The Devil and the Deep - By Amy Andrews Page 0,16

in his chest and stopped. He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently into his side. ‘I always thought Nathan was invincible...’

Stella snaked an arm around his waist, her heart twisting as his words ran out. She’d always thought so too. Always thought her father would be like Captain Ahab, The Mermaid his white whale. They both stood on the dock watching the gentle bob of the Dolphin for a few moments.

‘I’ve dreamt about owning this boat since I was ten years old,’ Rick murmured, finding his voice again. ‘I didn’t want to wait any longer.’

Stella nodded, feeling a deep and abiding affinity with Rick that couldn’t have been stronger had they been bound by blood.

That wouldn’t have been possible had they been lovers.

‘Besides,’ he grinned, giving her a quick squeeze before letting her go, ‘the company owns it.’

Stella laughed. ‘Oh, really, creative accounting, huh?’

‘Something like that,’ he laughed.

‘So she’s actually half mine?’ she teased.

Rick threw his backpack on deck and jumped on board. He held out his hand. ‘Mi casa es su casa,’ he murmured.

Stella’s breath hitched as she took his hand. He spoke Spanish impeccably and with that bronzed colouring and those impossibly blue eyes he was every inch the Spaniard. He might have an English father and have gone to English schools but for his formative years he was raised by his Romany grandmother and she’d made sure her Riccardo had been immersed in the lingo.

As she stepped aboard she checked out the small motorised dinghy hanging from a frame attached to the stern above the water line. Then her gaze fell to the starboard hull where the bold gold lettering outlined in fine black detail proclaimed a change of name. She almost tripped and stumbled into him.

‘Whoa there,’ he said, holding her hips to steady her. They curved out from her waist and he had to remind himself that the flesh beneath his palms was Stella’s. ‘You’ve turned into a real landlubber, haven’t you?’ he teased.

She stared at him for a moment. ‘You changed her name?’ she asked breathlessly.

He shrugged as he smiled down at her flummoxed face. ‘I promised you.’

Stella thumped his arm and ignored his theatrical recoil. ‘I was seven years old,’ she yelled.

She stormed to the edge and looked over at the six yellow letters, her eyes filling with tears.

Stella.

‘You don’t like it?’

She blinked her tears away and marched back to him and thumped his chest this time. ‘I love it, you idiot! It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ Then she threw herself into his arms.

Not even her father had named a boat after her.

Rick chuckled as he lifted her feet off the ground and hugged her back, his senses infusing with coconut.

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ she said, her voice muffled against a pec. She pushed against the bands of his arms and squirmed away from him.

‘I told you I would.’

Stella had forgotten, but she remembered it now as if it were yesterday. Rick talking incessantly about buying the Dolphin that summer they’d first seen her and her making him promise that if he did he’d rename it after her.

‘I didn’t think you actually would,’ she said incredulously.

‘Anything for my favourite girl,’ he quipped.

She ignored his easy line as she’d ignored all his others. ‘You should have said no. I was a brat.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, you were.’

She gave him another playful thump but smiled up at him just the same. He smiled back and for a moment they just stood there, the joy of a shared memory uniting them.

‘Well, come on, then,’ she said after a moment. ‘Show me around.’

A spiral stairway led to a below deck that was far better than Stella had imagined in her wildest dreams. Polished wood invited her to run her hands along its surfaces. Brass fittings gleamed from every nook and cranny. The spacious area was dominated by ceiling beams, heavy brocade curtains over the portholes, oriental rugs and dark leather chairs.

It wasn’t lavish—she’d seen plenty of lavish interiors in her time—but it was very masculine, the addition of Rick even more so. He looked completely at home in this nautical nirvana and for a moment Stella could imagine him in a half-undone silk shirt and breeches, sprawled out down here, knocking back some rum after a hard day’s seafaring.

She blinked as Rick segued into Vasco.

‘Saloon here, galley over there,’ he said, thumbing over his shoulder where she could see a glimpse of stainless steel. ‘Engine room...’ he stamped