by Macy Beckett
Marc had removed his hat and let his chestnut waves hang loose against his shoulders, indulging in a moment of laughter with his pawpaw as they leaned against the bar that stretched along the back wall. The old man belted back a swig of amber-colored liquid while Marc spoke animatedly, talking with his hands.
Those hands.
Her body buzzed hot with the memory of Marc’s touch. Heavens, the man could do things with his hands that should be illegal. If she lived ten lifetimes, she’d never forget the tease of his fingertips between her thighs, his warm breath in her ear asking, Feel anything, sugar?
Oh, yeah.
She’d felt it then and she felt it now. He possessed a magic more real than any curse, practically ruining her for all other men without ever moving past third base.
Gracious, she was going to get her heart broken. But knowing Marc, it would be worth it.
As if she’d called to him, Marc halted his conversation and met her gaze from across the room. His smile fell, his dark eyes growing stormy by slow degrees as he held her captive with nothing but a look. The intensity between them told her he wanted to pick up where they’d left off, but the firm line of his mouth warned he’d try his damnedest to resist. He stared her down for several heartbeats until Nick waved a hand in front of Allie’s face and broke the connection.
“Earth to Allie,” Nick said, snapping his fingers in front of her nose.
She blinked a few times and faced him. “Sorry. What?”
“Ever worked in a casino before?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’ve got a gaming license.” He pursed his lips as if brainstorming a way around that little roadblock, but he must have decided it wasn’t worth the risk. With a small sigh he concluded, “Guess you can serve drinks.”
The idea of slinging booze for the next two weeks made Allie’s shoulders sag an inch. This wasn’t how she’d pictured her trip. She was supposed to be in the galley alongside her professional idol, forming connections and wowing guests with her mouthwatering creations.
So much for that.
She saw Nick’s sigh and raised him a groan. “Fine. Just tell me what to do.”
He picked out a cocktail waitress in the crowd, a young brunette with fuchsia-painted lips and acrylic nails to match. “That’s Christy, the head waitress. She’ll assign you a zone; then you circulate it and keep a drink in everyone’s hand. Alcohol tends to loosen the wallet, you know?”
“I bet,” she said. “No pun intended.”
“It’s pretty easy. All the drinks are free, and everyone’s carded at the door, so you don’t have to worry about checking IDs.” Nick gestured toward the bartender. “At the end of each day, split your tips with the barkeep. And don’t stiff him. He’ll mix your orders faster if you play by the rules.”
Pay the drink pimp or suffer the consequences. “Got it.”
“Once we stop in Natchez,” Nick said, “we’ll begin the Texas Hold’em tourney. Same rules apply, but don’t be surprised if the pros refuse liquor.”
“Because they’ll want to keep a clear head.”
“Exactly.”
“But I’ll be able to get off the boat for a while, right?” she asked. “I want to visit the fire department and have them inspect Regale’s phone.”
Nick offered a condescending grin, stopping just short of patting her on the head. “Sure thing. You just do what you gotta do.”
Allie scowled at him, half wishing she could cast spells, then stalked off toward the bar. Once there, she met Christy, who outfitted her with a waist apron, serving tray, and an order pad. The girl had horrible taste in lipstick, but a generous smile that made Allie like her immediately.
“You take the nickel slots,” Christy said, pointing to a dimly lit portion of the casino near the side wall. “It’s the worst zone for tips, but I rotate the waitstaff to keep it fair. Tomorrow I’ll give you the high-dollar blackjack tables.” She grinned and nudged Allie with her pencil eraser. “Those are the big tippers.”
Allie thanked her, trying to catch a bit of the woman’s infectious enthusiasm, but without success. She tucked the round tray beneath one arm and strode toward the nickel-plunking, slot-pulling seniors. But just as she passed the first craps table, a hand reached out and snagged her by the wrist.
Allie paused in front of a man so pretty she had to fight the urge to flip her hair and bat her lashes. He was the living spit of that actor from the big vampire franchise. Allie squinted at his face to see if he sparkled, feeling a mixture of disappointment and stupidity when he didn’t.
“Need somethin’ to drink?” she asked him. A vial of blood, maybe?
He shook his head while his gaze took a leisurely stroll up and down the length of her body. Then he held out one hand. “I need a beautiful woman to kiss my dice. How about it?” The dance of amusement in his eyes led her to believe he wasn’t referring to the white tossers.
Allie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and play it friendly. “No way, baby. I don’t know where your dice have been.”
“Touché,” he said, lifting his palm. “How about a blow, then?” He laughed in an easy, rolling chortle that saved him from being whacked upside the head with her serving tray.
Allie bent at the knees and blew on his dice, then shook her head teasingly. “And you didn’t even buy me dinner.”
“I can fix that,” he said, tossing his dice without bothering to see what he’d rolled. “We could sneak off for a few hours when we stop in Natchez. What do you say?”
The question caught her off guard. If he’d asked last month, she might have said yes. He had a witty edge about him that she liked. But unfortunately for the both of them, a pair of soft lips and wicked hands had given her heart a case of tunnel vision. There was only one man on her mind now, and he was approaching from the bar, glaring at the back of the gambler’s head hard enough to drill a hole into his brain.
“Afternoon,” Marc greeted the man while pressing a possessive hand to Allie’s lower back. “You’ll have to excuse us. I need a word with Miss Mauvais.” It wasn’t a request, and he didn’t seek the other man’s permission.
With a stiff nod good-bye, Marc steered Allie away from the craps table. He led her behind the bar into the storage room, then kicked aside the doorstop and let the oak door swish shut.
Allie didn’t know what to expect. Marc seemed angry with her, and the tension between them made the small storage space shrink by a few square feet. But she stood her ground, refusing to back against a row of beer kegs like her feet wanted.
One hand on her hip, she lifted her face to his and tried to ignore the intoxicating scents of aftershave and raw sex appeal that clung to the collar of Marc’s dress shirt. If the Secret Service could bottle that smell, they’d scramble minds without lifting a finger.
Marc’s mood shifted from irate to something resembling unease. He loosened the tie knotted at his throat. “Listen, Allie,” he began, his gaze never fully connecting with hers. “We need to talk about what happened.”
A cold weight settled in Allie’s stomach. She knew where this was going. He was giving her the brush-off.
“When I came to your suite,” Marc said, “it wasn’t to take advantage of you. I didn’t mean for anything to happen, and I’m—”
“Stop.” Allie dropped her serving tray and whipped a finger in front of his nose. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry!”
Immediately, he started backpedaling. “Now, don’t go gettin’ upset. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” she demanded.
“It’s just . . . I only . . . We didn’t . . .” He sputtered and stammered until he finally hung his head and muttered, “Shit. This isn’t going how I planned.”
Allie folded her arms. “Please tell me this isn’t about some curse.”
�
��Of course it’s not. You know I don’t believe in that mess.”
But that was the problem—deep down in the recesses of Marc’s subconscious mind, he did believe in that mess. She had to show him nothing catastrophic would happen if he let himself go. She released her frustration and stepped toward Marc, stopping when the tips of her breasts brushed his jacket lapels. His gaze widened and darted to the points of contact, but he made no move to separate himself.
That was a good sign. At least he wasn’t afraid to touch her.
“Listen, baby,” she said as she ran a finger down the length of his tie, “you didn’t take advantage of me.”
Marc swallowed hard enough to shift his Adam’s apple. “Still, I—”
“Let me finish.” Allie skimmed a thumb over his lips, choking back a surge of desire when his mouth parted to release a hot breath. “I asked you to kiss me, remember?”
He nodded slowly and licked his lips as if he could taste her there.
“And if you came to my room to make me feel better . . .” Allie straightened his tie and walked her fingers up the side of his neck to brush back his hair. “Well, it worked.” She inched closer, near enough to feel the gradual thickening of his arousal pressed to her belly. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered against the edge of his jaw, “You made me feel real good, Marc.”
He groaned and grasped her hips.
“And nothing big happened.”
“Except this.” He pushed his erection against her while nuzzling her temple.
“Except that,” she agreed. She reached down and used a fingernail to trace the length of him. He hardened fully by the time she finished one rotation, his grip on her body tight, his breathing choppy. “But that doesn’t scare me. And when you’re ready to face your fears,” she murmured, “I want to make you feel real good, too.”
“Damn, Allie,” he swore, thrusting against her palm.
“But . . .” She stepped back and put a few cold inches of space between them. “Not until then.”
The lust-filled look he gave her sent wet heat pooling between her thighs. “That ain’t fair, sugar.”
A grin tipped one corner of Allie’s mouth. Who said she played fair? “When you’re ready, you know where to find me.”
She turned and bent over—nice and slow, of course—to pick up her tray, then sashayed out the door, leaving Marc with something spectacularly long and hard to think about.
Chapter 7
By sunset, Marc had a residual cramp in his gut and balls the size of coconuts. If it was possible to die from sexual frustration, he’d be rocking a toe tag before dawn. He could barely walk upright as he climbed the stairs to the captain’s suite, which of course was all the way on the top level.
Allie had damn near crippled him.
As if fantasizing about her for the past decade weren’t enough, now his brain wouldn’t stop refreshing his memory with the taste of Allie’s throat, the feel of her silken heat pulsing around his fingers, the tickle of her nails teasing his johnson . . .
Mercy.
Thinking about it tugged the knot in his groin. He hunched over and gripped the handrail, then hauled himself to his quarters. It was going to be an early night for him. He’d arranged for someone else to pilot the Belle so he could grab a hot shower and a little relief. With any luck he’d be in bed by nine.
Lord, when had he become such a geezer?
He sank onto the bed and kicked off his shoes. Checking his watch, he noted that Allie’s shift should be over soon. Then she’d be free for the rest of the night—free to make him feel “real good.”
When you’re ready, you know where to find me.
Marc groaned and leaned over, cradling his head between both palms. His body was ready, no doubt about that, but the rest of him was slow on the uptake.
He wasn’t sure what held him back. He’d always claimed he didn’t believe in magic or hexes or any of that shit . . . but at the same time, he couldn’t deny that some wonky stuff had happened since Allie reentered his life. She’d crossed his path and everything had started going south. Hell, right after he’d given her an orgasm, the bed next door had spontaneously combusted. Marc didn’t know if he was cursed, but either way, something freaky was going on, and he couldn’t ignore the signs.
But he wanted to. More than he wanted to breathe.
His cell phone buzzed from inside his breast pocket. He checked the screen and saw Ella-Claire calling.
“Hey,” he said. “I was about to get in the shower. What’s up?”
“We need you in the galley!” Ella’s voice squeaked in panic. “It’s an emergency!”
Marc sat bolt upright. “Another fire?”
“No, nothing like that,” she said. “Chef won’t serve dinner, and the guests are starting to complain.”
“Son of a bitch.” Of course the guests were pissed—supper should’ve been on the table an hour ago. “I’ll be right down.”
So much for finding relief tonight.
Marc put on his shoes, buttoned his jacket, and headed downstairs, a surge of adrenaline propelling his aching limbs into a jog. He purposely avoided both dining rooms and entered the galley from the back door.
What he found in there could only be described as chaos.
Two dozen crew members ran circles around one another as they assembled plates of whipped potatoes and seasoned green beans. Chef hunched over the industrial-sized stove, sautéing rock shrimp and filling the air with savory steam. At first, Marc assumed they’d solved the problem, but then Chef sampled a shrimp and hollered a cuss. He threw his steel pan into the sink, where it clanked loudly and splattered the back wall with sauce.
“Damn it all to hell!” Chef yelled, then jabbed a finger at his staff. “Get me some more shrimp!” His workers collectively flinched. When they didn’t move fast enough for him, he bellowed, “Get off your worthless asses and fetch my goddamned shrimp!”
The unfortunate bastards nearest to Chef wiped the spittle off their faces and scurried to the refrigerator to fulfill his request.
“What’s the holdup?” Marc asked, gently nudging aside the crew to join Regale at the stove. He pointed toward the main dining room. “They’re starving out there.”
Regale always looked like he was two heartbeats away from an aneurism, but now his face turned maroon and his jaw clenched hard enough to break.
“What’s the holdup?” Regale pointed to the pan he’d just chucked away. “My bourbon Creole lemon sauce, that’s what.” He jutted his chin toward the sink. “Go on. Try it.”
Mentally rolling his eyes at the overgrown diva, Marc swiped a finger along the edge of Chef’s discarded pan and brought it to his mouth. It tasted sour, like Chef had left it out too long and let it spoil.
“It’s rancid,” Regale said.
“So make a different sauce.” Marc wondered how the idiot had managed to keep a restaurant franchise afloat. “You can’t keep folks waiting all night for their supper.”
Regale sucked a long breath through his nostrils while his face deepened to the shade of an eggplant. “I did make a different sauce. That was the tenth batch! Everything turns out rancid, every single time!”
“Did you check your ingredients?” Marc asked.
“What kind of fucking moron do you take me for?”
Marc elected not to answer that question, but he assumed Chef meant yes. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. Sauté ’em in butter. You can’t screw that up.”
“Screw it up?” Chef drew back as if Marc had slapped him. “Are you implying this is my fault?”
Marc’s patience snapped. “Who else’s fault would it be?”
“I think we both know.” Regale closed in on Marc until they were toe to toe. “One of us just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“One of us,” Marc uttered, refusing to back down, “h
as no friggin’ idea what you’re talking about.”
Regale’s upper lip curled in loathing. “I’m talking about the back-swamp voodoo whore you keep around to polish your knob.”
Marc heard a pop inside his brain like a blown fuse. Without thinking, he fisted Regale’s shirt and slammed him into the stainless steel refrigerator. “You’d better shut the hole in your face before I shut it for you.”
But he forgot Regale was built like a bull.
The man used one powerful arm to shove Marc away and the other to coldcock him in the eye. Marc’s head snapped back as sparks of pain exploded behind his lid. He recovered quickly and delivered a left hook to Chef’s kidney and a right jab to the gut.
It barely fazed Regale.
He growled and charged Marc, leaning down like an offensive lineman about to flatten him. Marc braced for impact, but just as their bodies connected, Regale lost his footing in a puddle of his own bourbon sauce and went down hard, knocking his forehead on the floor.
He lay there, out cold.
Good. Now the bastard couldn’t run his dirty mouth.
Marc took a deep breath and glanced around the room at Chef’s wide-eyed staffers. Since there was no chance of maintaining his professionalism after that display, he issued a command.
“Fry up some shrimp and serve it with something—anything—bottled cocktail sauce if you have to. I want dinner out there in fifteen minutes flat.”
While the staff jumped into action, Marc dragged Chef’s unconscious body out of the way and made a call to the pilothouse.
“Hey,” Marc said when his man picked up. “Where’s the nearest port?”
“Just passed one about a mile back,” came the response. “Why’d you ask?”
“Turn the Belle around,” Marc ordered. “We’re dropping a passenger.”
• • •
Marc tipped back a can of Coke, wishing it were a shot of Crown Royal, and pressed a bag of frozen peas to his eye. He winced when the contents shifted against his swollen flesh. He’d have one hell of a shiner in the morning, but it would be worth it. Already, he felt twenty pounds lighter with Regale off the boat. The chef had taken all his toxicity with him when the paramedics had wheeled him down the ramp and into the darkness.
