by Macy Beckett
“Me?” Beau quit dicing onions and pointed the knife at himself. “What’d I do?”
Marc cocked his head and gave him the don’t be obtuse look. “I saw you hanging all over Allie and Ella-Claire when you came aboard.”
One corner of Beau’s mouth lifted. “Oh, that.”
“Yeah,” Marc said flatly. “That.”
Shrugging, Beau returned to his work. “What can I say? I’m an affectionate kind of guy.”
“Affectionate, my ass.” Marc darted a glance out the open door to make sure nobody was within earshot. He lowered his voice to deliver a stern warning. “Just remember you’re here to scramble the eggs, not fertilize ’em.”
Apparently, Beau thought that was the funniest damn thing he’d ever heard, because he broke into a heaving guffaw. He tossed down his knife and clutched his belly and doubled over, the annoying jackass. His braying reverberated off the walls, prompting Marc to close the galley door.
“Yuk it up all you want,” Marc said, scooting aside the canister of flour that doubled as a doorstop. “I’m not screwing around.”
“Shit, man.” Using a handful of his T-shirt, Beau blotted his watery eyes. “You gotta warn me next time you drop a one-liner like that. I could’ve lost a finger.”
Speaking of fingers, Marc raised an extra-special one at his brother to send a message not even he could misinterpret. “Keep your fly zipped. Or I might not wait for the next port to kick you off the boat.”
“Keep it zipped, huh?” Beau folded his massive arms over his equally massive chest and stared down his nose at Marc. “You gonna follow your own orders, Captain?”
“Of course I am,” Marc said. And since he’d never technically unzipped around Allie, it was true. “This is business.”
“Uh-huh.” Beau’s tone made it clear he didn’t buy what Marc was selling. He tapped an index finger against the corner of his lips. “You’ve got something right here. I’m no expert, but I think it’s lipstick.”
Marc scrubbed a fist against his mouth. When he pulled back his hand, Allie’s bright coral gloss stared back at him, proving his brother right.
Shit.
A low chuckle shook Beau’s chest. Nodding, he used his hand like a gun and fired it at Marc’s heated face. “Busted.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No? Were you trying on her makeup, then?” Beau immediately flashed a palm. “Not that there’s any shame in that. I don’t judge.”
Maybe Marc should make good on that promise to dump his brother overboard.
“I’ve been gone a while,” Beau said, “but I still know you up one side and down the other.” Retrieving his knife, he approached the cutting board, but ignored the onions in favor of studying Marc with a critical eye. “Never seen you like this before, though.”
Marc knew he should let it go, but curiosity took control of his vocal cords. “Like what, exactly?”
“Whipped.” A satisfied grin unfurled across Beau’s lips. “Harder than a rented mule.”
“Bullshit,” Marc said with a dismissive wave. He wanted Allie—no use lying to himself—but that didn’t mean he was pussy whipped. It was attraction, plain and simple. “Maybe all those years of playing football rattled your brain.”
“Hey, I took a few whacks to the noggin, but I can still tell Allie’s got you sprung.” Beau turned his gaze to the cutting board and began chopping onions at the speed of sound. “I get it, little brother,” Beau went on. “Those Mauvais women have a way of sneaking inside your head when you’re not looking, then digging in and never letting go.” His blade never slowed, but Beau’s voice took on a softer tone—one that sounded an awful lot like regret. “I’d know.”
Marc dipped his chin in shock. “You mean Devyn? I thought she was a fling.”
Beau huffed a dry laugh. “So did I.”
“Wait a minute.” Marc shook his head skeptically, pointing his water bottle at his brother. “You’re telling me that Beau Dumont—the guy who supposedly lost his virginity to the Playmate of the Year—can’t get over Allie’s ice queen sister?”
“Hey, that totally happened,” Beau said, jabbing a finger at Marc. “I was big for my age, and Miss July thought I was eighteen.”
Marc rolled his eyes. Beau was still big for his age.
“And if Dev turned out prickly,” he continued, “it’s probably my fault, not hers. I screwed her over pretty hard.”
“Damn,” Marc swore under his breath. Devyn Mauvais. He’d have never guessed it. But the more Marc thought about his brother’s ill-fated fling, the more he began to wonder if they’d experienced any anomalies during their . . . well, private time. “So,” Marc began. “Did . . . uh . . .” He trailed off, drawing a sudden blank.
“Did uh what?” Beau asked.
What was Marc supposed to say? Did the bed catch fire the first time you touched her? Was Pawpaw right—did your junk fall off afterward? Did you break out in boils south of the border? Each question on Marc’s tongue sounded more absurd than the last.
“The old legend,” he finally said. “About the hex on our family . . .”
“What about it?”
Marc studied his shoes. “Did you ever get the feeling it was real?”
Beau didn’t answer at first, but once he’d finished dicing his onion, he set down his knife and huffed a sigh. “Honestly? Yeah, I did.”
“Really?” Marc asked. “Why?”
“Can’t say for sure.” Beau lifted a shoulder. “It seemed like something was keeping me from getting too close, like an emotional fence. Or hell, maybe I was just wasn’t ready. But I do know one thing.”
Marc nodded for him to go on.
“If I get another chance, I won’t quit so easily.” Beau grabbed another onion and picked up his knife. “I’ll go after what I want, curse or no curse.”
The response didn’t alleviate Marc’s confusion, but he felt relieved knowing that Pawpaw had exaggerated the consequences of tangling with a Mauvais. If nothing else, at least his manhood was safe.
“But it’s different for you,” Beau added. “I’m not in charge of the family business, and Dev isn’t my employee. You’ve got no place chasing Allie’s skirt.”
Marc jerked his gaze to Beau’s while his blood pressure hitched up a notch. Less than an hour on board, and already the pissing contest had begun. He should have known better than to assume they could have a peaceful conversation about women.
“No, you’re not in charge,” Marc agreed. “So go ahead and get that through your thick skull before we go any farther.”
Beau snorted in derision. “I heard about the jazz singer.”
“Yeah?” Marc said. “Then you probably heard I never laid a hand on her. That was Alex and Nicky’s doing.”
“What do you expect from two horny college kids, especially when you set the example for them? You’re captain now. It’s time to—”
“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Marc interrupted. “That Daddy made me captain and not you.”
Beau scoffed. “I don’t want your job.”
“Of course you don’t—that would require you to stick around.” Marc made a noise of contempt. “You want to give the orders and leave the work to the rest of us. Well, we’ve got it covered. Just do your job, and I’ll cut your paycheck. Then you can disappear again.”
Beau gritted his teeth and fell silent, but the redness rising into his face said that Marc had plucked a nerve. Good. It was about time someone took him down a peg.
But despite that, Marc couldn’t take pleasure in delivering the perfect blow. If anything, he felt worse than before. He must be going soft.
The galley door swung open, and Allie drifted inside wearing a pair of hip-hugging khaki pants and a boob-hugging staff polo shirt.
She stopped short at the sight of Marc,
probably wondering why he was in the galley instead of the casino, where he belonged. The Texas Hold’em tournament would begin soon, and if his head were screwed on right, he’d be helping Nicky with the last-minute preparations, not frozen in place and mentally undressing her.
“I should go,” Marc said, more to her than to Beau. “The tourney starts in a few hours.” But despite that fact, he couldn’t seem to leave the kitchen. “Lots of loose ends to tie up.”
“Mmm,” she agreed, stopping to brush past him, never mind the six square feet of open space between Marc and her workstation. Her pink nails skimmed across his chest, leaving behind chills everywhere she touched. “And I need to make dessert.” She peeked up at him, her lips still slightly swollen from their kiss. “I’m in the mood for something extra sinful—maybe a double-chocolate torte to add to the dessert buffet. What do you think?”
From nearby, Beau made a mock gagging sound. “Quit dancing around each other and shut up with that mess. I’ve got a weak stomach.”
This coming from the two-time Fried-Pickle Eating Champion.
But he had a point. It was time for Marc to clear his head of Allie’s perfume and see to the tournament. There was work to be done. No matter what his brother said, Marc wasn’t whipped. Not even close.
The Belle came first—she was the only lady in his future.
Chapter 9
“So, did you take a three-hour tour on the SS Manwhore yet?”
Devyn’s acerbic voice sounded even sharper through the cell phone, but the effect brought a smile to Allie’s lips. She could picture her sister leaning against the back wall of the Sweet Spot, gripping one hip and glaring at any customers who dared to interrupt her call. But crankiness notwithstanding, Allie missed her sister like crazy. Growing up, she and Dev had been more than siblings. The avoidance of their superstitious classmates had made them best friends, too.
“Or,” Dev continued, “have you finally regained control of your brain?”
Allie kicked off her kitchen clogs and reclined on the bed. As soon as her body sank into the mattress, her back muscles groaned in relief, thankful for a moment’s reprieve after she’d spent all day on her feet. “I’m going to ignore that last question, since you’re running the shop for me and all.”
“That’s right. And don’t forget you’re making it up to me in Vegas. I’ve earned that vacay a dozen times over.”
“Is it that bad?” Maybe Allie should have checked in sooner. Dev had a good head on her shoulders, but she’d never run a business. “Did something happen?”
Dev snorted through the phone. “There’s a lot of something happening. I swear your job is giving me gray hair. Crow’s-feet, too.” She paused as if checking her reflection in the metallic shelf brackets near the phone. “But we’ll talk about that later. First things first—quit dodging my question. Did he hit it and quit it?”
“Dev!” Allie bolted upright in bed. A problem at the bakery—her livelihood and her dream—easily trumped sex talk. “Tell me what’s wrong!”
“You first.”
Allie made a frustrated noise and flung herself back onto a stack of pillows. “That’s emotional blackmail.” But she knew better than to attempt a battle of wills against her sister. Devyn was so stubborn, she could train a cat to bark.
“Fine,” Allie conceded. “The answer’s no.”
“What?” Dev’s reply was loud enough to alert the whole French Quarter. “You haven’t banged him yet?”
“Shh!” Allie clamped a hand over the phone to muffle her sister’s voice. “Please tell me nobody’s in the store!”
She could practically hear the sound of Devyn’s eyes rolling. “We’re all grown-ups here.”
“Still!”
“So what’s the holdup?” Devin asked, totally nonplussed. “It’s not like he’s saving it for marriage.”
“Do we really have to talk about this?”
“Did I wake up before sunrise to carve up a ten-pound block of butter?”
Allie sighed. “At least tell me everything’s all right at the shop.”
“Everything’s all right at the shop,” Dev parroted.
“Promise?”
“Pinkie swear.”
“Okay. It’s the ‘curse.’” Allie used her free hand to make air quotes. “Marc won’t say so, but I can tell he’s afraid something will happen if we go any farther.” Then she told her sister about Chef Regale’s bed catching fire after Marc had kissed her . . . omitting the more torrid details of their romantic encounter. “And everyone thinks I did it because Regale sabotaged me in the galley.”
“Hmm,” Devyn mused. “Maybe you did.”
“Wha—” The accusation stung like a slap to the face. She thought Devyn knew her better than that. “You can’t be serious.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Dev clarified. “I know you’d never willingly hurt anyone. But you have Memère’s spirit watching over you. That’s more than enough to cause a reaction when someone like Regale does you dirty.”
“If that’s the case,” Allie argued, “then why hasn’t this happened before, like after last year’s hit-and-run? Why didn’t that pizza delivery guy’s engine explode when he totaled my front end?”
“Because you’re missing an important connection.”
“Being?”
“Marc Dumont,” Dev said as if the answer should be obvious. “He’s the one carrying around Memère’s curse, not the pimple-faced dick who hit your car. I think the bed igniting was a message from the spirits that you’re playing with fire.”
“Going for the literal interpretation, I see.”
“I’m serious. Look, I know you’re hot for this guy, but he’s going to hurt you.” Dev paused to let her words sink in. “You understand that, right? He’s never been faithful—no Dumont man has. This can’t end well.”
That wasn’t wholly true. Marc had never committed to a woman, so by default, he’d never been unfaithful. But since that point wouldn’t help win her argument, Allie kept it to herself. “I hear you, really I do, but there’s more to him than you think.”
A noise of disagreement echoed through the phone.
“No, really,” Allie insisted. “His daddy’s lying and cheating twisted Marc’s whole perception of relationships. He doesn’t believe in love because he’s never seen it. Deep down, he’s a good man.” And before Devyn could issue another sarcastic grunt, Allie told her about how Marc had barely eaten or slept the past two days because the poker tournament had run longer than expected. He’d divided his time between the pilothouse, the casino, and the purser’s desk. And every night without fail, he put on his most charming smile for the guests in the dining room, making sure to greet each table. “He could’ve pushed the responsibilities onto his staff, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“So he can’t delegate,” Dev said. “Color me unimpressed.”
“You’re not listening. He’s invested in the Belle, not because it’s easy money, but because it’s keeping his whole family together.” Which was something Marc had missed during his childhood. If it weren’t for the boat, he and his brothers would barely know one another. “We take it for granted that Mama and Daddy loved each other, but their example set the foundation for the rest of our lives.”
Dev softened a little at the mention of their parents. She released a nostalgic sigh. “Remember how he’d have tulips delivered the first Friday of every month?”
“To celebrate the day they met.” Allie felt a pull at her stomach. The deliveries had continued after her parents died together in a car accident. One of the saddest moments of Allie’s life was calling the florist to cancel Daddy’s long-standing order. “He loved her so hard.”
“And she felt the same way.”
“But imagine how different it could have been,” Allie said. “If Daddy had knocked up some other woman an
d left us for a new family, maybe we’d act like the Dumonts. Then people would call us cursed.”
“Some already do.”
“You’re missing the point again.”
“No, I get it.” Dev lowered her voice in a reluctant concession. “But knowing why the Dumonts are messed up doesn’t change the fact that they’re messed up. It’s just a matter of time before Marc lets you down, just like Beau did to me.”
“Not necessarily.” Not if Allie could reshape Marc’s way of thinking—show him how it felt to trust and be trusted in return. In essence, show him what he’d been missing all these years. “I don’t think he’s damaged beyond repair. And if it doesn’t work out . . . well, a broken heart never killed anyone.”
“I’ll remind you of that in Vegas when you’re crying in your poolside margarita.”
“I’m sure you will.” And since Dev had mentioned her ex, Allie figured she should rip off the Band-Aid and warn her of his sudden reappearance. “Hey, speaking of Beau . . .”
“That’s twice too many times I’ve heard his name today.”
“Sorry, baby, but he’s back. He finished his enlistment with the marines, and Marc hired him to replace Regale in the galley. I thought you’d want to know. It’s just a matter of time before he shows up in Cedar Bayou or New Orleans.” She braced herself for a tirade of obscenities, but the long silence that ensued prompted Allie to check the cell phone connection to make sure the line hadn’t disconnected. “You still there?” she asked.
“We’ve been bombarded in the shop,” Devyn finally said, shutting down like a liquor store on Sunday. “Apparently, your desserts are a hit with the passengers on that floating garbage heap. They’ve been calling and texting home to rave about your crème puffs, and now we can’t keep up with the orders.”
Allie wanted to press her sister to talk about Beau, but all thoughts of the man vanished, replaced by a hopeful tickle inside her chest. “Are you serious? That’s fantastic!”
“Psh,” Devyn said. “Fantastic for you. I had to hire three temps to help out. I can’t pull the all-nighters like I used to.”
