For a lonely Cornish lifeboatman and an author who’s more used to crime scenes than love scenes, this Christmas is going to be very merry indeed!
When Jago Treherne agrees to man the Polneath lifeboats one snowy Christmas, he knows he can forget turkey and all the trimmings.
Yet when he boards a seemingly empty yacht and stumbles upon sexy Sam Coryton enjoying an energetic afternoon below decks, Jago soon realizes that he might be unwrapping a very different sort of Christmas gift this year!
Publisher's Note: This book is related to the Captivating Captains series.
EXCERPT
Jago frowned as he heard the
weather warning come in over the radio. It was the last thing he needed on
Christmas Eve.
He barely noticed the cold
sting of the sea spray striking his face as he powered the rescue boat over the
waves. There hadn’t been an SOS, but he had left Polneath harbor anyway. Sam
Coryton and his yacht, Morveren, hadn’t returned to the marina, and
with bad weather moving in and little daylight left, Jago knew he would have to
go out to find him.No response on the radio. No distress flares sighted.
Jago kept his grip firm on
the wheel, his jaw set with determination.
He rounded the rocky
headland, so beautiful and yet, he knew only too well, so dangerous—and he saw
it. The white hull and sails of the Morveren. And it appeared to be
in distress. The yacht rocked from side to side in the water, the depths
already boiling in anticipation of the oncoming storm. In the windows of the
vessel bright Christmas lights twinkled merrily, but there was no other sign of
life, no indication that Polneath’s favorite son was anywhere on board.
A chill ran through Jago’s
blood as he steered closer to the yacht, and it wasn’t just at the thought of
what this oceangoing Maserati must have cost. No man with an ounce of sense in
his head would be so stupid as to still be out here now in the dying hours of
the Christmas Eve daylight, with the maelstrom somewhere on the horizon. He
remembered from summer Sam’s bad habit of swimming alone from the deck of his
yacht, but surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it in the depths of winter?
Even Sam Coryton wouldn’t be
so idiotic as that.
Jago pulled up alongside the
yacht and let the engine idle. He called over the sound of the waves and the
seabirds, “Sam! Sam Coryton—it’s Captain Treherne. Are you there, Sam? Can you
hear me?”
He paused, but heard no
reply. There was no sign of anyone in the water, and Jago wondered if Sam had
been taken ill, alone in a cabin on the yacht. “I’m coming aboard!”Jago lashed the rescue boat to the Morveren, then heaved himself onto the deck. His boots squeaked as he crept along the deserted craft.
“Where the bloody hell is
he?” Jago muttered to himself as he lifted the hatch on the companionway and
stared down into the vessel. The Christmas lights were the only illumination in
the stairwell, but from beneath he could hear the gentle strains of light
classical music and smell fresh coffee, suggesting that someone was or, in the
worst-case scenario had been, aboard until recently.
Jago called Sam’s name
again, carefully descending the stairs into the yacht’s living quarters. He had
seen some impressive vessels in his day and this was certainly high among them,
a sleek craft from the outside and a comfortable home within. The hallway that
stretched ahead of him was brightly lit, the walls decorated with enormous
canvases showing cheery riots of color, but that made the scene feel somehow
even more uneasy. There was something in the air, an indefinable tension that
fired Jago’s instincts as he looked in on the rooms and found nothing out of the
ordinary, but no sign of the man who had sailed this vessel from the safety of
the harbor.
Where was Sam Coryton,
successful crime author? Surely this wasn’t one of Sam’s thrillers come to
life? Would Jago pull open a door and find—no, he couldn’t bear to think of
that. Not on his watch, not Polneath’s famous boy.
“Sam? Can you hear me?”
He shouldn’t have thought of
Sam’s thrillers. Now Jago was thinking of the bright Cornish villages with
their casts of colorful locals and the violence just beneath the surface, of
murder and—this was just the sort of plot Sam Coryton would come up
with—Christmas lights on a floating yacht with a gory surprise lurking
somewhere within.
Only one set of double doors
remained in the living quarters now and they stood, as they would in a murder
mystery, right at the end of the hallway ahead of Jago. He hadn’t seen a master
bedroom so this must be it. Despite himself the lifeboat captain, sturdy,
brave, fearless, paused with his hands on the door handles. He drew
in a deep breath, told himself he had seen worse than a dead author and pushed
the doors open.
Jago had only time to see a
brief impression—a figure, sprawled across a bed. A naked body. Was this the
work of some depraved psychopath? “Bloody hell, no—Sam!"
WHERE TO BUY…
ABOUT THE AUTHORS…
Eleanor Harkstead
Eleanor Harkstead likes to dash about in
nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can
occasionally be found wandering old graveyards. Eleanor is very fond of
chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. Her large collection of
vintage hats would rival Hedda Hopper's.
Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Originally from the south-east of England, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Catherine Curzon
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes
on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many
platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including
the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not
dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly
of Georgian London.She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
