Enraptured: Enraptured Him, #1

By Natalia Gurov

What if the person you desired most in this world had a ruthless and deadly past?

In this debut steamy romance, a former pilot turned author, Jeff Harmon is plagued with this question, as he discovers his obsession with the young and intoxicating Katarina Marcus.  Recovering from a painful divorce, Jeff has no idea that buying a boat will lead to a desire so intense, that he's willing to overlook scandalous rumors of power, money, and murder.

Jeff is a simple guy with bright green eyes, a sexy dimpled grin, and a laid-back sense of humor.  He moved to the island looking for drunken one-night-stands and a little seaside inspiration, like so many writers before him.  Little does he know that inspiration will come in the form of a platinum bombshell with killer secrets, a mystifying and somewhat confusing personality, and a lifestyle that he could've only imagined.  Getting over his ex is easier than he thought it'd be, but soon he discovers, it's the least of his worries.

As the daughter of a famous doctor turned criminal, Katarina has youth, wealth, beauty, brains, and unfortunate family history.  With an entire island and its people at her disposal, this Russian diva spends her days focusing on work and her nights very much alone.  Accused of murdering her father as a teenager, Katarina is accustomed to the stares, gossip, and reliving her father's dangerous past.   

When the two finally meet, Jeff and Katarina find themselves caught up in an unexpected romance, with surprises at every corner, including a few people that stand to benefit from tearing them apart.  Jeff discovers that Katarina is tied to organized crime, and she's a heartless employer, yet she's also passionate about the island, the ocean, and her doting stepmom, Jezabelle.  There's more to Katarina than meets the eye, and Jeff aches to uncover all of her.  Is the object of his affection the sweet, innocent goddess he fantasizes about or is she the cold, calculating, brilliant, murderess that the islanders claim her to be?

###

Book one of this trilogy, has all of the girly fantasies you've read before combined with all of the erotic lovemaking that you haven't.  Read on to discover the island, the power, the virgin, and the man that uncovers her secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natalia Gurov
• Release date: Oct 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393470489

Natalia Gurov

Natalia Gurov The Icing Natalia Gurov is a wife, mom, and beginning author living in the United States, somewhere in the South. She is passionate about nature, animals, gaudy jewelry, classical music, and coffee. Natalia is a fierce advocate for the environment, animal neglect and abuse, and writing as part of the required education curriculums.

Book preview

Chapter One

Tiny Dancer

Bodies twisted around one another.  They brushed one another lightly as if by accident, only to pound together magnetically, forcefully, almost painfully, certainly sexually.   He watches the grinding dancers from a safe distance at the bar.  His mind is a bit fuzzy, and the pulsating lights and blaring music only added to it. 

He watches the dance floor through a half-drunken daze, enthralled by the penetrating music, with drums that seemed to direct the field of bodies to move to its beat in unison magically.  The clinking of glass behind him shakes him from his daze.  The bartender is a beautiful brunette with large breasts that popped out from her tight black corset.  She smiles at him and asks if he wants another.  He does. 

The lighting of the upscale club changed to a deep shade of red, casting an almost orange tint on the sea of people dancing erotically to the pounding of those drums.  His barstool vibrates gently from the intensity of the bass.  He wants to grab one of the beautiful women by the arm and force his body against hers.  The urge was instant but intense, and his senses skewed just enough to entertain the idea momentarily. 

He takes another swig from his whiskey.  It's cold going down, and the briskness of the ice eases his momentary lapse in judgment. 

You needed that, huh? the beautiful bartender asks him. 

Surprised, he turns to look at her.  What? 

The drink, she purrs, You needed that drink. 

He smiles and nods slowly, Is it that obvious? 

She laughs, ignoring the question.  Are you vacationing here? 

Permanently vacationing.

She pushes her hair behind her ear.

I haven’t seen you here before.  How long have you been in town?

Not long, he answers, You would remember? 

He's surprised, but not too surprised. 

I'm sure, she says, leaning over the bar in such a way that her breasts squeeze together tightly.

He swallows and forces his eyes back to hers. 

Why don’t you tell me about it, she says.   She licks her lips before biting them, causing him to shudder a bit, About why you need that drink so bad. 

He looks away from the bartender and back to the dance floor as he contemplates where to begin. As the dancing bodies move across the floor, and as his gaze travels across it, he catches sight of her.  She dances playfully with another woman.  She throws back her head in silent laughter, platinum strands bouncing joyfully down her bare back.  She looks young, really too young.  She is an addictive beauty; it's impossible not to stare.  Her tight red dress barely covers her long, slender torso, and it amplifies her even longer slim bronze legs.   

She dances with an air of confidence.  He had always liked confident women.  They have a particular way of owning a room, and this girl, he imagines, owns them all.  He watches her dismiss several feeble attempts by men to steer her away from her friend.  Her annoyed and stern facial expression amuses him. 

Am I boring you? the bartender asks.

He turns back to her, cocks his head and snorts.  No, sweetheart.  I’m a little out of practice.  That’s all, he admits.

The bartender sighs and asks, You need a little help?  Getting back in the swing of things?

He closes his eyes.  That corset looked a little daunting, but mastering it would be a rewarding challenge. He smiles, resurrecting that look, the look that had won over so many women in his past.

Your shift ends when?

The bartender stirs the drink in front of her with a straw.

When would you like for it to end?

Now, he answers quickly.

In fact, he said it far too quickly.  He hangs his head, shaking it lightly, and chuckling at his own desperation. 

When he brings his eyes back to hers, he smiles deeply and repeats himself in a whisper, Now.

She giggles and replies, Unfortunately, I'm here until closing.

The bartender passes the drink to a customer and adds, But you know what they say?

He tilts his head and asks, What is that?

Good things come to those who wait.

Ahh, this game.   

It's all coming back to him.  He considers what he should say.  Something clever, something hot that would ensure she was looking forward to ending her shift and ending his drought.  He makes the mistake of turning back to the dance floor again to think.

He catches sight of the dancing beauty again.  In near slow motion, she dances, her body moving simultaneously to the beat of the pulsating drums.  The way she moves effortlessly in her six-inch heels, and the way she closes her eyes and lifts her hands above her head both slowly and seductively, stirs him at once.  The red glare of the lighting casts an evil glow about her body that teases him without mercy.   

He shifts in his seat to hide his growing arousal.   

Damn...

With his eyes fixed on the blonde, he shakes the ice in his empty glass in the bartender’s direction.  It's incredibly rude, but he doesn't realize until it's too late.  He hears the bartender laugh sarcastically and murmur something under her breath. 

I’m...I'm sorry, he stutters, As I said, I’m a little out of practice.

The bartender regrettably doesn't respond, and so he turns his attention back to the dancer, silently cursing himself.  As he watches the blonde turn, he can’t help but notice how her expensive designer dress hugs her body.  The sight of her is making him physically hurt.   

She motions towards the bar.  Her friend acknowledges and disappears into the crowd.  The blonde walks in his direction.   

Suddenly, he's quite aware of the heat in the room.  He can feel the sweat tickling his ear and beading up against his starched shirt before running down his belly.  She doesn't notice him, or at least she doesn't look at him.   

She walks to the seat open beside him and leans over it.  He turns just in time to see her lick her bright red lips in an inherently seductive way.  He can smell her perfume, light but distinctively floral.  It’s high dollar shit and the aroma intensifies his longing.   

He runs his hand over his thigh, and follows it with his eyes, reminding himself to breathe.  He turns his head again slightly, noticing the glow of her bronzed skin underneath the backless dress before she stands more erect, and her hair falls covering her back. 

She orders champagne and calls the bartender by name- Helen.

Helen.  She doesn't look like a Helen. She's more of a Brittany or maybe a Jessica.

He'd been with enough women in his day to surmise a pattern.

The blonde’s voice is tooth-achingly sweet.  It's undeniably feminine, and a bit raspy, probably from talking over the loud music.  He detects an accent that he can't quite place.  Something about the sound of her voice assures him that she is, in fact, too young for him.  Truthfully, this revelation only turns him on more. 

He's aching, badly.  It’s a slow ache, trickling through his body in agonizing drips.  The heaviness of it languishes about his groin, throbbing, pounding, and hurting.

Apologetically, he glances at the bartender and grins as she passes champagne to the blonde.  Helen refuses to make eye contact.   

The dancing beauty drinks the champagne.  He watches the gold bracelets shimmy down her arm as she brings the glass to her lips.  He works diligently on focusing his attention back to the dance floor.   The ache is insufferable. 

She speaks to someone else.  He imagines it's the bartender but can’t be for sure.  Between his nerves and her accent, he can’t make out the conversation. 

As she turns to leave the bar, she accidentally brushes his arm.  It's an electric touch for him, shooting tingles down his spine and deep into his groin.  She still doesn’t look at him, which he correctly assumes is deliberate.  He takes a deep breath, inhaling as much of her scent as he can before she ventures back to the crowded dance floor.

She’s a delicate mixture of both natural God-given beauty coupled with expensive salon grooming; many hours and hundreds of dollars spent fine-tuning every detail, he imagines.  He watches her until she disappears into the shadows at the back of the room.  He scours the club several times, before finally turning back to the bar in frustration and physical pain.   

He glances up at Helen, trying one last time.  She still refuses to meet his gaze.

Ah shit, I deserve that.   

Brought to complete soberness now by that piercing physical agony, he tips Helen well for his mistake and makes his way to the exit.   

He walks out into the parking lot, thankful for the chilly night breeze as he heads for his Jeep.  He sinks into the driver’s seat, filled with regret for not having approached the blonde and for wrecking his shot with Helen. 

Just before pulling out of the lot, his eyes catch a glimpse of the beauty from the club and her friend walking to their cars laughing and holding hands like school children, or perhaps lovers. 

He stops his Jeep quickly, once again captivated by her; the absurdity of his leering isn’t lost on him. 

The blonde walks elegantly, with a trained walk, the kind of walk that women practice and sometimes even pay to acquire.  She pushes her hair away from her face, exposing the tops of her breasts that gently parade from her dress teasingly.  He sits foolishly, immobilized by his need for her, waiting for one last glimpse.   

After goodbyes with her friend, the dancing beauty slides into her convertible.  An upscale Mercedes, no less.   

I'm not surprised.

As she inches towards the exit, they meet eyes.  She smiles at him in a way that acknowledges his awkward stare.  She rolls passed him slowly enough to allow him a decent look, but once she exits the lot, she speeds up dramatically, nearly peeling out and away into the night.   

His stomach falls the second she's out of view.  It dawns on him that he had been holding his breath.  He coughs, shakes it off, and leaves.

It's been a long time since Jeff Harmon has been so intrigued by a woman.  Having recently survived a divorce from his ex-wife, Sandy, his days since have been occupied pursuing other interests.  Chasing women hasn't been one of them, if only because of time.

Sandy had told him, Jeff, you are a good man.  I will always love you.  But I want more. 

More, what exactly? 

After all, he had taken good care of Sandy.  When she wanted a giant house they couldn’t afford, he had found a way to get it for her.  When she complained that his career as a commercial pilot was keeping him away from home too much, he began a surprisingly successful career in writing.  The more Jeff catered to her desires, the less respect she had for him. 

Over the years, Sandy’s demands became more than what Jeff could tolerate.  He became decreasingly depressed, drinking his dinner more often than he cared to admit.  Sandy didn’t like this either, of course, and had begun a flirtatious relationship with another man.   

One thing led to another, and before long, she was sleeping with the man.  A year ago today, she had divorced Jeff for a minor league baseball player. 

At least he knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it, she had said. 

It's funny, he thought.  As if Sandy has a clue what she wants?  Sandy can’t be happy.  She won’t allow it.  She won’t allow Jeff to make her happy, and the day will come when ballplayer won’t do it for her either.  There was at least some relief in knowing that.  

He recalled catching Sandy in the act, the sting of the unwelcome memory penetrating his chest.  It’s not like he didn’t know.  Jeff isn’t a stupid man.  He just didn’t want to admit it for fear of making it real.  So when there it was, flaunted in his face, all he could feel was pissed at himself.  

Jeff might as well have introduced her to the fucker.  No amount of whiskey could drown that sense of failure, but it was worth an honest try.  Later, when the talks began, her so-called explantations spilled out onto the ground around him, shattering into a million pieces like the bottle he wanted to throw at her.  

Wasted words, pointless words. 

When the attractive realtor with the huge brown eyes had made advances towards him throughout the process of selling his home in Chicago post-divorce, he had entertained the idea.  He could remember her hand on his chest as she had invited him for drinks.  

To discuss the house, she had cooed. 

Of course, he knew what she wanted to discuss, and it was a conversation he wanted to have.   He imagined taking her in every fucking room of that God forsaken money-pit.  At the time, however, it felt like revenge sex.  It killed him that he wasn’t that guy, at least not anymore, but revenge was only a concept for his books.

But it is time to move on.

Jeff needed the touch of a woman.  He had gone to the bar, hoping to meet someone for the night.  But here he is, going home alone.

The platinum bombshell could be attracted to him.  Jeff was, after all, a very good-looking man.  At least that's what women have always told him. 

He had joined the Air Force fresh out of high school, and the military had done many things for Jeff.  It helped him pay for college, it taught him discipline, patience, and self-control, and it put muscle on an otherwise lean build.  Standing several inches over six feet, Jeff had always been the skinny kid.  But not now.  Jeff was a man with the broad shoulders, and the clearly defined muscles typical of a man who spent many painstaking hours in the gym.

Jeff's bright green eyes stood out against a full set of long, black lashes.  A well-placed dimple in his left cheek had always been a favorite among women.  One might even mistake him for a pretty boy if it weren’t for his afternoon stubble.   

His full lips and his bright smile had been Sandy’s personal favorite.  She had toyed with his lips, brushing them against her own, gently tugging at them with her teeth in heated passion.  Sex had never been their issue.

Partly out of a need for drastic change, and partly out of spite for Sandy, Jeff sold the house in Chicago and moved to this island.  It was good for him to get away from the city and away from her.  He would concentrate on his writing now amid dancing palms and lapping waves, like many authors before him.  

Jeff walks out onto the balcony of his bungalow and watches the ocean in silent admiration.  Sandy would've loved it here.

Too bad.

The island was a mecca for tourism.  Mostly operated by Americans, while technically not on American soil, the island was a spot for both the incredibly wealthy and the incredibly poor.  Crystal blue waters, white sands, palm trees, and the like, but there was a flow unique to this island, separating it from all of the others Jeff had frequented in his efforts to satisfy Sandy.

The people here were straightforward like they were back home, but laid back, as well, in what might seem a paradox of personality.  The locals believed in their island, both living and working here and selling it to anyone with time to listen.  Everyone, it seems, finds solace in this paradise.

Jeff knew very little about the island other than what the brochures had said.  He could afford a small place here, and he needed a sanctuary, a place far away from Sandy, but most importantly, he needed a place of inspiration. 

Inspiration, he thought, would come from the sea.  Inspiration would come from the seagulls and the salty breeze.  But this night, inspiration came from a platinum beauty with sun-kissed skin and a killer body.

He sits down to write.  Although he wrote of military triumph and espionage, the farthest thing from romance, Jeff found words where they had lacked recently.  This girl is his muse; he thought if such a thing exists.  Jeff snorts at the idea.  He breathes in, recalling her scent.

It had been challenging to put down the bottle long enough to focus since his divorce.  He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he had been working towards it, almost as if it were a short-term goal.  Tonight, however, Jeff felt something in his gut that had been missing for such a long time now - hope.  Thanks to the blonde, he was also consumed with desire, even if it was another fantasy.

He’s a reasonable man, knowing full well that lusting after some little girl from a bar wasn’t the recipe for success.  Yet thinking of someone other than Sandy was the closest thing to hope he had experienced in a while. He was going with it. 

The waves were crashing against the shore.  He could hear them from the open window.  He breathes in the brisk night’s air and allows it to flood his body and his mind.  Jeff writes for hours, rarely stopping for any reason.  It felt good to have ideas again.  He writes until his hands cramp up from typing.   

Finally, exhausted and unable to focus his eyes any longer, Jeff heads to bed.  The crisp sheets feel amazing against his naked body.  He turns on his side, closes his eyes, fully prepared to drift off into a deep sleep.  But sleep doesn't come easily.

Jeff envisions the beautiful girl from the club, with her tight red dress and bright red lips.  He becomes fully aware of how long it's been since he's been with a woman, and he feels every minute of it.   

Thinking of the dancing beauty, the more his arousal aches.  He tries to refocus, but it's pointless.  He puts the pillow over his face and presses down on the sides in frustration.

She is too young, too beautiful, too...everything.   

He repeats this phrase over and over in his head like a mantra. 

Ahh, what I'd do to her. 

XXX

The sun falls in Jeff’s bungalow with its cheerful, albeit sometimes annoying presence, bouncing off the walls and falling across Jeff’s face as he slept.  Before long its stubborn glare heated his face enough to wake him.  He squints and rubs his face in disbelief that he had slept in so late.  He pours his coffee, like he does every morning, although it was nearly lunchtime now. 

He heads to the deck where he can watch the bustling activity on the beach.  Colorful beach towels line the sands like patterns of a quilt.  Children are busy bouncing in and out of the water freely, splashing one another and dreaming up games to play in the sand.  Beauties in bikinis had started a volleyball game, and he watches half interested, as they jump around and slide across the sand competitively.  Beach life is pretty damn perfect. 

After a shower and shave, Jeff makes his way to town.  Today, he'd buy a boat.  If he was going to live here, he needed the tools of the trade.

Anyone would appreciate the scenery of the island.  Large hills brimming with greenery towered over the narrow roadway.  Rhododendrons bursting with bright blooms spilled out over the rocky cliffs, and palms branches floated in the breeze above them.  With the sea to one side, and lush and wild flora on the other, the drive to town was undoubtedly more pleasing than any trip in the city would be.   

The temperature is a perfect 85 degrees, and the sun hits the sand, making it sparkle like mounds of glitter.  Jeff fits the island scene well enough today.  Cargo shorts, tanks, flip flops and sunglasses, Jeff’s new wardrobe beat the stuffy clothes he was forced to wear in the cold city.  He worked consciously at being thankful for his new lifestyle and surroundings, to keep his mind off of Sandy and everything he had lost. 

Colored buildings in various pastels line roadways in the center of town.  The white and blue striped marina stood out by comparison.  It's the most visited of all the tourist destinations, if only out of necessity.  A vast stone sailor with a stoic face keeping watch over a ship’s wheel sits firmly planted in a small garden at the rear of the marina.  The sailor greets travelers pulling in to get gas for their boat, or picking up a twelve-pack on their way in or out.  Jeff drives past it, and its tiny bar/grill that sits elevated above the sea.

He pulls into the parking lot at the boat shop, smiling at the irony of its owner’s name.  Abe ‘Hook’ Hooker took to building boats by hand when he was just six years old.  Now a scruffy older man, with a salt and pepper beard and lines about his face that spoke of many a day at sea, Hook spent countless hours crafting one of a kind boats for some of the islands wealthiest inhabitants. 

With hands worn from sandpaper and splinters, Hook works passionately at his labor of love and is delicately molding the hull of his latest project.  The fresh scent of sawdust greets Jeff, which he finds to be surprisingly inviting.

Hook, my name is Jeff Harmon.  I spoke with you over the phone about picking up an old boat, Jeff began. 

Yes, Hook acknowledged without looking up, methodically rubbing the hull with a cloth, I'll be right with you. 

Hook is in no hurry, which seems to be typical of a lot of the locals.  Walking to the front, Jeff leans into the doorway overlooking both the ocean and town.   

He gazes off in the direction of a small dress shop that had brought the day’s sales out on racks to display in front of the shop.  Women are tearing through the selections, searching for the right color and size.  Soon enough, Hook finds a stopping point, and inadvertently startles Jeff with his presence.

That’s a busy place, he starts, motioning towards the dress shop with a chubby finger, My wife, God rests her soul, spent half of every dollar I earned in that place.  She used to get there early, right after the sale racks were set up, and her success at finding whatever it is she was looking for, pretty much set the tone for the day.

Jeff notices how his stern face softens slightly at the mention of his wife. 

Hook, becoming aware of his momentary lapse, begins again, So you need a fishing boat? 

I don’t need anything fancy.  Just something to get me out there.

Hook sighs and chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks.

I bought an old boat off of a guy last week that I was planning on fixing up.  If you don’t need anything fancy, she’s a good one.  Just needs a little paint and T.L.C., but if you are looking for a solid boat and a strong engine, she'll do the trick. 

Relieved that there were affordable options, Jeff nods.  Great, let’s take a look.

Hook leads the way to a lot beside the shop.  Strolling along, the two walk past rows and rows of various boats.  A yacht at the back catches Jeff’s eye. 

Wow.  Now that’s a boat.   

Yeah, that one might be a little more than what you need, Hook jokes, Besides, that one is gonna be mine when I get done with her. 

Jeff is surprised since Hook doesn’t seem like a yacht sort of guy. 

Oh yeah, you work on yachts? 

Hook looks at Jeff and chuckles.  No, not usually.  She caught fire out at sea, and below the deck is toast.  I bought her off one very pissed off architect.  Turns out, he wasn’t much of a captain after all.   

He follows Hook through the lot, and the two soon stop in front of a small and weathered fishing boat, that Jeff correctly assumes is the one.  He watches Hook as he lovingly drags his hand across the starboard side.  As if he were listening to the soul of the boat, whispering its secrets, Hook leans his head inwards and rests it against the wooden side.  Jeff feels a bit jealous of Hook’s passion.   

This is it, Hook adds with a quick slap to the side of the boat, As I said, she needs some paint but is in otherwise decent condition. 

Jeff walks around, pretending to know what he was looking at and for. 

How much?

Hook puts his hands in his pockets and eyes both the boat and Jeff in one glance.   

Well, as is, he begins, I'll take $1,500.

Jeff isn’t in position to argue.  He hadn’t been on a boat more than two or three times in his entire life, but he's dying to change that.  The boat doesn’t look like much, but it’s probably a good starter boat.

And if you paint it for me? 

Hook mulls the idea over for a minute and kindly replies, You take good care of her, and I'll paint her for just $500 more.   

Jeff agrees to the deal, and the two head back to the shop to finalize the details.  After wrapping up the sale and deciding on a date in which to pick up his new toy, Jeff makes his way to the front of the shop, with Hook following behind.   

You liking it here so far, Hook politely inquires. 

So far, so good, Jeff replies while looking back towards the dress shop once more. 

He sees the women, still bustling around the racks of clothing, their hair blowing about in the warm breeze.  Half-heartedly he watches them, making idle conversation with Hook; the kind you have over business dealings that's not necessary, but somehow still seems appropriate.  

Suddenly, Jeff snaps to full attention as he sees a very familiar Mercedes whip into a parking spot beside the dress shop.  With her bright, platinum strands windblown but still sensationally sexy, the girl from the bar checks herself in the mirror before getting out of the car.   

Hook is speaking, but Jeff doesn't hear a word of it.  He observes the girl attentively, as she joins the other women meticulously combing through the rack of clothing.  She bores quickly with this, and heads into the shop, much to Jeff’s disappointment.  He stares at the front door of the dress shop nervously, waiting for her to return.  He caught a word or two of Hook’s conversation, but little more than that.   

Hook eyed him curiously, as though he were trying to decide if Jeff was rude or out of his mind, until he realizes what is capturing Jeff’s attention.  The girl returns, this time with another woman that Jeff assumes to be the shop’s manager. 

Hook smiles in acknowledgment.  Ahh, I see, he laughs, You better leave that one alone. 

Jeff’s heart skips a beat or two, partly because his admiration for the girl has been noticed, and somewhat at the suggestion that she's off limits. 

Is she married?

No, she is definitely not married. Hook sighs. That's Katarina Marcus.  She is single, but not exactly the kind of girl you want to mix up with, he adds. 

Why is that?

Hook's facial expression grows serious.  His tone changes and he breathes deeply before continuing.   Katarina is the wealthiest person on this island.  Her father was a doctor.  He pauses, Son, I can’t believe you don’t know who she is. 

He takes another deep breath. Anyway, her father was a very famous doctor.  Seems he did some critical research, research that led to a cure for something.  I forget exactly... Hook trails off, trying to remember the details. 

Okay, and... Jeff encourages more rudely than he intended.

Hook turns his glare from the girl to Jeff and began again more sternly, Dr. Marcus made a small fortune with his research, and then he invested it, a lot of it in this island.  He bought land and interest in various businesses.  He advertised the island in the states, and before long, Americans flocked here, and business has been paying off ever since.

Hook pauses momentarily, looking back at the two women who were engrossed in conversation.  

Every summer, kids come to the island looking for work, usually running from something, all wanting the island life.  A few summers back, I hired a kid, a Cuban kid, I guess, and I let him stay here at the shop.  He helped me with the hard work, the heavy lifting.  I taught him engines.  I was trying to give him a trade to fall back on. 

Hook makes the mistake of looking at Jeff, who is growing tired of beating around the bush. 

Nervously he begins again,   Well, this kid...Antonio, he took a fondness to Miss Katarina, too.  I told him the same story I am about to tell you, but he didn’t listen.

Hook swallows.  Jeff feels a nervous pit form in his stomach, and he leans into the doorframe for support.

"Antonio did everything with Katarina.  He damn near lived with the girl.  Spent a lot of time talking about her with me, all of it wonderful, of course.  He asked a lot of questions about her, but...well, as time went