by Nicola Marsh
Maybe he’d pushed the boundaries a tad there, but he hadn’t been able to help it; he wanted to see if anything disturbed that cool-bordering-on-haughty mantle she wore like a fine fur.
He’d disconcerted her last night to the point where she’d thrown out that challenge. He was in little doubt she would never have been that brazen, that sassy, if she’d been thinking straight. After all, a woman who turned up to her first dinner on a luxurious cruise liner wearing a drab black dress with oversized buttons, a God-awful belt, and barely a slick of make-up, and who rarely spoke, wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence.
Yet he’d wanted to push her buttons anyway.
Must be the pressure. He had a job to do, a saboteur to uncover, and some bad publicity to bring to a screaming halt. His uncle was relying on him, and he owed Jimmy big-time. He’d let him down once. Never again.
He needed to concentrate on business—needed to convince everyone he was just the new PR guy. The success of his plan depended on it. Even if he was actually the CEO of the whole damn company, and usually had bigger fish to fry.
And concentrating on business meant not giving Lana a hard time—challenge or not. Though there had been something about the spark in her eyes when she’d fired back at him last night, something about her wary yet indignant expression that had him wanting to delve beneath her prim surface to discover the hidden depths.
Maybe if he unnerved her enough, unsettled her enough, he’d get to see the real her?
An interesting proposition, but for now work came first. Work was reliable, dependable, and never let him down. It wasn’t clouded by emotions and it didn’t change when he least expected it. Work was the one constant in his life. The only constant.
Exactly the way he liked it.
Lana studied Neptune’s News, the ship’s daily planner, as she lounged around the lido pool, staggered by the array of activities on board: lectures on ports they were due to visit, wine-tasting, art auctions, dance lessons—the list went on for ever. She studiously avoided any activities with Zac’s name pencilled next to them, and finally decided on ballroom dancing—something she’d always wanted to try but never had the guts to. Hopefully mastering a waltz or two might give her a quickstep in the right direction to boosting her self-confidence.
Finding her way to the ballroom proved easier said than done. Maps were clearly visible around the ship, but understanding the difference between port and starboard was the first hurdle to overcome in figuring out directions, and only after several botched attempts did she finally find the room. So much for her sure-fire navigational skills; apparently they only applied to the maze of one-way streets around Sydney and to convoluted museum corridors.
Several women stood to one side of the ballroom, while a few men loitered on the outskirts of the dance floor. She learned from Mavis, the woman standing next to her, that the men were hosts, hired by the ship’s company for single women who needed a dance partner.
‘This is my seventh cruise, dear. Why do you think I keep coming back? Though I’m seventy, these dance hosts make me feel twenty-one again, whisking me all over the dance floor. Not to mention their youthful good-looks.’
Lana smothered a smile as the youngest host appeared to be a greying fifty-five. She observed that the men were skilled at mingling with the women, and soon everyone had paired off. Predictably, she had no partner. Story of her life, really.
‘Don’t worry, love, you’ll be the lucky one paired with the instructor.’
Mavis, veteran cruiser, obviously knew how these things worked.
‘I hope he’s good.’
Because she was a dervish out there on the dance floor? Yeah, right. She moved her feet to an imaginary samba rhythm and almost took a tumble.
‘I’m better than good. Let’s just hope you can keep up.’
Her nerve-endings snapped to attention as the deep voice rippled over her, and she didn’t have to turn around to know who it belonged to. Fickle fate dealing her a bum hand yet again.
‘Okay, class, let’s get to work. As you can see, I’m not Rafe, our illustrious dance instructor. He was called away to a last-minute rehearsal for tonight’s extravaganza, so you’re stuck with me instead. For those who don’t know me, I’m Zac McCoy, the PR manager. Though I’m not a professional entertainer, I can safely say I don’t have two left feet, and I’ve managed to learn a thing or two during my years working with the entertainment staff. So, how about a waltz to start with?’
‘Anything you want, handsome. Oh, if only I was thirty years younger.’ Mavis fanned her face, a twinkle in her eyes.
‘If only I’d decided on taking the chess class,’ Lana muttered, wondering if she could feign a sprained ankle.
‘Did you say something?’
She had two choices. Duck and run, as she usually would in an uncomfortable situation like this, or ignore the blush burning her cheeks, discount the fact she’d never done this before, and suck it up and see if she could get through this awkward encounter without making a fool of herself.
She shook her head, managing a tight smile resembling a grimace. ‘No.’
‘Right, then. Shall we dance?’
Zac grinned and held out his hand, leaving her no option but to take it. She tried to relax, she really did, but as he pulled her closer, his body grazing hers, she inadvertently stiffened.
His knowing smile didn’t help. ‘See—a perfect fit.’
‘I thought we were doing a waltz. The way you’re holding me seems more like the Lambada.’
‘Fancy a bit of dirty dancing, do you?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. You certainly don’t hold a candle to Patrick Swayze.’
A glint of hidden excitement lit his extraordinary eyes.
‘And here I was thinking you were falling under my spell. You disappoint me.’
She averted her gaze, focussing on anything other than those all-seeing eyes, wishing her heart would stop racing. ‘Don’t you ever stop flirting?’
His grin widened. ‘I’m sure Fred did his fair share of flirting while he whisked Ginger around. I’m just taking my role seriously.’
‘Your role as the resident Casanova, you mean?’
The naughty glint in his eyes alerted her to the fact she hadn’t insulted him. Moreover, he was enjoying their sparring way too much.
‘We’re both adults here. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of harmless flirtation. Besides, you dared me—remember?’
More fool her.
‘Look, this is silly. You were taunting me last night. I bit back. Let’s just forget it, okay?
The naughty glint didn’t let up. If anything it intensified as his lips kicked up into an all too sexy grin.
‘Unfortunately for you I have a very good memory, so I can’t forget it. But I’m willing to concentrate on our dance steps for now.’ And with that he spun her outwards, at arm’s length.
‘If that’s your way of changing the subject, I’m not buying it.’
He reeled her in with a slight tug on her hand. ‘Who said anything about needing to change the subject? I enjoy flirting. You’re the one with the problem.’
If he only knew.
She didn’t know how to flirt—had absolutely no experience at it. Jax had targeted her, played her, said all the right things—done all the right things to get her to fall for him. Flirting hadn’t entered into it. As for her other two dates, they’d been stilted, awkward, rushed dinners, with limited small talk and frequent glances at watches on both sides.
It wasn’t so much having a problem with flirting, she just didn’t have a clue how to do it.
She stumbled, winced, trod on his toes, and wished the parquet floor would open up and swallow her.
‘Easy, Ginger. Just follow my lead.’
If he’d smiled or smirked or had the faintest amused twinkle in his eyes she would have slammed her heel on his foot—well, she would have thought about it—and made a run for it.
Instead, he tightened
his hold on her hand, gently increased the pressure with the other in the small of her back, and counted softly under his breath as he led her around the dance floor.
The counting was for her benefit, but it didn’t help. Clumsy, stiff and awkward didn’t begin to describe how she felt in his arms—like a mannequin given an airing before being dumped in a shopfront in only her knickers.
Thinking of knickers while in his arms had her trampling his toes again, and she bit her lip, silently cursing her ineptness.
‘Sorry.’
Her gaze fixed on his chest, heat scorching her cheeks.
He stopped twirling her about, placed a finger under her chin and tilted it up so she had no option but to look at him.
‘Don’t apologise. This class is about learning, and you’re doing great for a beginner.’
His understanding smile sent a tremor through her. Why couldn’t he be condescending and obnoxious so she could dislike him, rather than considerate and kind?
She mumbled a noncommittal answer, wishing he’d stop staring at her like a pet project. Though it could be worse; he could be looking down on her as a charity case with pity in his eyes.
‘Just feel the music. Let the beat take you.’
Easy for Fred Astaire Junior to say.
Her dubious expression had him chuckling as he pulled her closer again. ‘Come on. You’ll enjoy it.’
To her surprise, he was right. As soon as she stopped focussing on her feet not stomping on his, and ignored the fact he was holding her close, she started to relax.
The music filtered over her, soft and ethereal, a classical hit from a bygone era, and she found herself humming softly, swept away in the magic of the moment.
She closed her eyes, remembered a dancing show she’d once seen on TV, and imagined herself in a red chiffon dress with a fitted bodice held up by will-power alone, with handkerchief layers cascading from her waist to her ankles. She imagined snazzy red shoes to match, sequinned, with impossibly high heels, that floated across the dance floor of their own volition.
With immaculate hair and make-up, and the smile of a ballroom dancing champion, she lived the fantasy, let the music infuse her body, her senses, and allowed Zac to whisk her around and around, her feet finally falling into step with his as an exhilaration she’d never known rushed through her.
She’d never felt so light, so graceful, so unselfconscious. If this was what ballroom dancing could do for her, she’d sign up for a year’s worth of classes as soon as she got back.
But there was more to it than perfecting a waltz and she knew it.
Zac had given her this gift—had given her the confidence to let go of her reservations and enjoy the moment. He’d empowered her to believe that for a precious few minutes she could be agile and lithe and elegant, rather than a shy, clumsy klutz.
When the music died her eyelids fluttered open, but rather than feeling let down by reality, the gleam of appreciation in his deep blue eyes had her craving to do it all over again.
‘You’re good.’
His admiration made her want to perform a few extra twirls for good measure.
She flushed with pleasure. ‘Thanks. So are you.’
‘You up for a cha-cha?’
Ignoring the usual flicker of nerves at the thought of trying something new, she nodded. ‘Sure. Let’s give it a try.’
Not only did she try a cha-cha, Zac showed her the finer points of a foxtrot too. While the class danced around them, she matched him step for step, exhilarated by his fancy manoeuvres, thrilled by her increasing confidence to try more complicated steps.
At the end of the hour she collapsed into a nearby chair, her face flushed, her feet aching and her imagination still tripping the light fantastic.
He crouched next to her as she puffed at the damp hair strands falling over her face, knowing she must look a hot, rumpled mess. Yet a small part of her was still feeling like that dance champion she’d imagined.
‘You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ginger?’
‘Why? Because I only managed to break all the toes on your right foot and not your left?’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be pleased to know my toes are just fine. Better than fine, considering I had to do some fancy footwork out there to keep up with you once you got going.’
There was a reason he was in PR. He probably laid it on this thick for countless other gullible females every cruise.
‘Yeah, well, I told you I was good at the start.’ His eyebrows shot up as he clearly relived every clumsy stumble she’d made initially and she smiled. ‘And you’re not such a bad teacher, once you concentrate on the task at hand and put a zip on the banter.’
‘Thanks. I think.’ He stood, stretched, and she quickly averted her gaze from the window of tanned, flat stomach poking between his polo shirt and shorts. ‘See you tonight at dinner?’
His smile was pure invitation. If he’d asked her a few hours ago she would have sent him a short, sharp RSVP in the negative, but after the enlivening hour she’d just spent, thanks to him, she found herself nodding.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Right-o. See you then.’
She fanned her cheeks as he walked away, wondering if it was the exercise, the exhilaration of feeling graceful for the first time in her life, or being wrapped in his muscular arms that had made her hot and bothered?
In reality she should be happy—ecstatic, even. She’d tried something new today and had given her flagging confidence a much-needed lift. Her sense of achievement was immense, and she owed it to one guy.
And now she’d experienced the rush of feeling graceful for the first time in her life she wondered how much further he could boost her confidence—if she didn’t try so hard to fend him off.
CHAPTER THREE
WHILE Zac had impressed her with his sensitivity during dance class yesterday, he had ruined it by slipping into full flirting mode over dinner last night. Her fledgling confidence hadn’t lasted and she’d clammed up, grunted monosyllabic answers, and done her best to ignore the persistent attentions of a suave sailor boy with smooth moves and slick words.
She hated the fact it was a game to him, a response to the challenge she’d thrown down in a fit of pique. Her inherent shyness was a bane she lived with every day, it affected her professionally, socially and romantically, yet he seemed to view it as something she could shrug off if he teased her enough.
He was really starting to get to her, but thankfully the ship had docked at Noumea today, and she wouldn’t waste another minute thinking about him. Instead, she explored the French-inspired capital of New Caledonia, with its tree-lined boulevards flanked by trendy boutiques and cafés, enjoying every minute.
She savoured the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting on the light tropical breeze, she scoffed melt-in-the-mouth flaky croissants, and she scoured the shops—something she never did back home. When she shopped it was for necessity rather than a burning need for retail therapy—no matter how many times Beth dragged her from one boutique to another trying to make her see otherwise.
Yet here, with the balmy breeze ruffling her ponytail and the tempting shopfronts laid out like bright, sparkling jewels in the sun, she couldn’t help but browse.
Entering a small boutique, she meandered through aisles crammed with enough hangers and clothes to outfit the entire cast of South Pacific. Her hands drifted over soft silky sarongs, short strappy summer dresses, before lingering over the swimwear. The only bathers she’d brought on this trip were an old black one-piece cut high in the front—the ones she used if she swam at home as part of a workout.
So why was she picking up a cerise bikini, its hot pink colour the exact shade her cheeks would be if she ever had the guts to wear something so revealing?
She put it down and trailed her hand over some straw hats, before her gaze settled on the bikini again, drawn to it, mesmerised by its newness, its brightness and its blinding contrast to everything else in her wardrobe.
Glancing down at her worn black flip-flops, khaki Bermuda shorts and well-washed grey T-shirt, she hovered over the bikini, sorely tempted. Just looking at it gave her the same buzz she’d had when floating around the dance floor in Zac’s arms—the feeling she could be more assertive if she set her mind to it.
Spurred on by an eagerness to recreate that feeling, she snatched it up and headed for the counter before she changed her mind.
After thrusting the bikini at the young Melanesian guy behind the counter, she ducked her head on the pretext of searching for her purse in her straw carryall, hating how her cheeks burned when making what was a simple, everyday purchase for most women.
She rummaged around, waiting for him to ring it up, and was unprepared for the small puff of perfume in the vicinity of her right ear.
‘This fragrance will be perfect for mademoiselle.’
She shook her head, ready to tell him she wasn’t interested, when an intoxicating blend of light floral tones mingling with subtle vanilla drifted over her. She inhaled, savouring the heady scent, feeling surprisingly feminine after one small squirt.
She never wore perfume, had never owned a bottle in her life, but when the young guy stared at her with soulful chocolate-brown eyes and insisted again that it was perfect for her, in a divine French accent, she found herself handing over her credit card and being handed back a duty-free bag with two purchases she’d never dreamed of making, let alone using.
But for those few minutes when she’d watched him wrap the bikini and the perfume she’d stood a little taller, felt a little braver—as if she could be the type of woman who wasn’t passed over for an amazing trip to Egypt as the museum’s spokesperson just because she wasn’t articulate or outgoing enough.
However, her flash of spirit didn’t last as she strolled back to the ship. The perfume box banged against her leg, a constant reminder of its presence, and she couldn’t help but feel a fool.
Since when did she wear perfume? Let alone go for something so…so…out there? Seductive, feminine items were for girls not short on confidence—girls who’d have the guts to live up to the perfume’s promise; girls who’d have the spirit to match wits with sailor boys. Girls absolutely nothing like her.
