot. Maybe it was because it was hidden under my hair, or maybe by the time I reached that part of my body I was bored with the routine and just wanted to get on with launching Adventures. Either way, even with a pretty good base tan, I’d be sporting a red neck for a few days.

  I passed a few familiar faces as I walked the eight blocks to my house. It had been a beautiful day, and I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time. Any time aboard Adventures provided me a calm respite from the craziness of my life, and today was no different. For a nanosecond I’d toyed with the idea of inviting Jackie, the woman I’d been seeing lately, but quickly realized that not only did we have little, if any, sizzle between us, but also she probably wouldn’t have the first clue about sailing. I’d spend the day babysitting instead of relaxing. Even with the possibility of some much-needed sex, I didn’t want the potential aggravation. God, I had to be getting old if the idea of an orgasm came in second to the irritation I might have to endure to get it.