by Macy Beckett
Chuckling softly, Marc aligned their hips and rocked, long and slow, against the terry cloth between her thighs to demonstrate exactly what was happening inside his pants. He must have hit the right spot because her eyes rolled back, mouth widening as she arched her neck and strained against him. Marc seized the opportunity and lowered his face to hers in a gentle kiss.
Or at least he tried to be gentle.
Once their lips met and she sighed into his mouth, he lost all control. A growl emanated from the back of his throat as he took her mouth with the force of nine years’ pent-up longing. She fisted his hair and angled her face to take his seeking tongue, luring him deeper into her mouth in wet thrusts that mimicked the unconscious motion of his hips.
If he thought Allie’s throat tasted good, it was nothing compared to her candied lips. He fed from her mouth, dizzy with the sensations of her warm scent and the noises rising from her chest. When she broke from the kiss and moaned his name, Marc quit caring whether or not the curse was real. If he woke up tomorrow with his head on backward it would be worth it.
“Marc,” she repeated, bucking against his erection, her eyes closed in rapture.
His body heated, and he rushed to shrug out of his captain’s jacket without leaving the decadence of Allie’s embrace. With that accomplished, he gazed past his waist to the long, tanned leg wrapped around his hips . . . the very bare leg.
“You naked under there?” Marc asked in a husky voice, not sure if he wanted to hear yes or no. It would be so easy to untie that white robe, unzip his fly, and slip right inside her.
But part of him knew it was a bad idea.
She answered by taking his hand and leading it up the length of her thigh, stopping where their clothed bodies met. He shifted aside so he could continue all the way to the top, and when he arrived at his destination he found her exposed, waxed baby-smooth, and already slick with desire.
God bless. He was going to burst in his drawers.
Bending to kiss her again, he ran one fingertip along the length of her slippery seam and stroked her with a whisper touch, teasing and tickling until she spread herself wide and dug her heels into the mattress in a silent plea for more pressure.
“How ’bout now, sugar?” he whispered against her mouth. “Feel anything?”
She only groaned and slurred a strand of incoherent Creole.
He didn’t need a translation to know what she wanted, and he gave it to her—massaging circles over her slippery flesh and swallowing her cries of pleasure. She was petal-soft and hot beneath his touch. Marc wanted to watch his fingers as he worked more tension into her coiling muscles, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the sweetness of her mouth. So he let his fingertips send images to his mind, imagining the sheen of arousal glistening at the juncture of her thighs, the pink pout of her sex as he slid a finger deep and felt the first wave of orgasm clench around him.
Then in the worst imaginable timing, someone began pounding on the bedroom door.
“Don’t get that,” Allie gasped, thrashing her head from side to side.
“I have no intention of stopping,” Marc promised. Nothing short of a fire would get him out of Allie’s room—or her body.
He added a second finger and pumped deeper, then twisted his hand palm-up to massage her sweet spot. The next surge crested in a climax twice as hard as the first. Marc covered her mouth with his, smothering her moans of release. Her pleasure rang inside his head like music, pride washing over him until he nearly burst with it. He loved making Allie shudder in ecstasy; his only wish was to take her higher.
He had to join himself with her completely, to bury his throbbing erection where she was blazing hot and wet enough to take all of him in one hard thrust. Allie must have sensed his need, because even in her weakened state she reached for his belt buckle.
Oh, hell yes.
He helped her with the belt, then jerked free the button at his waist, his gut clenching in anticipation of finding his own release.
The pounding on her door grew louder, but Marc let the thumps and distant shouts fly to his mind’s periphery. All he could think about was freeing himself from the confines of these damned pants . . . until the smoke detector split the air in a series of shrieks.
Only then did Marc lift his head and focus long enough to hear someone from the hall shout, “Fire!”
Chapter 6
“It’s a miracle nobody was hurt.”
Allie frowned at the snowy layer of fire extinguisher foam coating the surface of Regale’s double bed. Thank God the flames hadn’t spread beyond this room, or the Belle’s wooden decks could have caught like a tinderbox. Amazingly, the damage was contained to one ruined comforter and a few smudges of smoke staining the ceiling.
They were lucky.
Too bad no one else saw it that way.
“What rotten luck,” Nick said from the hallway, still clenching the handle of the cherry red fire extinguisher.
Marc ran a shaky hand through his hair and studied Regale, who leaned against the wall by the open window, both arms folded over his barrel chest. Allie noticed from her position near the bathroom door that the hair on Chef’s forearms was singed off, his only injury—remarkable, considering he’d awoken in a burning bed. The man could have been flambéed like the Steak Diane that had made him famous.
Talk about tragic irony.
“You sure you weren’t smoking?” Marc demanded. “Because your story doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
Allie tensed, bracing herself for an angry tirade about “the captain’s squeeze,” and how Marc should have been doing his job instead of her, but it never came. Regale didn’t mention Allie’s bathrobe, nor did he criticize Marc’s loose waves, tangled from her fingers, or the hastily buttoned jacket he’d used to conceal the enormous bulge in his trousers.
In fact, Chef didn’t say anything at all.
He flicked nervous glances in Allie’s direction but couldn’t hold her gaze. Gone were the disdainful stares and the intimidating set of his shoulders. He lowered his forehead like a dog who’d been kicked by its master, afraid of another blow.
That could only mean one thing.
Chef thought she’d done this to him—burned him in his bed. How could he consider her capable of such cruelty? It was even more insulting than his belief that she’d earned this job on her back.
Allie could almost hear her sister’s voice gloating, I’ll bet he won’t mess with you now, but this wasn’t the kind of respect she’d wanted from Regale, the kind born of fear.
Chef glowered at the carpeted floor when he finally said, “I don’t smoke.”
“Well, beds don’t light themselves on fire,” Marc argued.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Regale ground out, regaining a hint of his former sauce, “I took a break to lie down and check e-mail on my cell phone. I dozed off. When I woke up, the goddamned bed was on fire.”
“But that doesn’t add up,” Marc said.
“Doesn’t it?” Regale scoffed and threw a glance at Allie. “The math seems simple enough to me.”
Marc chewed his bottom lip and stared at the bed, no doubt mentally calculating the math. One voodoo priestess + one vengeful hex = Roasted Filet of Chef.
Allie hoped he wouldn’t buy into Regale’s paranoia, but her sinking heart told her that’s exactly what he was doing. He couldn’t help it. His family had ingrained superstition into him as permanently as burning a brand on his soul.
Darn it, she and Marc should be making love right now, starting a very different kind of fire. But judging by the way he dodged her gaze, she’d have to settle for one orgasm. Not that she was ungrateful—she’d never climaxed so hard in her life. The problem was, only ten minutes had passed, and already she wanted more.
So much more.
If her toes weren’t still half curled in ecstasy, she’d cry
.
“Well,” Marc said with a sigh, “let’s get it cleaned up in here so Chef can use his room tonight.”
Regale pushed both palms forward. “Whoa, there. I’m not staying.”
“What?” Marc froze in place.
“I’m getting off at the next port,” Regale said. “I’ll take a cab to the nearest airport and catch a flight home.”
“No, no, no,” Marc uttered, shaking his head in denial. “You can’t do this to me.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here. Not with . . .” Chef looked at Allie and back down at the floor just as quickly in a silent message. It’s her or it’s me.
Allie’s heavy heart sank another inch. This was what she’d hoped to avoid—forcing Marc to choose between her and his duty to the Belle.
Marc scrubbed a hand over his face, staring at the bed as if his dreams had burned along with the linens, clearly conflicted even though the choice was obvious. He had to do whatever it took to keep Chef on board. Nick seemed to know it, too. He furrowed his brow at his older brother as if to will the decision into him.
The seconds ticked by in silence until Allie couldn’t take it any longer.
“You know what?” she said, faking her best chipper voice. “I heard Ella-Claire mention she’s shorthanded at the purser’s desk.” Allie hugged herself with robe-covered arms to keep her disappointment trapped inside. Nobody needed to know how much this hurt. “We’ve got a fantastic galley crew. I’m sure they can get along without me if I leave recipes for them to follow.”
Marc shook his head and chanced a peek at her from the corner of one eye. “Allie, you don’t have to—”
“That’s a great idea,” Nick interrupted tightly, glaring at his brother.
Regale gave a reluctant nod, clearly preferring Allie left the boat altogether, but too chickenshit to say so. “We might be able to make that work.”
“But your recipes,” Marc said. “You sure you want to share them?”
Allie offered a smile. “It’s not the recipe that matters, baby. It’s the love I put into my desserts. I’m not afraid of anyone stealing my thunder.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Marc was giving her one last chance to back out, but Allie saw the relief in his posture and in the gradual unclenching of his jaw.
“Sure as I’m standing here”—she released a shaky laugh—“in my bathrobe.” Hooking a thumb toward her suite, she added, “I’d better get dressed and head downstairs.”
Then she turned and left without another glance in Marc’s direction, saving him the trouble of having to placate her—and from seeing the hurt in her eyes.
• • •
An hour later, after she’d styled her hair to perfection and spackled on enough makeup to pass for a televangelist’s wife, she strode to the head desk with her chin tipped and her shoulders squared. She might feel three feet tall, but she projected the confidence of a woman who had the world on a leash.
Fake it until you make it, and all that.
When she approached the desk, she waved at Alex and Ella-Claire, both huddled together over a stack of paperwork. The youngest Dumont, a lanky teenage boy whose name she couldn’t recall, stood by sipping a soda. He quirked a crooked grin, then ogled Allie’s boobs and mumbled something about Cheez-Its.
Strange kid.
“Hel-lo,” the boy said, waggling his brows and eating her up with his eyes like a prepubescent Don Juan. “I’m Jackson.”
“But we call him Worm,” Alex interjected. He ruffled his little brother’s hair. “Worm, this nice lady is Allie Mauvais.” He put extra emphasis on her last name, and it didn’t take long for the message to sink in. Worm’s brows quit waggling and shot up his forehead.
“Aw, balls,” the boy swore, snapping his fingers in disappointment. “That just ain’t right. I was in love for a few seconds.”
Allie rolled her eyes. A true Dumont, that one. “Welcome to my world, kid.”
“Did you really spark that dude in his bed?” Worm asked with a twinkle of admiration in his eyes.
“No,” Allie said. “I’d never do anything like that.” She fired a look at Ella-Claire to make her point, hurt that the woman had been so quick to jump on the blame-the-Mauvais bandwagon earlier that morning. She’d thought they were allies.
Ella blushed and studied her fingernails.
“I think it’s cool,” Worm said. “Wish I could do stuff like that. The asshole yelled at me last night while I was busing tables. Someone should tell him to say it, not spray it.”
“I didn’t . . .” Allie began, and then gave up the fight. There was no point in trying to get a Dumont to listen to reason. She plastered on that familiar fake smile and turned to Alex and Ella-Claire. “Never mind. Now that I’m out of the galley, I’m all yours. What can I do to help?”
The two folded their arms on the counter in a mirrored pose, shoulders barely touching. Their heads tilted toward each other in a way that caught Allie’s attention. To the casual observer, the pair’s body language might not have tripped an alarm, but to someone like Allie who studied minor cues for a hobby, that one action spoke volumes.
At the very least, they were close friends, but if the covert glances Alex kept sliding at Ella were any indication, he wanted more. As much as Allie enjoyed helping lovers find a match, she hoped Alex kept it in his pants. She liked Alex, and she’d hate to see him turned from a stallion to a gelding by his own brother.
“I’m sorry about all this, Allie.” Ella-Claire fidgeted with a sliver frog pendant around her neck, smoothing a thumb over the amphibian’s single emerald eye. “Marc told me you took this job to help promote your bakery, and now you can’t do that.”
Allie softened at the apology. She’d never been able to stay angry for long. “Not going to lie,” she said, tucking both hands in her back pockets, “I’d rather be making pastries, but I can be a team player. Where do you need me?”
Alex’s twin, Nick, approached the desk and jumped into the conversation. “I can use you in the casino.” He tossed a gallon-sized Ziploc baggie onto the counter, revealing a rectangle of charred plastic sealed inside.
Allie grimaced at the remains. “What’s that?”
“Chef’s cell phone.” Nick snorted in disdain. “We have to replace it, and of course he wants an upgrade for the trouble.”
Allie scrutinized the half-melted device. If she tilted her head, she could see how it had once been a cell phone. “Hold on,” she said to Nick. “You put out the fire pretty quickly, right?”
Nick nodded. “Only because I was in the hallway when it broke out.”
“But look.” Allie lifted the baggie and turned it over in her hands, studying the rippled screen. “This thing burned a lot longer than the bed did. I’ll bet this is what started the fire.”
The group shared a dubious glance before Nick threw her a bone. “Maybe. I guess.”
“Never heard of a cell phone starting a fire,” Alex added.
But it could happen—Allie didn’t care what anyone said. Holding the phone toward Nick, she asked, “Can I have this? When we stop in Natchez I want to have someone look at it.”
“Knock yourself out.” Nick backed toward the lobby and motioned for her to follow. He glanced at her chest and a grin crossed his mouth. “Any chance I can get you to unbutton that shirt a little? It’d be great for business, especially if I put you behind one of the blackjack tables. My gamblers won’t be able to count their own cards.”
She gave him an answer in the form of a glare.
“Hey, no pressure,” he said, lifting both hands like a robbery victim. “But you did say you were a team player. . . .”
Allie shook her head at him. Why couldn’t it be Marc who thumbed his nose at the supposed curse? “I’m not feeling that generous.”
While they crossed the lobby and made their way to
the second floor, Nick snuck his usual glances at her rear end—clearly, he was an ass man—but he kept the come-on lines to himself. Which stuck her as odd.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Allie said as they approached the casino, “but why aren’t you hitting on me?”
“Ah.” Nick nodded sagely as if preparing to discuss foreign policy instead of pick-up lines. “Despite what you might’ve heard, we Dumonts aren’t total dogs. We never share women.” After biting his lip, he corrected, “Except for the jazz singer, but that was an accident.”
Allie cast him a skeptical look. To hear him tell it, you’d think they’d all tripped and landed inside the woman. “So I’m off-limits because . . .”
“Because you’re Marc’s,” he said simply, opening the door for her.
Allie’s heart squeezed as she preceded Nick into the gaming room. She wished she were as unaffected by his statement as she pretended to be. On the inside, she wanted more than anything to be Marc’s girl—to warm his bed at night and feel the stubble of his jaw tickling her bare shoulder each morning.
To be the only woman who lit his fire . . .
She had her work cut out for her, though. Her sister had been right about one thing: the Dumonts had a raging case of emotional ADHD. They never stayed with one lover long enough to make it count.
Before long, the music of slot machine payouts stifled her thoughts, and Allie paused inside the casino to let her eyes adjust to the sensation overload. Flashing screens and twinkling lights competed for her attention, set against rows of gaming tables and roulette wheels. Quick-footed waitresses dodged stools to deliver drinks to sunglasses-wearing professionals and bucket-toting grannies alike. The scents of metal coins and excitement hung in the air along with the ring of electronic chimes, a few shouts of victory, and even more groans of defeat.
Yet despite the distractions filling the room, Allie’s eyes found a lone white captain’s jacket and fastened on Marc like a compass needle pointing north, drawn by an irresistible force of magnetism. She felt that pull deep inside and ordered her feet to remain rooted to the carpet.
