by Lori Foster
No one said anything for many long seconds.
Hannah broke the silence. “Who knew Cap’n Crunch was such a bangin’ hottie?”
The girls broke out into an attack of the giggles. Gail continued to stare down the sidewalk, awash in some kind of stunned awareness, long after the bangin’ hot captain had disappeared.
JESSE REVIEWED THE manifest with the crew chief. There’d be forty-four passengers on board Fred’s customized sixty-foot motor yacht tonight, sixteen of whom had made a vegetarian meal selection and one who needed handicapped access and seating. Once he completed the yacht’s safety check with the first mate, Jesse grabbed a cold drink and watched the crew carry on the necessities—containers of fresh shrimp, grouper and red snapper, hamburgers, barbecued chicken and pork, and veggie burgers. There were vats of several varieties of salads, sandwich fixings, guacamole and salsa. There were several varieties of chips and pretzels. Sodas. Fruit juices. Bottled water. Liquor and more liquor. Mixers. Enough beer for a football stadium.
Jesse knew that every passenger who’d forked over $175 to Luna Cruises had specific expectations for their six-hour ocean excursion. They expected to have a blast. They planned to eat and drink to their heart’s content. They would dance and flirt. The music would be thumping and nonstop. They would get the stunning Key West sunset promised in the brochures and, if the weather held out, their magical night on the water and under the stars. Once they’d returned to Sunset Marina at midnight, the passengers would thank Captain J.D. profusely, maybe sliding a folded ten-dollar bill into his palm, which he’d pass on to the hardworking crew. A woman or two might slip him their hotel room information and a cell phone number. Those went into the trash.
Jesse wasn’t a kid—he was a thirty-eight-year-old man who’d learned a lot of hard lessons. The way he saw it, he’d rather have no woman at all than the wrong woman, and, unfortunately, the hotel and cell phone types were almost always of the latter category. He hadn’t been as lucky as his friend Fred, who’d spotted Yvette in the ninth grade and had never looked back. These days, all any of them could do was hope that love and modern medicine would be enough to save her.
In Jesse’s world, even the women who seemed normal often weren’t. Cammy had been so elegant and understated. He’d been fascinated by her from the moment they met. By her second night in the rental house next door, Jesse had been smitten by her laugh, her intelligence and her fun-loving nature.
Soon after, Jesse was the villain in a crazy woman’s make-believe drama of domestic violence charges, paternity accusations and restraining orders—a complex fiction worthy of one of his bestselling suspense novels. It had been nothing but a setup. Cammy had never wanted Jesse. She’d just wanted a bundle of his money and her fifteen minutes of fame, both of which she got. And after the public relations disaster, sales of Jesse’s latest hardcover release were down by twenty percent.
All of which made his current dilemma not much of a dilemma at all. Yes, there might be many things that intrigued him about the pretty mami who’d just unpacked next door. Like the intelligent curiosity in her light brown eyes. The fall of all that thick blond hair. The modest and simple cotton sundress that revealed little and yet hinted at everything. And the fact that she didn’t wear a wedding ring. But what he found especially appealing was how embarrassed the woman named Gail had been when he’d caught her staring at him, and how tongue-tied she’d seemed when he introduced himself.
It was as if the woman had no game whatsoever. And that was the most refreshing thing of all.
But he wouldn’t fall for it. He wouldn’t think of her again. He knew better.
Besides, even if this Gail chick were his one true love, his soul mate, a perfect match delivered to his doorstep, nothing would ever come of it. Jesse already knew that Gail from Pennsylvania wouldn’t have much time for herself on this vacation. Not with those two teenage girls to look after—especially the brunette with the hellacious curves and the video-ho bikini. Unfortunately, he’d seen this same story unfold before, right in the same rental house. Pretty little Gail was in for a rough go in paradise.
GAIL CAREFULLY SPREAD out the brochures upon the recently cleared dining table, the open-air Conch Republic Seafood Company buzzing around them. All things considered—and the mysterious captain next door was one of the things she was considering—this vacation was already shaping up to be full of interesting possibilities.
“The first Hemingway walking tour starts at 8:00 a.m.,” she said, scanning the schedule on the flier’s inside flap. “Is that too early? Would you rather do the 10:00 a.m. tour? Or we can do the Pirate Museum tomorrow instead and save the Hemingway stuff for Monday, when it will probably be less crowded.”
When Gail got no response, she looked up from her brochure. She was greeted by bug-eyed stares of horror.
“Uh,” Hannah said, averting her eyes and obviously kicking Holly under the table.
“Yeah, about the whole vacation schedule thing, Mom,” Holly said, clearing her throat. “We were thinking that it would be better if we kind of split into two groups, you know, according to our age range and interests. Don’t you think that’s a great idea?”
Gail shoved the Hemingway brochure and all the other full-color fliers into the big straw bag at her feet. She didn’t intend to pout, but she truly wanted the girls to have a well-rounded experience here in Key West. Was that so terrible?
“It’s just that we already have plans, Ms. Chapman,” Hannah offered, smiling sweetly. “And we thought it would be nice for you to have some time to yourself for a change, you know? Just think—you could browse the art galleries, sip your lattes, hang out in bookstores.”
Despite herself, Gail chuckled under her breath. “I see. And while I’m doing all this sipping and browsing, you’d be doing what, exactly?”
Hannah was about to answer that question but Holly cut her off. “We’d be playing volleyball on the beach. Riding our rental bikes. Shopping. Getting ice cream. You know, just having fun.”
Gail folded her arms across her chest, not falling for a word of it. Although she’d gone over the rules with the girls before she even purchased the air tickets, it was clearly time for a refresher.
“You’re good kids. I know you want your freedom. I know you believe you’re mature enough to make wise decisions and stay safe.”
“But?” Holly fell back against her chair and pursed her lips, waiting for the rest.
“But I am responsible for you,” Gail said. She turned her attention to her daughter’s friend. “And Hannah, I swore on my life to your mom and dad that I’d keep you out of harm’s way and bring you back in one piece. You understand that your parents have entrusted me with the most precious thing in their lives, right?”
Hannah rolled her eyes.
“So let’s review, shall we?” Gail leaned in on her forearms, speaking softly enough that other diners wouldn’t hear her morph into the world’s most boring human being. “No sex. No alcohol. No pot. No getting into or onto anything on or near the water without my prior permission. No getting into cars or onto motorcycles or mopeds with anyone other than me, period. No flirting with bouncers at bars to get them to let you in without ID. You will use your cell phones to check in with me, and you will answer if I call. There will be no violating curfew—you will both be home by midnight every night, no exceptions.”
Since neither girl said a word, Gail decided to wrap it up.
“And if you don’t follow these basic rules, you’ll both be on the first thing smokin’ out of Key West. End of vacation. And, Holly, I’m sorry to say that for you it would be the end of life as you know it.”
Their mouths dropped open from the force of the insult Gail had delivered. Then Holly’s tongue made that clicking sound of disbelief before she squealed, “We just wanted to go to the beach, Mom! God!”
Gail relaxed into her chair, her blood pressure returning to normal. “So we’re in agreement on the rules?”
Their n
ods were slow and lacking in enthusiasm, but they were nods, nonetheless.
“Fabulous,” Gail said. “The beach sounds great, then.”
Holly and Hannah looked at each other quickly. “Are you coming with?” Holly asked.
Gail laughed. “No. You’ve agreed to the rules, so I trust you. You don’t have to spend your vacation hanging around with old, boring me.”
“Thank God,” Hannah whispered.
“But there’s one condition—you can’t wear those skimpy swimsuits out in public. They’re pornographic.”
The waiter appeared at tableside, and Gail watched the girls’ sullen frowns turn to sparkling grins the instant the handsome young man looked their way. Gail knew what it felt like to be Holly and Hannah. It wasn’t all that long ago that she and Kim had been seventeen, running around with all the same boy-crazy hormones coursing through their veins, with grand plans of their own. Gail only wanted Holly and Hannah to find a happy medium. She wanted them to enjoy the adventure of this vacation without losing their heads.
Gail suddenly had a sobering thought. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like to lose her head, over anything or anyone. In fact, self-denial had been her field of expertise lately, hadn’t it? Maybe she should order a second set of business cards from the campus print shop: Gail Chapman, Doctor of Chastity. “Dessert, ladies?”
My God… Gail stared off into space. I really am the most boring human being on the planet!
Suddenly, she thought of the brown-skinned, sexy-as-hell captain next door and for a moment—just a moment—she wondered what it would be like to let go with a man like that. Completely. Holding nothing back.
That was a ridiculous fantasy. She could never do that. Could she?
Gail sighed heavily. It was a sigh of longing and deprivation.
The smiling waiter glanced her way, pen poised. “So you’ve decided?”
“Decided?” Gail snapped. “What do you mean by that?”
“Uh,” the waiter said, his eyes big. “Dessert?”
“Oh! Of course.” Gail ignored the girls’ questioning stares and reviewed the dessert menu. She didn’t want anything, but she felt she had to provide a cover for that embarrassing sigh. She picked the first item that caught her eye. “Just give me this double-fudge chocolate multiple or—” Her voice failed her. Her face went numb in embarrassment.
The waiter laughed. “So you’re up for a multiple orgasm tonight?” he asked.
Holly gasped then hid her face in her hands. “Shoot me now,” she mumbled.
All Gail could do was nod.
CHAPTER THREE
SHE WAITED AT THE TALL wrought-iron gate in front of the Hemingway Home & Museum, checking her watch again. The brochure said to be there at precisely 8:00 a.m., with cash or credit card, wearing comfortable shoes. It said not to be late. Gail had done all those things, yet she was alone on the sidewalk and it was now 8:04.
The airport cab driver had warned them that Key West operated on Margaritaville time. Apparently, he wasn’t joking. Now it was 8:05.
She heard laughter from the other side of White-head Street and turned. Gail squinted through the soft morning light, not quite sure she could trust her eyes. An elderly couple was making slow progress along the crosswalk, with the sexy captain at the woman’s elbow, gently guiding her toward the gate. He wasn’t wearing his jaunty cap that morning, and his thick black hair curled around his ears. The earring was back. And so was a hint of the salt-and-pepper fuzz. And he was smiling—a big, glorious, white-toothed smile she was seeing for the first time.
Gail gulped in air. She pressed her butt against the high stone wall that surrounded Hemingway’s house and hoped she could fade into the background. She held her breath. But Jesse looked up, and Gail could see that he recognized her instantly. She watched surprise flash in his eyes, followed by irritation, just like when he’d caught her staring at him the day before. Clearly, Captain Jesse might have big, bright smiles for little old ladies, but only a suspicious frown for her.
“I’m just here for the tour!” Gail busted out with that pronouncement before he’d even reached the curb, as though she needed to explain herself. Which was silly. She had nothing to apologize for. She might have fantasized about her gorgeous neighbor just a tiny bit the night before, in the privacy of her bedroom, with the blinds drawn, but it wasn’t like she was stalking him or anything.
“You’re here for the 8:00 a.m. walking tour?” Jesse dropped the old woman’s elbow and stared at Gail warily. “The ‘In Hemingway’s Footsteps’ tour?”
“Well, yeah.” Gail clutched her straw shoulder bag to the front of her body, as if protecting herself. “What’s it to you?”
That’s when she heard it for the first time—Jesse’s laugh. Its rich resonance penetrated her flesh and bone, causing her to shudder with pleasure. The intensity of that reaction startled Gail. Why did this guy affect her like this? How did he reduce her to a fool while setting her on fire inside? She didn’t like it much. It made her feel as if she wasn’t in control of herself.
Jesse shook his head, letting go with a deep sigh. “Then the gang’s all here, I suppose.” He gestured to the elderly couple. “This is Pete and Lana Purdy of Little Rock, who are celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary, and this is—” Jesse stopped in midsentence, his scowl deepening. “I’m sorry, Gail, but I didn’t get your last name.”
“Chapman.” Gail released the grip she had on her shoulder bag and shook the couple’s hands. “Dr. Gail Chapman from Beaverdale, Pennsylvania.”
Jesse exploded with a strange sound somewhere in between coughing and laughing. It figured, Gail thought. Deep down, the erudite captain was just another eighth-grade boy who thought anything with the word “beaver” in it was absolutely hilarious. She ignored him.
“Oh, how marvelous!” Lana Purdy said, beaming. “Pete here had a GP practice for fifty-five years. Delivered nearly six hundred babies, didn’t you, dear? And what is your specialty?”
This happened a lot. Gail smiled down on the pudgy little lady with short white curls. “I have my PhD in literature. I’m an associate professor at a small liberal arts college.”
Lana smiled. “How perfectly lovely!”
“Just great,” Jesse said under his breath.
That was it. Gail had reached the limit of her patience with this guy. He might be sexy as hell, but that had already been canceled out by the fact that he cursed at inanimate objects, had the emotional maturity of a Little Leaguer, scoffed at her profession and walked around sporting a near-permanent scowl. The man couldn’t be much older than Gail, but somewhere along the line he’d become a curmudgeon. How sad for him.
Gail cocked her head to the side and glared at Jesse, and he met her gaze straight on, unabashed. She scrutinized his face for flaws—there were none—while he studied her, one dark brow arched over one of his dusky blue eyes. The two of them remained in this standoff for several seconds, while Gail wondered about a few things. Why was Jesse here, anyway? Why did he feel the need to introduce everyone? Did he fancy himself some kind of rude one-man island-greeting committee? And where was the tour guide?
Suddenly, Jesse’s expression changed. The curiosity disappeared, replaced by a calm determination. Gail knew he was going to say something to her. She had a feeling it would be something important.
“Cash or credit?” he asked.
HOLY HELL, WHAT A MESS this was shaping up to be.
Beaverdale Gail knew far more about Hemingway than he did, which wasn’t much of a shocker considering she had a PhD in American Literature and Jesse’s only qualification was that he was a nautical-suspense author filling in for a flighty ex-sister-in-law who’d once again been summoned to traffic court.
It occurred to Jesse that if he had any hope of making that extended deadline in two weeks, he’d have to find a way to stop anyone else from asking for more favors. Maybe it was time for one of his deadline lockdowns: disconnect the phone, unplug the DSL and
lock all his doors and windows.
The little tour group had come to one of their designated stops, 328 Greene Street, the site of the original Sloppy Joe’s Bar and Grill. Jesse explained that it was once a ramshackle establishment run by Ernest Hemingway’s fishing and carousing pal, Joe Russell, and went into his summary of Hemingway’s legendary drinking. “He had a tendency to get into trouble when he’d had a few too many,” Jesse said. “He had his famous fistfight with the poet Wallace Stevens here.”
“Actually,” Gail cut in, speaking more to the Purdys than him, “Hemingway was at home that evening, completely sober, when his sister told him that Stevens was at a house party claiming that Hemingway was a horrible writer. Ernest was so angry he drove to the house on Waddell Street and pummeled Stevens into a bloody heap on the floor. The poet was hospitalized and had to be fed through a straw for days.”
“Fascinating,” Lana Purdy said.
Jesse stared at the professor in wonder. Clearly, she had a lot of free time on her hands back in Beaverdale. But Jesse was the local. He was the tour guide here. He may have gotten that one detail wrong, but he had a whole arsenal of useless Hemingway minutiae at his disposal and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
He turned to Lana Purdy, who seemed to be legitimately interested in all this garbage, bless her soul. “Intriguingly enough,” Jesse began, the sarcasm dripping from his tone, “Wallace Stevens wasn’t even a famous poet at the time. He was still making his living—”
“Selling insurance,” Gail said. She slowly raised her gentle brown eyes to Jesse’s. “But you were right about Ernest often getting into trouble here. He met up with his third wife on a barstool at Sloppy Joe’s.” She smiled a smile so slight that he could have missed it if he weren’t paying close attention. “It was love at first sight for both of them,” she added.
