Kiss Me, Captain

By Gwen Jones

French billionaire Marcel Mercier loves women. And there's a string of broken hearts across two continents to prove it. But as CEO of Mercier Shipping, he's got more important things to worry about … like why the charter company he just purchased in the United States is suddenly the center of an international media firestorm.

Now that big, bad Mercier Shipping owns Captain Dani Lloyd's ship, she's sure her job is at stake. But she won't go down without a fight—even if it means chaining herself to the mast of the Esther Reed and refusing to set foot on shore.

The delectable captain and her newsworthy dramatics are a PR nightmare, but Marcel is happy to let Dani prove her skills on a weeklong sail to Boston. He knows no woman can resist him for that long … in fact, he's counting on it.

But Marcel's plan to seduce Dani backfires as sparks fly between the billionaire playboy and the passionate captain. Which leaves Marcel realizing that winning her heart is a challenge he can't afford to lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9780062356482

Gwen Jones

Gwen Jones is an MFA, HEA addict, politics geek, and part-time native of the Jersey Shore. She lives with her husband, Frank, and the absolute cutest cats in the world—Gracie and Tommy—near Trenton, New Jersey.

Book preview

Chapter One

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Chain, Chain, Chain . . .

Penn’s Landing Pier

Philadelphia

Independence Day, 5:32 a.m.

OF COURSE I realize he’s your brother-in-law, Dani said, grinning most maliciously as she dragged the chains across the deck to the mainmast. In fact I’m counting on you as my express delivery system. She wrapped a double length of chain around her waist. My apologies for shamelessly exploiting you.

Seriously? Julie laughed. Trust me, I’ll try not to feel compromised.

Like me, Dani said, her hair as red as the bloody blister of a sun rising over the Delaware. She yanked another length of chain around the mast. "But what can I do. I’m just a woman."

And I’m just a media whore, Julie said. And a bastard is a bastard is a bastard. She nodded to her cameraman, flexing her shoulders as she leveled her gaze into the lens. "How far would you go to save your job?"

Two days later

L’hôtel Croisette Beach

Cannes

PINEAPPLE, MARCEL MERCIER deduced, drifting awake under the noonday sun. A woman’s scent was always the first thing he noticed, as in the subtle fragrance of her soap, her perfumed pulse points, the lingering vestiges of her shampoo.

Mon Dieu, how he loved women.

Marcel, he heard, feeling a silky slide of leg up his own.

He opened his eyes to his objet de l’affection for the last three days. Bébé . . . he growled, brushing his lips across hers as she curled into him.

"Marcel, mon amour," she cooed, fairly beaming with joy. Tu m’avez fait tellement heureuse.

What? he said, nuzzling her neck. Her pineapple scent was driving him insane.

She slid her hand between his legs. "I said you’ve made me very happy." Then she smiled. No—beamed.

He froze, mid-nibble. Oh no. Oh no.

She kissed him, her eyes bright. "I don’t care what Paris says—I’m wearing my grandmère’s Brussels lace to our wedding. You wouldn’t mind, would you?"

He stared at her. Had he really gone and done what he swore he’d never do again? He really needed to lay off the absinthe cocktails. Mirabel, I didn’t mean to—

Why did you leave me last night? she said, falling back against the chaise, her bare breasts heaving above the tiny triangle of her string bikini bottom. You left so fast the maids are still scrubbing scorch marks from the carpet.

Merde, he really ought to get his dard registered as a lethal weapon. He affected an immediate blitheness. I had to take a call, he said, his standard alibi, raking his gaze over her. She really was quite the babe. I didn’t want to wake you.

All at once she went to full-blown en garde, shoving her face into his. "Really. More like you couldn’t wait to get away from me. And after last night? After what you asked me? Her enormous breasts rose, fell, her gaze slicing into his. You said . . . You. Loved. Me."

Had he? Christ. He needed to defuse this. So he switched gears, summoning all his powers of seduction. "Mirabel. Chère. He smiled—lethally, he knew—cradling her chin as he nipped the corner of her mouth. But that call turned into another, then three, and before you knew it . . . He traced his finger over the bloom of her breasts and down into the sweet, sweet cavern in between, his tongue edging her lip until she shivered like an ingénue. You know damn well there’s only one way to wake a gorgeous girl like you."

You should’ve come back, she said softly, a bit disarmed, though the edge still lingered in her voice. You just should have, barely murmuring it.

"How, bébé?" He licked the hollow behind her ear, and when she jolted Marcel nearly snickered in triumph. Watching women falling for him nearly outranked falling into them. Should I have slipped under the door? he said, feathering kisses across her jawline. Or maybe climbed up the balcony, calling ‘Juliet? Juliet?’

She arched her neck and sighed, a deep blush staining her overripe breasts. Marcel fought a rush of disappointment. Truly, they all were so predictable. A bit of adulatory stroking and it was like they performed on cue. She pressed against his chest as he tugged the bikini string at her hip, her mouth opening in a tiny gasp.

"Mar-cel . . ." she purred.

He sighed inwardly. It was almost too easy. And that was the scary part.

Juliet . . . He nipped at her collarbone. Wherefore art thou, Juliet?

"Not Juliet. Julie."

Marcel froze, mid-nibble. The tall shadow casting out the Rivieran sun and his mojo was none other than his directeur général délégué, Rex Renaud. And looking so out of place in his perennial business suit amid all that bronzed skin. He could’ve kissed him.

Your timing is spot-on, Marcel opined, reaching past Mirabel for a cigarette.

And you’ve got trouble. He turned to Mirabel with the suavest of smiles. "Will you excuse us a moment, bien-aimée?"

She sniffed, rolling over to expose her perfectly toned derrière.

Rex glanced back as he and Marcel retreated to the shade of a nearby palm. Nice stern, that one.

You do realize you’re talking about the woman I love, Marcel said as he snapped his lighter. The future mother of my children.

Rex regarded him blandly. Oh no, don’t tell me. Not again.

Her father owns Titan Container. Marcel shot a stream of smoke past his DGD. And she’s not so bad at holding things herself. He raked back his thick, dark hair. I guess I went a little crazy.

Jesus, Rex uttered. Don’t you know by now you don’t have to marry them to fuck them? He looked past Marcel. "I think she wants you to—oh look at that. His mouth crooked, catching sight of her outstretched finger. She wants to fuck me, too. Ah, well. She’s taking her ass and leaving."

Is there a reason you’re here? Marcel took an impatient drag, fully aware his chief operating officer and closest advisor wouldn’t have come from Marseille if there wasn’t. Get to it. I’ve virgins to violate.

No doubt. Rex tapped and scrolled his phone. You know that little Boston operation you were so hot on acquiring and I was so against? The one you said you could bring around to make a twenty mil profit the first year? Well, PR brought this to my attention this morning. He passed the phone to Marcel just as his own vibrated in his pocket. He silenced it without a glance. I’m on my way to the airport, so I thought I’d share it with you before I go.

Marcel winced, catching the video’s title as it started: Julie Knott’s Random Access: Occupy Esther Reed.

Son of a bitch, he muttered. What did she do now?

"How far would you go to save your job?"

Marcel exhaled heavily. Julie Knott, his half brother Andy Devine’s TV reporter wife, had a preference for stories that ran from misfits to loons. If Rex thought it worth seeing, it couldn’t bode well.

Good morning everyone, Julie continued. "It’s just past 5:30 a.m. here at Penn’s Landing, and as you can see from the red sky behind me, a thunderstorm’s on the way. Which makes where I am, outside, exposed and aboard the Esther Reed, a two-masted oyster schooner, not an ideal place to be. Even worse if you’re Dani Lloyd, the skipper of this tall ship. How’re you doing, Dani?"

Unbelievable how good I’m doing, Julie, Dani said almost gleefully.

Oh, Christ, Marcel scowled. She looked way too happy.

Ever the intrinsic connoisseur of women, he immediately went into assessment mode. This Dani’s hair was as red as the strawberries he’d just had with his champagne. But red hair was never good on a woman. Red-haired women always had issues. And a red-haired woman on a ship was a definite Jonah—just plain bad luck. His phone buzzed again. All women had issues, he thought, silencing it. Still, there was something intriguing in this one’s eyes that caught his attention. He wished he could see more of her, though the shot did end at some nice cleavage.

. . . is the one and only female captain employed by Liberty Sail, Julie was saying, "a tall ship charter company once headquartered in Center City. I say once because Liberty Sail was recently purchased by a private equity firm and subsequently flipped to a Boston-based subsidiary of Mercier Shipping, the French commercial and luxury cruise ship behemoth. So how’s all this fancy financial maneuvering affecting you, Dani?"

The camera pulled back. Like this, she said, holding up an overflow of shiny metal.

Jesus! Marcel leaned in. She’s chained herself to the mast.

Rex laughed softly. Just watch. It gets worse, I promise.

You’re really enjoying this, Marcel said, not a bit surprised.

Impressive chains, Dani, Julie remarked. But why the drama?

"Liberty Sail has eighty-five ships in twenty-eight ports from Savannah to Portsmouth, and next week all skippers are to report to Boston for evaluation. Rumor has it they’re planning on cutting the fleet by fifty percent, and since the Esther has a sister ship, the Penn Treaty—see it over there?" She pointed down the wharf. I’m sure they’re not going to keep both of us, so that lessens my chances by half. Plus, since this is only my second season—

‘Only,’ she says, Julie interjected. "I should mention that Dani, who hails from Bivalve, New Jersey, where her family’s been commercial fishermen for 150 years, practically grew up on the water. She also designed and ran the Waterkids summer camp aboard the schooner Crest, out of Lewes, for five seasons, and before this served as first mate on New Jersey’s official tall ship, the A.J. Meerwald. Isn’t that true, Dani?"

Sure. When Dani blushed, Marcel fought the urge to laugh. "But—"

AND in the off-season she teaches life saving for the Red Cross and a boating safety course for the New Jersey State Police. Not a bad résumé for someone who’s just twenty-eight, eh, Dani?

She shrugged, brushing a flame of hair from her eyes. "Not that any of it matters to Mercier."

Julie shrugged, looking incredulous. Why would you think that?

Because I’m a woman. Dani tossed her hand matter-of-factly. And Mercier Shipping, especially their mack daddy of a CEO, is about as misogynistic as they get.

Really, Marcel snarled, Rex having to grab Marcel’s arm before he hurled the phone into the bay.

Dani faced the camera. So here’s the thing. Since only five percent of all senior crew positions with Mercier are occupied by women, and because the lease on this berth is almost up and hasn’t been renewed, I’m pretty darn sure my days as skipper are numbered. So. She tugged on the chains and, allowing herself some slack, slipped through the links a very heavy-duty-looking lock. "I’m occupying the Esther Reed. I’m occupying her because I know I’m a good captain. Maybe not the best, but pretty damn good, and even with Lilly Ledbetter—"

Who’s Lilly Ledbetter? Marcel said.

"More like what. Equal pay for equal work," Rex said.

—my chances of leaving Boston with a job are slim to none with so many men ahead of me.

Another woman shoved her face into the camera. Though I’m here to even up those odds a bit.

And you are . . .? Julie said, positioning the mic.

"Charlotte Andreko of the Philadelphia firm Schwartz, Lido, Brown, and Andreko. Employment law our specialty. And girlfriends, how I love to litigate."

"You must be joking, Marcel said.

Dani tugged on the chains, the bloody morning sun looming behind her. "So I’m occupying the Esther Reed. Not only for myself, but for all the women who are qualified or overqualified and who never get a fair shake, simply because they occupy a vagina."

Here’s to vaginas, Rex quipped.

Oh, shut up. Marcel zeroed in on her eyes, jade against the sanguine sky. Suddenly he realized what it was he saw in them—determination. Stubborn, pig-headed, ground-into-the-deck determination.

You hear that, Mercier? I’m occupying this ship, Dani said. If you want me off it come on and make me. That is, if you’ve got the vagina to do it.

Sacré fils de pute! Marcel spat. Who the hell does this woman think she is?

Maybe you’d better not see the rest, then, Rex said.

"There’s more?"

Rex sighed, taking the phone from him. Remember the Occupy movement?

On Wall Street? Marcel flipped his hand dismissively. A bunch of basement dwellers. That’s so over.

No, it morphed. About thirty women calling themselves ‘Occupy Vagina’—

"What?"

—joined her on the ship right after Julie’s story ran, Rex continued. "And that lawyer who loves to litigate? She’s their queen bee. Add to them the local chapter of NOW—that’s the National Organization for Women—protesting on the wharf. And because Occupy and NOW are there, yesterday some Tea Partiers showed up protesting Mercier being a French company. Between those and the now national press, there’s about four hundred, and that’s not counting the gawkers. And Philadelphia’s none too happy as it’s the height of tourist season."

Marcel scowled. Why am I even hearing this? Why isn’t Boston handling it?

That would involve firing and arresting her, which they’re prepared to do. But with all the protests and talk of gender inequality, Boston’s concerned it might look, well . . . He coughed. "You do have a bit of a reputation that’s just ripe for a lawsuit."

Marcel glared at him. "I’ll bet this whole thing makes you hard, doesn’t it? You’re so dying to prove me wrong for buying Liberty in the first place."

Rex shrugged, smiling subtly. "Well, there is that."

Marcel’s phone dinged for a text, and this time he looked.

I’ll leave the door open. WIDE open.

He ground his cigarette into the sand. Christ. Rex was right: He didn’t have to marry them to fuck them. But neither should he have to get fucked to get what he wanted. You’re going to Washington, right?

Right, Rex said warily. A little schmoozing on the dredging bill. Why?

Marcel met his gaze. Then you’re dropping me in Philadelphia.

Oh no I’m not. Don’t you realize how it’ll look if you show up on the dock?

"Oui. Like someone in this company has the balls to deal with the situation. He dialed his office. Mona, I’m leaving with Monsieur Renaud immediately. Call the hotel and check me out then have my bags sent right to the plane. And tell the pilot I need to be dropped at Philadelphia. Yes. That’s right. He glanced to Rex, holding the phone against his chest. If I’ve got the vagina to do it . . . He laughed, his eyes hooding. I’ll show her how this Mercier occupies a vagina."

"You heard that other woman, Marcel. Let our lawyers handle it. You’re Mercier’s président for Christ’s sake. You touch her and she can take us down."

As if I’d make the first move. He glanced to Rex. "As if I’d have to. Because when she does? Oh, mon frère . . . His mouth crooked most wickedly. She won’t have a beautiful leg to stand on."

And how do you propose to do that? Rex asked.

"I don’t know. But what I do know is I’m not going to let you or anyone put the clamps on me. He yelled back into the phone, Mona!"

Jesus, Rex groaned. Why did I come here?

To correct a gross misunderstanding. Imagine. Me—a misogynist. Marcel shook the phone. "Oh for Christ’s sake. Mona? Mona!"

DANI SUNK TO the deck in a clank of chains, resting her head against the mast. It was late, past the time the Delaware Avenue clubs closed, and all around her, from the whoosh of traffic on I-95 to the random idling vessel on the river, it was quiet. Or as quiet as a city could be, especially to someone living outside in it.

She closed her eyes. The slap of river water against the hull was, as always, so soothing. Still, her panic eased only marginally. Because as quiet as the Esther seemed now—most of the Occupiers were either below or sleeping on the bow—she knew that peace was a whole lot like the night itself, only temporary, until daylight changed everything.

More than once in the last three days she’d questioned what the hell she was doing. Didn’t she hear what Julie Knott had said? She did have a hell of a résumé. Ships were in her blood, her genes. Anyone should be happy to have her if she got fired, and who’d doubt that now? She rammed the heel of her hand against her forehead. Stupid, stupid, stupid. As impressive as her résumé was, this was the first decent-paying job she’d ever had, and great résumé or not, nonprofits and state jobs paid squat. And now even those were in question.

After three days her hair hung in clumps, her clothes were sweaty and stained, and her legs were bruised from continually whipping herself with the chains. Plus, as much as she slathered on sunscreen, her fair skin had turned into a mélange of freckles and sunburn. And she stunk. Christ almighty, did she ever. So badly she didn’t let anyone get within five feet of her. But then again, when they stood downwind . . .

She’d never been fussy, but she always demanded order. A scrubbed deck, taut sails, the hair out of her eyes—these were what mattered. And fairness, above all. Her father taught her that, just the same as her brothers, the only difference being the size of their Top-Siders, as on the inside they all filled them the same.

Not an easy truth to swallow outside of Bivalve in this Penis Club of a world.

So now what? Soon Occupy Vagina would get bored, and no doubt another picketed Planned Parenthood would call away NOW, and where would she be then? Left with the Tea Partiers, screaming for her to go eat some Freedom Fries. Dani cringed, flapping her sodden T-shirt. Talk about fairness. This wasn’t fair. She was a good skipper. Probably too good for this dumbass charter fleet. But she did love the Esther, and she was proud of her stewardship. Not that Mercier would care. Not when they’d let go their only two female first mates last week. Fired, more like it. And if they fired those women, who probably should’ve been promoted over her, what chance did she have?

Bastards. She didn’t want to hate men, but Jesus! how she hated the way they rolled. Because really, Mercier Shipping was just a big ol’ sausage party. With a fancier-sounding name and better PR, but a boys’ club all the same. And that’s why she couldn’t let them win. She was good enough, and she was smart enough. And dammit, she thought as she hunkered down to the deck, no Frenchie player’s gonna get me off this ship without admitting to it.

"WAKE UP, CHÈRE. C’mon."

Dani flinched, waving her arm. Stop, She groaned, punching the blanket under her head. Go away.

"Non. You go away. Now get up."

Something—or someone was kicking her foot. "You c’mon!" And that someone was going to get that foot up their ass if they didn’t . . . She blinked against the darkness. A man was bending over her, illuminated by the waxing moon.

And he was gorgeous.

Ah, there she is. Sleeping Beauty. He grasped her hands.

Hey! She yanked back. "Who are you?"

Your mack daddy, he said, pulling her to her feet. Now get off my boat.

Chapter Two

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It’s All in the Packaging

HOLY CRAP! DANI thought. It can’t be. Yet even half-dazed and weather-whipped she’d know him anywhere, even in the dim light, especially those eyes, so cavernous and otherworldly blue. An awareness shot through her from stem to stern.

Though . . . I’m not going anywhere, she still managed to say.

"Oh chère, you most definitely are," he said, his voice like burnished silk, his gaze so intent she nearly said, Oh yeah? Where? And when you do . . . He shot her a distinct look of distaste. "Where can you get a decent cup of coffee in this country? Why, I swear right now I’d pay a hundred dollars—two hundred if it’s served in anything but a paper cup. Had one at the airport and mon Dieu." He scrunched his face, his hands still clutching hers. Révoltant.

Dani blinked, still fighting off the fog of sleep. I think I’m going to need a little more incentive than coffee.

That can be arranged, he murmured, his thumb stroking her palm.

Which was enough to jolt her fully awake. She whipped her hands from his. "That’s not going to get me off my ship either."

"Your ship? Marcel Mercier laughed, low and shiveringly sexy. Ma petite, do you know who I am?"

She’d seen a photo of the thirty-year-old financial wunderkind on the Liberty Sail intranet, dressed in Smalto and a too-hot-to-be-businesslike smile. Or maybe that’s just the way she perceived it, as she’d only caught him in far less formal shots until then. Usually with some busty babe clamped onto his arm, his dark hair slicked back, his open collar revealing skin bronzed by his latest trip to whatever sunspot currently in vogue with billionaires. Rumor was he possessed an almost mythic ability to expand the family fortune, especially since he’d taken control of Mercier two years earlier from his half brother, André. Yet he still played as hard as he worked, which his constant media presence proved. But what it didn’t prove was why he was here. Even though she challenged him openly, in the grand scheme of things she couldn’t amount to more than a flick of lint off his corporate shoulders. And that realization only angered her more.

Sure, I know who you are, Dani said, hands gripping the mast behind her. But I’m still the captain of this ship. Unless you want to physically toss me off. Which if he didn’t do it soon he’d have to do in front of the dozen or so women imminently due topside, their phones no doubt recording everything. Not to mention NOW, the Tea Partiers, and other assorted protesters and gawkers who only seemed to swell with the press coverage every day. That ought to enhance what they’re saying about you.

He kept her gaze. Which is?

That you’re just a booty hound who won’t take women seriously, she said, amazed by her own nerve.

That’s not true, he uttered, almost dangerously, his eyes gone navy blue. "I love women."

Several at a time, I’ve heard.

An exaggeration. Then he smiled. Mostly.

Damn that fluttering in her stomach! She stiffened, eyeing him coolly. Why does that not surprise me?

Do you think— The Frenchman swiveled to a woman suddenly behind him, prodding her phone away with his forefinger. "Would you mind removing that, s’il vous plaît?"

I mind a lot of things, Charlotte briskly replied, her bikini top sporting an ovary appliqué over each breast. "Right now I’m minding you."

Thank you, but it’s not necessary, Dani interjected. I can handle this.

Are you sure? the lawyer said, glowering at the French intruder.

"I’m fine, Dani said. While she appreciated the gesture, Marcel Mercier needed to know who was in charge. Now give us a few minutes, okay?"

Okay, she said, and after a few moments warily retreated to the shadows of the bow.

Dani looked to the man intently eyeing her. Maybe she should’ve thought this through a little better. But then again, spontaneity had always been on her side, and the plain, incredible fact Marcel Mercier was here meant she couldn’t have been too off her mark.

"Mademoiselle, exactly what do you want?" he said.

Then that quickly, one ill chosen word brought Dani a moment of clarity. See? That’s what I’m talking about. Not ‘captain.’ Not ‘skipper.’ Not even my name.

Which is Danielle Amy Lloyd, Marcel supplied so smoothly she felt a little breathless, especially with it curled around his smoky Gallic.

Yes. Well. She tugged at her sweaty T-shirt. "Then if you know that you should also know what I want."

My attention, obviously, he said, hefting a bit of chain with the tip of his forefinger. "So now that you have it, why don’t you tell me what you really want?"

Which is obvious, at least to me. She straightened to her full height, which still had her lifting her chin to look him in the eye. I’d like to keep my job.

After this? He grunted derisively. Really.

Really, she said, just as dryly. Do you actually think I would’ve chained myself to the mast if I could see any other way?

Then why not go to Boston and let your talent speak for itself? His eyes lowered in a quick assessment. You certainly look capable.

Maybe because of what you just did? Dani crossed her arms over her chest.

Jesus, why do I suddenly feel like I’m naked?

Maybe because you need to be, he said, leaning in conspiratorially. Under a shower, if you want my opinion.

Which I don’t, she said, jerking back. All I want is my job.

I realize that. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette. "Just as I want all this—he flicked his hand—to go away. Now, please unchain yourself from the mast."

She laughed. If I did you’d forcibly remove me.

My dear Danielle, he said over the flame of his lighter, I would never, ever force you to do anything. But that works both ways, you know. If you’re as good a skipper as you say you are, you should have nothing to worry about.

Dani tried to swallow, but there wasn’t a drop of spit in her mouth. Instead she eyed his wispy stream of exhale. There’s no smoking on my ship.

"We’re outside surrounded by water. Plus it’s my ship. He took a drag, arrowing a stream of smoke past her head. I think we can overlook it."

"But I’m still the captain, she insisted. And I say it’s non-smoking."

He pulled his ringing phone from his pocket. But that’s not going to make me stop smoking any more than saying the boat’s yours will make it your ship.

That’s debatable, she said, crossing her arms in a clank of chains.