by Macy Beckett
“You really have to ask?” she said. “I’m a Mauvais, baby. Now quit messing around and help me find your brother.”
“All right, all right.” He pulled out his cell phone, fingertips flying over the screen as he typed a text. “I told him to meet us at your room. C’mon.” He pocketed the phone, grabbed her luggage, and took off across the room in long strides that had Allie jogging to catch up.
“Wait!” she called. “How do you know where my room is? Until ten seconds ago, you didn’t even know I was here.”
He pulled open the stairwell door and held it for her. “Easy. If you’re taking the other guy’s place, you’re taking his room, too.” Nodding ahead, he said, “Third floor. I’ll follow.”
She climbed the first flight, feeling his eyes on her caboose. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it.
“You’re lucky,” Nick said, not bothering to avert his gaze. “The pastry dude was some big shot, so he scored a suite next door to the head chef. The rest of us bunk three to a room down below.”
“Lucky me,” she said without a trace of sarcasm. She’d toured this boat years ago during a seventh-grade field trip, and she remembered how tiny the rooms were. “Sounds like you’re on top of each other.”
“You offering to share your room?” he asked. “’Cause I’d rather be keeping you company than one of my brothers.”
They reached the third floor and stepped into a red-carpeted hallway that reminded her of an old horror movie she couldn’t quite place. “Not happening.” She pointed to her left and asked, “Which way?”
He dipped his head in the opposite direction. “313, the unluckiest number on the boat.”
“That’s all right. I make my own luck.” Allie crossed the hall, glancing at each room placard as she passed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Fire away,” came the reply. She was pretty sure he was still watching her butt.
“How come you’re not bothered by the Mauvais-Dumont curse? I think sleeping with me is supposed to make your heart implode, or something.”
Nick snickered. “You’ve got to admit, it’d be a pretty sweet way to go.”
“So you’re not afraid?”
“Honey, the only thing that scares me is a broken condom.”
She wondered if Nick’s bravery came from knowing he didn’t stand a chance with her. Not that it mattered, because she had no intention of testing that theory. When she reached her door, she noticed Alex striding down the hall toward them. Unlike his twin, Alex kept his distance and ogled with his eyes, not his mouth.
“Hey, Allie.” He gestured at the doorknob and waited for her to back up a step before moving in to unlock it for her. His fingers trembled, fumbling with the key while he darted glances up and down the hall. When he noticed her puzzled expression, he said, “We’ve got to hurry up and get you inside before Pawpaw sees.”
“Oh, shit,” Nick said from behind. “He’s gonna blow a brain vein.”
“Not if he doesn’t find out.”
“You’d better break it to him soon,” Allie said, “because Marc wants me on the welcome line in thirty minutes.”
Alex got the door open and ushered her inside a room the size of a generous walk-in closet. When the twins followed behind and shut the door, Allie inched along the double bed to give herself some space, which was in short supply.
She took in the slim dresser, each drawer cleverly latched to survive the rocking motion of the boat, and admired the netted shelves built into the wall. They’d forgone televisions and iPod docking stations in favor of a single digital alarm clock with AM-FM radio. She wasn’t sure if the goal was to save money or maintain the historical feel. Maybe both. She made a mental note to ask Marc how they generated electricity on board.
A glance to her right revealed the bathroom, where beyond a tiny sink sat a plastic commode . . . smack-dab in the middle of the shower stall. She hadn’t noticed that on the field trip. Allie blinked a few times to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.
Nope, that was really a toilet. In the shower.
“There’s something fundamentally wrong with doing your business while washing your hair,” she said. And where did they keep the toilet paper—under the sink?
“Suck it up, buttercup,” Nick said. “At least you’re not sharing it three ways.”
“True.” Not even a night with Marc Dumont was worth that. Which reminded her—“Hey, Alex, I’m supposed to ask for a staff shirt.”
“What size?”
“Medium, I guess.”
He took an extra-long moment to appraise her chest before agreeing. “I need you to fill out some paperwork, too.” Backing toward the door, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As Alex walked out, the phone in Nick’s pocket chirped and he glanced at the screen. “Duty calls. Let me know if you get lonesome, hon.” He tossed her suitcase on the bed, and with a wink, he was gone, too.
Allie unzipped her suitcase and got to work unpacking. She’d just moved to the bathroom to freshen up when a man’s voice boomed through the thin wall separating her from the next suite. A thrill ricocheted the length of her spine. She knew that gravelly bark. Phillip Regale had checked in.
The Phillip Regale!
Alex had told her to stay put, but there was no harm in a quick introduction, especially if Phil invited her inside his room and away from Pawpaw’s line of vision. She rubbed some frizz-control between her hands and scrunched her curls. After a quick lipstick touch-up, she tucked her room key in her back pocket and checked the hallway, finding it vacant.
She tiptoed over and knocked twice beneath the peephole.
The door flew open more quickly than she’d anticipated. Allie flinched back while offering a shaky wave.
Phillip Regale greeted her with a curt, “What?” and tossed a handful of almonds into his mouth.
He was shorter than she’d expected, wearing a red Belle of the Bayou–embroidered polo instead of his typical white chef’s jacket. But she recognized his salt-and-pepper crew cut and the trio of lines etched across his forehead and between his eyes. He was distinguished and broad-shouldered and clearly awaiting a reply.
“Hi, sir,” she said and paused to swallow. “I’m Allison Mauvais, and I’ll be—”
“No autographs.” He started to shut the door, but on instinct, Allie wedged her sneaker-clad foot in the jamb. The hazel eyes narrowed at her were not amused.
“Can I come in for a second?” she asked, taking another quick peek up and down the hall.
Phillip wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled vinegar in his hollandaise sauce. “No, you most certainly cannot.”
This wasn’t going the way she’d planned. Allie scrambled for damage control. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m your new pastry chef.”
“Oh,” he said, relaxing a bit. “Never heard of you.” He opened the door an inch or two but didn’t invite her in. “Where’d you graduate?”
“Cedar Bayou High.”
“No,” he said, snickering in a way that made her feel stupid. “Which culinary school?”
Allie hesitated, unsure of how to answer him. She had no degrees or formal training beyond what she’d picked up in her mama’s kitchen. But deciding she had nothing to be ashamed of, she admitted, “I didn’t go to culinary school. But I learned from the best.”
“Yeah?” He munched his almonds, tipping back his head to look down his nose at her. “Who?”
“It’s wasn’t a formal apprenticeship, but my mama and my—”
“Oh, God.” He pinched his temples between his thumb and index finger and regarded her with new eyes, taking in the exposed skin below the hem of her skirt and then raking his gaze over her breasts. “I get it. You’re fucking the boss.”
Allie’s lips parted with a pop, heat rushing into her cheeks. Sheer morti
fication tied her tongue for several awkward beats, and just when she geared up to contradict him, Phil cut her off with a humorless laugh.
“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve dealt with plenty of broads spreading ’em for a job. Just do what I tell you and stay out of my way. I’ll hire my own guy as soon as we stop in Natchez.”
With the toe of his shoe, he nudged aside her sneaker and clicked the door shut.
For a full minute, Allie’s feet clung to the carpet as she stared at the oak barrier inches from her nose. The heat from her face spread downward, sparking a flame of anger inside her chest. Devyn was right. Phillip Regale was an asswipe. And when Allie blotted her cheeks, she discovered the jerk really did spit when he talked.
She balled one fist and pounded on his door. When he didn’t answer instantly, she pounded three more times.
Alex turned the corner and bolted to her side. “What are you doing? Get back in your room!”
“Not yet,” she said, pounding until her fist ached. “Not until he takes it back.”
The door swung open again, and this time, Phillip’s eyes were more than unamused. They were downright livid. “What now?” he demanded around a cheek full of nuts.
“Nothing, Chef,” Alex said, wrapping an arm around Allie’s shoulders and then releasing her just as quickly.
Allie shook her index finger at Regale. “I’m not sleeping with the captain!”
“Right.” He tossed another almond into his mouth. “Then explain why I’m stuck working with an unqualified, hot piece of ass from the swamp.”
Alex drew a sharp breath, flinging himself in front of Regale as if to take a bullet. “We need him, Allie,” he said desperately. “Don’t hex him!”
“Hex me?” Regale said with a snort. “Good God, what kind of Podunk shit is th—”
His voice cut off abruptly, hand flying to his throat while his watery eyes bulged wide. As seconds ticked by, redness crept into his face, followed by a shocked expression. He tried to cough, but no sound escaped his lips. With each new attempt, more color flooded his cheeks until he resembled an unripe plum.
Alex spun on her. “Undo it!”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Phil bent at the waist and clutched the doorjamb, pounding his own stomach to free his airway.
“Please, Allie!” Alex begged. “Reverse it!”
She pushed Alex aside and skirted Phil’s body until she settled behind him. Steeling herself, she wrapped both arms around his belly, situated her fist beneath his rib cage, clapped the opposite hand over it, and heaved backward.
Nothing happened.
“Oh, my God,” Alex cried. “He’s gonna die!” He frantically made the sign of the cross over Phil, mumbling a Hail Mary in disjointed Latin.
Allie tensed her muscles to try again. This time, she inched her fist upward and planted her feet hip-width apart for better leverage. With a mighty tug, she squeezed Phil’s girth with all her strength and heard a light oof of air in response. She glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the dislodged almond smack an old man in the eye.
“Couillon!” the old man swore, clapping one hand over his injury. Then he turned his good eye on her and lowered the brow above it. “Is that a Mauvais? Aboard my ship?”
He had to be Marc’s pawpaw. Allie hadn’t seen him since she’d moved away from the bayou, but apparently he recognized her easily enough.
Before anyone could respond, Phillip growled and shoved Allie into the hall, thanking her for saving his life by slamming the door in her face. Again.
Ten frantic minutes later, after she and Alex had tried tag-teaming his pawpaw into accepting her aboard the Belle, the old man stalked away.
“Over my dead carcass!” he hollered. “I’m havin’ words with Marc. But first, I’m pourin’ a line of salt at my door, so she can’t curse the bed while I’m outside!” He pointed at Alex and warned, “You best do the same, boy!”
“That only works for those who mean you harm,” she called after him. “I’m here to help.”
As he charged down the hall, she thought she heard him mutter, “Damn straight. Help us all to hell.”
Alex rushed after his pawpaw, leaving Allie alone to wonder if the Dumonts had it all wrong. Because if the day’s events were any indication, it seemed Memère had jinxed her own line instead of theirs.
Chapter 4
Sliding on his sunglasses, Marc peered through the pilothouse window at the murky Mississippi, as the Belle sluiced through her currents like a hot knife through butter. Nice and smooth, just the way he liked it. He touched the throttle to open it up to a leisurely seven knots and enjoyed the manufactured breeze from a nearby oscillating fan affixed to the wall. Overhead, the clouds parted and bathed the deck in golden rays as if the Man Upstairs had personally blessed this voyage.
It was a good day.
The engine hummed flawlessly, propelling the newly repaired paddle wheel into a lazy rotation while his passengers milled about the multistory decks, sipping their mint juleps. Even the finicky sonar equipment had decided to play nice this afternoon in celebration of Marc’s first day as captain. The only part of the Belle giving him any grief was of the living, breathing variety.
Which was usually the case.
“You’re thinkin’ with your tallywhacker,” Pawpaw accused from his seat on the defunct side control panel. “If you have a lick of sense, you’ll drop that witch at the next port.”
Marc cringed inwardly. Witch, siren, devil, sorceress. When Allie had said she’d been called worse than his teasing nickname, she was likely referring to the slurs his own family had hurled at her over the years.
And yet here she was, taking the abuse with a weary smile while saving Marc’s bacon. Last he’d seen her, she’d stacked out a corner of Regale’s kitchen to fix a batch of berry cobbler. Her bronze cheeks had been dewy with perspiration, her adorable nose smudged with flour, but despite Chef’s demands to get the hell out of his way, she’d tossed a handful of blackberries into her mouth and soldiered on. Allie was a damned hard worker, and she deserved respect from the crew.
“Put a lid on that nonsense,” Marc said. “I need a pastry chef a whole lot more than I need an Onboard Historian.” He turned to Pawpaw and arched a brow at the old man’s ridiculous title. As if the crotchety old coot were qualified to dispense knowledge beyond how to brew homemade whiskey.
Pawpaw pressed his wrinkled lips into a line, glaring at Marc in a way that warned he’d conceded the battle but not the war. As he stalked out the pilothouse door, he grumbled, “We’re gonna need more salt.”
Marc released a breath and tried to reclaim his perfect day, but it wasn’t happening. Even the clouds knitted together, obscuring the sun and putting the kibosh on his grace from above. He called one of his copilots to man the controls, figuring he might as well head downstairs to mingle with the guests and check in with his sister, the head purser.
On his way to the main level, Marc turned a critical eye down each hallway, pleased to find uniformed maids shuttling clean towels and fresh ice water into each room. When he passed the reading salon, he nodded a greeting to a lone guest curled up on the plush chaise longue, romance novel in one hand and a cocktail in the other. That’s what Marc wanted to see—his passengers relaxed and happy.
He descended the sweeping mahogany staircase and crossed the lobby to the main desk, where Alex was showing Worm how to operate the intercom system while Ella-Claire tapped at her keyboard.
The instant Ella-Claire’s blue gaze darted up from her computer screen, her face broke into a wide grin. She skirted the desk and came running at Marc, chestnut ponytail swinging above her crisp white purser’s uniform, sensible black heels clicking against the wood floor. She threw her arms around him and hugged his neck.
“Congrats, Captain,” she said.
“I’m so proud of you.”
Marc gave her a squeeze and a smile to match. His little sister knew how much this day meant to him, and he loved her for it. They were half siblings—same mama, different daddies—but even though the Belle wasn’t Ella’s legacy, she’d spent every summer since her fourteenth birthday sweating right alongside him on this boat. Together, they’d towed luggage and scrubbed decks until his daddy had recognized Ella’s talent for sweet-talking irate guests. He’d trained her for customer service, and now ten years later she practically ran the show.
“How’s it going so far?” Marc said. “Any snags?”
She offered a reassuring pat on the forearm and returned to her station behind the polished wood counter. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“What about the Gibsons?” Alex asked her.
Ella threw Alex a sharp look.
The Gibsons. Why did that name sound familiar to Marc? “What about them?”
“They’re one of the couples who double-booked the honeymoon suite,” Ella explained. “The bride’s not happy with the stateroom.”
“Even though we comped all their tours?”
Ella nodded. “I invited them to sit at your table for supper, but they didn’t seem too excited about that.”
No doubt. If you asked Marc, the best honeymoon was the kind where nobody left the bed. What was the point in going through all that wedding bullshit—not to mention the divorce that would inevitably follow—if you didn’t get a week of nonstop sex out of it?
“I’ll stop by their table tonight and see if I can smooth things over,” he said.
“Thanks.” Ella grabbed her clipboard and slipped a pencil behind one ear. “That reminds me, I’ve got to run to the dining hall real quick.”
She asked Alex to hold down the fort until she returned, and after giving Marc a quick kiss on the cheek, she clicked off to her destination.
Worm leaned over the counter and pushed aside his shaggy brown hair to watch her leave, ogling her backside in clear appreciation while he murmured, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”
