Bart waited until Deckland handed him a drink before he said, “I want to thank you all again for your help.” He cleared his throat, took a sip of his whiskey, and continued. “Birdie's resting after her ordeal."
"Of course,” Tanya murmured sympathetically.
"But we had a chance to talk,” Bart said. “We both agreed that it would be best to put this nasty incident behind us, just pretend it never happened."
When Michael took her hand, Ashley didn't resist.
"Birdie said she was treated fairly, but she doesn't want to talk about it to anyone. She hopes you'll respect her wishes."
"We understand."
"Of course."
"Whatever she wants."
As Ashley suspected, Michael wasn't so agreeable. “Will you at least report the incident when you get back to New Orleans?"
Bart rolled his shoulders in a helpless shrug. He looked tired and beaten. “What good do you think it would do? We don't have any idea who the culprit is. The money's gone and Birdie's safe. That's all that's important to me."
Ashley squeezed Michael's hand, hoping he'd take the hint and leave the subject alone. She agreed with Michael that an attempt to punish the man should be made, however futile, but it was Bart and Birdie's ultimate decision.
"Don't worry, Bart,” she told him quietly. “We all understand perfectly. Consider the incident forgotten ... right Michael?” She gave his hand another subtle squeeze, urging him to agree.
He did, but with obvious reluctance. “Against my better judgment, I guess I'll have to let it drop."
Bart's shoulders slumped in relief. “Thank you. Thank you all. I will never forget your kindness."
* * * *
The moment Michael got Ashley alone in their cabin, he began to drill her. Something smelled fishy, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.
"When I showed you the handcuffs, you had a funny look on your face. Why?"
Ashley's gaze slid from his. She moved to the bed and began to unpack her overnight bag. “Um, I just got confused, Michael. That's all."
"Because you thought they belonged to Birdie."
"I thought so, yes."
He moved to the opposite side of the bed so he could see her expression. Very softly, he asked, “Did they belong to Birdie, Ash?"
She sighed and threw the laundry she had gathered onto the bed. She began to pace the room as she spoke, her jerky movements revealing her agitation. “When I went to Birdie's cabin before she left for shore, she was packing an overnight bag. I saw her put a pair of gold-plated handcuffs into her bag.” Ashley threw up her hands and looked at Michael. “It could be nothing more than an odd coincidence. That's why I wasn't going to mention it to you."
"But you don't believe it was a coincidence, do you? No more than I do. I think we've been conned, Ashley."
"By the Scotts?” she squeaked, looking so dismayed Michael wanted to take back his words.
But he couldn't. “By Bart. I'm not so certain Birdie even knows about it."
"How could she not know? And what if we're wrong?"
"So you do think they conned us. Or at least Bart."
She sank onto the bed and put a hand to her frowning brow. “I just can't bring myself to believe that sweet couple—that sweet man—would put us through that for a measly ten thousand dollars."
"Don't forget our jewelry,” Michael reminded her grimly. He didn't want to think it, either, but he had no choice. “That's another fifteen thousand dollars, ten at the most if he plans to pawn the jewelry."
"Still...” She shot him a pleading look, as if she hoped he'd give her a reason not to believe it. “Maybe Bart's in trouble—"
"Stop making excuses for him,” Michael inserted softly. He hated to see her so upset, and his anger at Bart escalated. He could very easily find himself feeling sorry for the elderly man ... if it weren't for the fact that Ashley looked so damned betrayed. “The whole setup—the camera, the kidnapping—those weren't the actions of an amateur, Ash. I think Bart's a professional con artist."
She frowned. “And his wife doesn't know it?"
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. If he's clever enough, he could successfully hide it from her."
"When ... when did you first suspect?"
"I thought it was odd that a thief would go to the trouble of video taping his target, yet apparently didn't know his target was broke. I dismissed the suspicion by thinking the thief must have been clever enough to know we would help the Scotts. Then Tanya and Deckland told us that his bed hadn't been slept in. I believe now that he was with Birdie all night at the other hotel. He probably never dreamed that Tanya and Deckland would convince the desk clerk to check his room."
A spark of anger flared in her eyes. “That's pretty dirty of him, making us think that she—that she'd been kidnapped.” She jumped up, paced to the door, then back again. “If this is all true, then you were probably right about the thief knowing about me from the start of the cruise. Maybe ... maybe even before."
Michael couldn't stand it any longer. He went to her, ignoring her resistance as he pulled her against him and locked his arms around her.
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, and she was no longer fighting him. “What are you going to do?"
He didn't miss the fact that she'd said ‘you’ and not we. He smiled inwardly, suspecting that if left to her own devices, Ashley would be tempted to forgive the couple and forget it had ever happened.
Rubbing her back, he said gently, “We can't let them—or him—get away with it, sweetheart. It isn't right. You know it isn't right."
She heaved a great sigh. “I know, but they're so old. They don't have many years left, and they seem so sweet and happy together."
Michael deliberately hardened his voice. “If my instincts are right, they live off of other people's money, money they steal by manipulating and spying on innocent people. I'm surprised they haven't been caught before.” He felt her smile against his neck, and was heartened by the action.
"You were too smart for them."
Warmed by the compliment, he said, “If Bart hadn't slipped up by leaving the handcuffs, then I might not have figured it out. Besides,” he kissed the top of her head, “You had it figured out, too. You just didn't want to believe it."
Her lips grazed his neck, sending waves of sensation pounding through him. Such a little kiss ... such a big reaction. He'd never cease to be awed by the power she possessed to send his senses reeling.
For the first time, Michael allowed himself to wonder if there might be some tiny chance for a future with Ashley.
He was still recovering from the shock of his thought when he heard a distinctly feminine scream of rage.
"Oh, God,” Ashley said, half-laughing, half-moaning. “I think that was Tanya."
Almost immediately following her words, someone pounded on their cabin door. Michael reluctantly let go of Ashley to answer it.
Tanya shoved a sheet of paper beneath his nose, causing him to jump back. “I gave you the key to my cabin,” she said through clenched teeth. “Now I find a bill on my dresser for six hundred dollar's worth of damage. What in the hell did you do, Michael? My carpet's wet, and I've got a cabin full of dry-cleaned clothes with another huge bill!"
"Sorry,” Michael said, taking the bill from her. “I'll take care of it.” He started to close the door, but he should have known Tanya wouldn't let it rest.
She stuck her foot in the door and slapped her hands on her hips, looking past him to Ashley, then back to his dead-pan face. “What did you two do to my cabin? Can you at least tell me that?"
"You don't want to know,” they said simultaneously.
"Of course I want to know!"
"We broke your bathroom sink,” Ashley said, surprising Michael. She joined him at the door as she added, “It was an accident."
"You broke my bathroom—” Tanya's jaw dropped. She closed it, shook her head, and said, “What could you possibly have been doing—” O
nce again she snapped her mouth closed. Color rushed into her face. “Why is it that I seemed to be the only one on this ship who isn't having sex?"
"Oh, I don't know,” Ashley said, tongue-in-cheek. “I don't think Deckland's having much luck, either."
Michael swallowed a chuckle at Tanya's flaming face. “Maybe you two could—"
"Don't even go there, buster,” she warned before spinning on her heel and disappearing down the hall. “If you play, you pay,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I'll bring you my dry-cleaning bill, too! We'll see how long you laugh over that one, my friends!"
As the door closed, Ashley fell against it, laughing helplessly. Michael felt a rush of pure lust slam into him. He grabbed her wrists and held them over her head, then slowly leaned into her, pinning her against the door.
"I'll split the bill with you,” she offered, making a half-hearted attempt to wiggle free. “Since I had half the fun."
"No, it was my treat. You can get the next one."
He caught her laughing mouth and kissed her, slowly, teasingly, until her breathing changed and she arched against him. When he pulled his mouth away, he was satisfied to find her regarding him through half-closed lids.
She licked her swollen lips, staring at his mouth. “I think my emotions have been on a perpetual seesaw since we sailed,” she whispered. “Tanya makes me want to laugh, the Scotts make me want to laugh and cry at the same time, and you—"
"And me?” Michael prompted when she stopped, inching his mouth closer to hers. “What do I make you want to do?"
"Anything and everything,” she confessed breathlessly, reaching for his mouth. “Mostly naughty things."
Michael let go of her wrists and reached behind her, locking the door.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ashley was extremely grateful to Michael when he picked her up from the floor and carried her to bed.
Crawling wouldn't have been very dignified.
She didn't think she had a solid bone left in her body after their delicious, totally satisfying bout of love-making.
Right there on the floor by the door.
He gently laid her on the bed and pulled the coverlet over her naked body, his lips resting on her forehead. She sighed and snaked her arms around his neck—about the only part of her body she was able to move. “Are you going to talk to Bart?"
"Yes."
Her gaze met his. “Will you be gentle?"
"I'll try."
She reluctantly let him go, tucking her hand beneath her cheek as she listened to the sounds of him getting dressed.
Finally, she heard the click of the door shutting, followed by the sound of Michael locking it from the outside. She knew Michael was right about confronting Bart, but she couldn't shake loose the feeling that Bart must have been desperate to fool them the way he had. He was such a sweet, harmless man, a man who obviously loved his wife.
And that Birdie loved Bart, there was no doubt.
If Michael turned Bart in to ship security, what would happen to Birdie? How would she make it without Bart? She'd never heard the couple discuss a family other than each other.
A rustling sound at the door jarred Ashley from her troubling thoughts.
She froze, listening. Had Michael returned? Had he forgotten something?
After a few moments of silence, she quietly rose from the bed, staring in the direction of the door. Her heart thundered, and she silently chided her ridiculous reaction. The drama was over, wasn't it?
She froze, her gaze landing on the flat white object lying on the floor in front of the door.
It hadn't been there earlier, she was certain.
Dragging the coverlet with her, she silently crossed the room and bent to retrieve the paper, thinking at first it must be the promised dry cleaning bill from Tanya. She unfolded it, gasping as she realized that it was a computer printout of the passenger list.
Not the passenger list, she corrected. Not the one Deckland had given her, because she had highlighted the passengers from her home state with a pink high-lighter.
On the list she held, a single name had been circled in red ink. As if to emphasize an emphasis, someone had also drawn a red star beside it, followed by four dollar signs.
It was Michael's name they had circled.
Ashley let out a disbelieving laugh. If they expected her to believe Michael was the one she sought, then they were going to be disappointed. What a joke!
But who? Who would play such a joke? Not anyone who truly knew her, she mused, because if they knew her, they would also know that she would never, in a million years, believe that Michael had played the lottery, much less won the lottery. Ha!
Still chuckling at the thought, Ashley made her way to the bathroom, taking the list with her. She wasn't letting this list out of her sight. After a quick shower, she would pay Deckland a visit. Since he'd obtained the first list for her, maybe he could shed some light on who might have passed her the second list.
She set the list on the sink and grabbed a towel from the shelf above the toilet.
A piece of paper fell from the shelf to the floor.
Ashley blinked, staring first at the folded passenger list on the sink, then at the folded paper on the floor. She picked it up and quickly opened it.
It was the missing passenger list—her missing list, the one with all the highlights. How had it gotten into the bathroom—beneath a stack of towels? Well, obviously someone had put it there, she realized.
And she could only think of one person that could have done it.
Michael.
But why?
She looked at the list in her hand, then to the list on the sink, then back again. Whoever had slipped her the second list had known she was no longer in possession of the first one.
Michael was the only one that she'd told, she was certain. He, therefore, must have told someone else.
She blinked, sucking in a sharp breath, forcing herself to consider the impossible.
Michael had hidden the list ... to keep her from finding out the identity of the other lottery winner? She could think of no other rational explanation.
Which meant...
She sat heavily on the closed commode, shock strumming along her nerve endings and sending her pulse rate sky-rocketing. The implications were stunning and nearly impossible for her to grasp.
Yet the clues were there, glaringly obvious now.
Starting with the first clue, when she found Michael in her cabin claiming it was his cabin. And if that wasn't embarrassingly obvious enough, what about when he'd bought the expensive jewelry without blinking an eye at the cost?
Then he'd presented all that cash when Birdie came up missing.
Clues she had ignored simply because the possibility of Michael playing the lottery was preposterous to her. That he might have won playing the lottery using her numbers was even more preposterous. Downright unbelievable, in fact.
Her sudden, self-derisive laughter echoed off the bathroom walls. She shook her head, then moaned and covered her hot face with her hands. Oh, God.
Deckland—very probably coached by Kim, Ashley realized with another embarrassed moan—must have been the one who slipped the second list beneath the door. It made sense, considering the fact that he'd given her the first one.
He was very probably—by now—exasperated with her narrow-mindedness, her complete certainty that it couldn't be Michael who shared her winning numbers.
Michael didn't gamble! He had always teased her unmercifully about playing the lottery, reminding her on a weekly basis that the odds were ridiculously impossible. She was wasting her money, etc.
Yet here she was, holding the passenger list that someone had hidden beneath the stack of towels. It certainly hadn't gotten there on its own, and Ashley knew the maid hadn't stuck it there.
So it had to have been Michael. And the reason he'd hidden the list was outrageously obvious.
Now. After f
ive days at sea, with clues upon clues right in front of her narrow-minded nose.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to accept the truth. Michael had won the lottery using the same numbers she had faithfully used for the past three years.
Sentimental numbers. Two of the happiest days of her life.
The date of their first real date.
Their wedding date.
Had he been playing all along? Or was it a pure fluke that he'd bought a ticket—using her numbers—on the very day her numbers had won?
Talking about long odds!
Ashley recalled watching a Ripley's Believe it or Not episode on television where a teenage girl had tucked a message into a bottle and thrown it into the ocean. The message had washed ashore and was found by another teenage girl with the exact same name, same age, and same birthday. Later, when they'd gotten together, they had discovered they both owned a dog with the same name.
If something that bizarre could happen—
Another stunning realization crashed in on Ashley before the dust had settled on the first one. A rash of goose bumps spread across her arms, making her shiver. She pulled the slipping sheet around her as her heart began to fill with a delicious, dangerous, drunken joy.
To use those numbers, Michael had to have been thinking about her, their marriage together. Being a couple.
Did this mean ... oh, God, did it mean that he still loved her?
* * * *
"I should be buying you a drink,” Bart said, tilting his glass in Michael's direction before he downed the contents.
They were seated at a table for two in one of the less populated lounges on the ship, back against the wall and away from nosy bartenders and curious dinner companions.
Michael didn't want to take a chance on getting interrupted until he'd said all he wanted to say and heard all he'd wanted to hear.
He removed the lime slice from the lip of his bottled Corona and set it on his napkin.
Then he looked at Bart.
The elderly man appeared cool on the outside, but there were subtle signs Michael might not have noticed if he hadn't known the truth about Bart. Such as the slightly trembling hands, and the way Bart couldn't meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds. He was, Michael realized with a stab of satisfaction, understandably nervous about the invitation Michael had extended to join him for a drink.
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