Beyond the door Celie said, "I'll be right back."
He sank down and slumped against the wall of the bathroom and tried to muster the willpower to get up and go lock the door so she couldn't come right back.
He didn't make it.
"Drink this."
"No." Muffled into the sheet.
"Yes." She prodded his ribs.
Jace groaned. "Go away."
"No. I'm trying to help you."
"Shoot me."
"Sorry," she said with disgusting cheer. "No gun. Come on, Jace. I promise this will help. Truly. The bartender swears by it."
"The bartender?" He shuddered, remembering his hangover. He did not want to think about alcohol at a time like this. Bile rose in his throat.
"Nonalcoholic," Celie said, apparently able to read minds now. "Come on." She nudged him again.
Jace groaned and turned his head to eye her blearily. "If I drink it will you go away?"
She was looking down at him with those beautiful deep-blue eyes of hers and she shook her head solemnly. "Not a chance."
He shut his own eyes.
"We have to talk, Jace." Her voice was soft, tender, concerned, edged with worry. "About last night."
"I don't … didn't—" But he couldn't explain. Not now. Probably not ever.
He heard her swallow. She hesitated, then said quietly, "Didn't mean it?"
Something in her voice got to him. She sounded nervous, apprehensive. Doubtful. He opened his eyes and looked at her. The beautiful eyes were dark and serious, taking everything to heart. Jace pressed his mouth together in a thin line, drew a breath and nodded just slightly. "Meant it," he admitted.
Celie smiled then. It was like the sun coming out. It was her angel's smile. Sweet and pure and joyous. He'd seen it before—when she'd held a baby, when she'd come to see Artie at the hospital, when she'd kissed her mother and Walt at their wedding. He'd never seen it directed at him.
Her hand brushed lightly over his hair, and then cool fingers stroked his hot cheek. He very nearly moaned.
"Come on, Jace. Drink. You'll feel better." She held out the glass to him.
He struggled up and drank. It was vile. He gagged it down. Then he sank back against the pillows, spent.
"Satisfied?" he muttered when he could manage it.
Celie smiled and sat on the bed beside him, shaking her head as she did so. "Satisfied?" she echoed. "No, not quite yet."
* * *
Six
« ^ »
It was the weirdest dream he'd ever had.
He and Celie had been together in bed, their arms around each other. They were touching. Her hand had been stroking his hair. He thought she'd kissed him … before they'd slept.
He awoke dazed and disoriented, tangled in the bedclothes, straining to remember, to bring the dream back, to hang on to it for a few more minutes.
And then, slowly, as he looked around the room, he noticed that his head wasn't pounding anymore, that lights weren't swaying anymore and that there was an empty glass on the bedside table. And he realized that it might not have been a dream at all.
Celie had been here.
He rolled over, reached out. The other side of the bed was empty. But the pillow was crushed against the headboard, the blanket was rumpled. He rolled over and pressed his face to the pillow, inhaling deeply and groaning as he savored the soft fresh scent that was Celie.
Celie had been here.
And now she wasn't.
Why? He vaguely remembered her touching his cheek, smiling, saying. "Going to check in with Simone," she'd said. "Be right back."
How long ago had that been? He had no idea of the time, but beyond the drapes the sun looked high in the sky. It had to be late. And she wasn't back?
Why hadn't she come back?
Second thoughts? Had he done something unforgivable while he was asleep? He tried to think back, to dredge up more memories. The ones he did remember were embarrassing for the most part. He'd been sick as a dog all night, barely coherent, hardly in control. Pretty unforgivable. But she had stayed then. She'd stayed through it all.
She could have vanished right after she'd brought him that ghastly stuff to drink. She hadn't. Instead she'd climbed right onto the bed with him and let him put his head in her lap. And later, if he remembered right, he'd awakened once to find that she had slid down to lie beside him and they were wrapped in each other's arms.
He'd spent ten years imagining what it would be like to go to bed with Celie O'Meara. It had never been like that! Thank God.
And yet…
There had been something right about just lying with her, being with her. Something honest. Something real. Something he'd never experienced with any other woman.
"No kidding," he muttered gruffly. Celie was the first woman he'd ever only slept with—in the literal sense of the word.
Now he slowly eased himself to a sitting position and waited for disaster. But it didn't come. The room didn't rock. His stomach didn't roll. His mouth tasted foul, but he could solve that. He could brush his teeth, take a shower, clean up, get dressed.
And then he would go find Celie O'Meara—and they would talk.
"What do you mean I have to work?" Celie demanded.
Simone smiled unflappably and unrepentantly. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Stevie is sick. He cannot come in and of course Allison cannot do it all herself. Her schedule is full. Stevie has haircuts all morning and he was to do massage this afternoon. It's is a very good thing you, too, are qualified."
"But—"
But there was no but—and Celie knew it. There was only her job. And filling in when someone was sick was part of it.
Shore days were just like any other day if you were needed. Only today Celie hadn't intended to go ashore. She'd left Jace at the last possible minute, run back to her room, changed into the polo shirt and white jeans she wore when she was on duty and then run down to the salon. She expected to check in with Simone, grab a quick shower and run right back to Jace again.
"So you will start, now, yes." It wasn't a question. Simone was looking at her expectantly. She nodded at the woman who had just come into the salon. "Your first appointment is here."
Celie sighed. She took a deep breath. She hoped Jace understood. Then she pasted on her cruise-ship smile and beckoned the woman to her chair.
Allison was looking at her speculatively. "Missed you last night," she said. What she meant was Where were you?
Celie smiled. "Yes."
Allison's gaze narrowed. "What have you been up to?"
"Nothing," Celie said, still smiling. It was nothing but the truth. She had spent the night in a man's bed—in Jace Tucker's bed!—but she hadn't done a thing.
Yet.
Thinking about what she might do had her going hot and cold by turns. Just lying there watching Jace sleep, stroking his hair, holding him in her arms had made last night the most memorable of her life.
Which just, she thought with a certain amount of ironic self-awareness, went to show what a pitiful life she'd led so far.
Allison was still looking at her carefully, but Celie didn't say any more. She set to work shampooing her first customer, listening to the woman talk about how she was going to spend the day ashore on the private island that the cruise line leased.
It was billed as "the island idyll of your dreams," and it had everything—a beautiful pink sand beach for swimming, a reef for snorkeling, glass-bottom boats for those who weren't into getting wet, and Para-Sails, Jet Skis and Boogie Boards for those who were. There were volleyball and Frisbee for the sports aficionados, sand castle building contests for the artistically minded, a straw market for those who could never get enough of shopping, limbo dancing for the exhibitionists and, to top it off, a sort of Caribbean-island-barbecue-luau which pulled out all the gourmet stops.
It was a lot of fun. Celie had been there several times and she replied enthusiastically to the woman's questions and comments without even having t
o think about it. Instead she thought about Jace.
Was he still asleep? What would he think when he woke up? Would he even remember that she had been there? She would never forget.
The salon was reasonably busy. She and Allison had a steady stream of people all morning. Marguerite, the receptionist, was on the phone taking appointments, and Simone, who disdained "island idylls" in favor of trips to the casinos of Paradise Island when they were in Nassau or night clubs in St. Maarten, was on hand, too, doing paperwork in the office and keeping an eye on things.
Once or twice Allison tried to get her to talk about where she'd been last night. But Celie wasn't doing that. She simply smiled and brushed the questions off—and drifted right back to thinking about Jace.
She hadn't wanted to leave him this morning. Nothing was settled. Nothing had been said. They hadn't talked. They'd only touched. Which was maybe just as well, she thought. She and Jace had never done very well with words.
It was still hard to imagine they were doing well at all. It was even hard to imagine a "they" that included just the two of them—as if they were a couple. How could they be a couple when they'd fought like cats and dogs or ignored each other for half her life?
What if she was completely wrong?
So she replayed it all again and again—from his fierce words last night to his kiss to his head in her lap as he slept only hours ago.
"I said a trim, my dear! A trim!" the woman in the chair said irritably and Celie jolted back to the present to discover she'd taken the woman's pageboy style to the bottom of her ear.
"Oh! Er, right. I … um … just wanted to even this out a little." Celie blushed, took a deep breath, and forced herself to concentrate on the business at hand. It wouldn't do to scalp the passengers just because she was shell-shocked. She could see Simone look at her through the glass that separated the salon from the office. She gave Celie a severe look.
Celie gave herself a little shake and studied the passenger's face. "Have you considered trying something a little shorter and layered? Like this?" She drew the woman's hair back, then fluffed it lightly out on the sides. It was less harsh. It softened her features, and the woman who had looked about to snap at her, blinked and reconsidered.
"Oh!" She turned her head to get another angle. Celie demonstrated what she had in mind. "Well," the woman said. "That might be interesting."
"It could be very flattering," Celie said. "It brings out your bone structure. Shall I?" She cocked her head and looked at the woman in the mirror.
The woman nodded. "Go ahead."
Celie smiled and began to snip, determined not to think about Jace for the moment. No sooner had she made the resolution than she almost took off the poor woman's ear when she looked up into the mirror to see Jace himself standing right behind her.
"Oh!" She jumped and snipped and—fortunately—did not draw blood. "I'm sorry," she babbled to the startled woman, but then she spun around, turning her attention wholly to Jace. "What are you doing here?"
Memories which had kept her entertained all morning—and which she had thought were vivid in the extreme—paled compared to the real man.
Jace stood, shaved and combed, lean and handsome, directly in front of her. He wore a pair of soft, faded Wranglers and a hunter-green polo shirt, and Celie had to admit that, as her dad used to say, he "cleaned up good."
Though his face was still a little pale, his color was coming back. His eyes were bright. He didn't look like death on the hoof any longer. On the contrary, he looked more drop-dead gorgeous than ever.
And judging from the look on her customer's face, she wasn't the only one to think so. The woman stared at him, openmouthed. So did the two ladies who were waiting. So did Allison. So did Marguerite. So did Simone. Oh, dear.
"You said you were coming back." He looked at her intently.
"I was. But I got shanghaied into working. Stevie got sick."
"We need to talk." He didn't even seem to notice the attention he was attracting. He didn't seem to notice anything—or anyone—but her. And Celie barely saw anyone but him.
And then, out of the corner of her eye through the glass, she saw Simone get up out of her chair in the office. "We can't talk now," she said quickly, nodding toward the woman coming their way.
Jace didn't even glance at her. His eyes bored into Celie's. "Why not?"
"My boss," Celie began.
"Ah, the friend." Simone's voice cut in. She gave Jace a glacial smile and arched her perfect brows. "I thought we spoke before."
"We did." Jace brushed her off. "Now I need to talk to Celie."
"Celie is working. Do you wish an appointment, monsieur?"
"No, he just—" Celie began.
"Yes, I do," Jace said firmly. "I want an appointment with Celie."
Simone blinked. Her gaze narrowed momentarily, but when Jace stood his ground, she nodded and opened the schedule book and scanned the day. "Ah, too bad. I am afraid we are full," she said with evident satisfaction after a few moments' perusal. "No haircuts or massages from Mademoiselle O'Meara. What a pity." A saccharine smile appeared.
But Jace's attention was caught by something else. "Massages?" His brows lifted a mile.
"Therapeutic massage," Simone said flatly, "for neuromuscular rehabilitation and relaxation. You understand?"
"Oh, yeah," Jace grinned. "I understand." But there was such obvious devilment in his tone that Celie was sure Simone knew she was being deliberately misunderstood. She winced as she considered how Simone would take that.
Simone evidently had no intention of taking it. She gave an audible sniff. "If you wish an appointment with Allison…" She nodded toward Celie's friend.
"No."
"Well, then, I am sorry. If you will excuse us…" Simone started to herd Jace toward the door the way Celie's dad had herded balky steers toward the corral.
Jace stiffened and remained unmoving. Anticipating disaster, Celie sucked in a quick breath. So did Allison. So did Marguerite. So did both the customers.
But after a long moment of collectively held breath, Jace shrugged. With one unreadable look at her, he nodded.
"Sure," he said, and turned on his heel to head for the door. When he got there, he stopped and looked back at Celie. "I'll be back."
She wondered if he would storm the salon. It didn't seem likely, but with Jace Tucker you never knew.
She worked until two cutting hair under Simone's unrelenting eagle eye. Then she moved to the relative peace of the spa where she took over Stevie's massage clients.
It was easier to think there with the soft Celtic music playing in the background and the scent of almond oil in the air. Easier, too, to dream of Jace.
Not to mention safer. No matter how much detail her mind indulged in as she replayed those hours she'd lain in bed with Jace, when she was giving a massage, Celie wasn't in danger of amputating anyone's ear.
It was therapeutic for her, too, in a way, she thought as she changed the sheets on the massage table in preparation for the last client of the day. She had spent the afternoon channeling all her longings into her work, into easing the stress and loosening the muscles in her clients.
One more and she would be finished. She buzzed Marguerite to send in her next appointment.
"Saving the best for last," she muttered when she looked at her list and saw who it was.
Gloria Campanella was what Armand had called "the first lady of the ship," a healthy, wealthy eighty-five-year-old widow who spent a good part of the year cruising from one port to another in search of heaven knew what.
"The cure for loneliness," Armand claimed. "The perfect mate."
Mrs. Campanella had been on three cruises since Celie had come aboard. She was always dressed to the nines, always had a martini in her hand, always had Stevie do her hair and give her a massage. He was her favorite, the only one who could soothe and charm her at the same time. Everyone else got the sharp side of her tongue. They all knew her—and knew not to cross he
r.
Then the door opened—and Jace walked in.
Celie stared. "What are you—?"
"I couldn't wait."
"But—Mrs. Campanella! You've got to get out of here! Mrs. Campanella will have a fit. She'll raise a stink. Simone will be furious!"
"Simone doesn't need to know."
But she would know. "Mrs. Campanella—"
"Mrs. Campanella changed her mind."
"What! She never!"
Jace nodded. "She did." He paused. "I bribed her."
"You never!" Celie was gaping at him.
But Jace nodded, perfectly serious. "She wasn't all that keen on getting a massage from you," he said cheerfully. "She prefers the guy."
"Yes, but—"
"I bought her a martini and listened to her life's story. She's a lonely old lady and she likes men. She especially—" he grinned "—likes cowboys."
Hard to imagine. But then, what he'd said was true. Mrs. Campanella did like men. Celie tried to envision tiny, immaculate Mrs. Campanella, who always reminded Celie of a well-dressed paperclip in her Felix Diamante designer originals, with Jace, in his jeans and shirt. It boggled the mind.
"She's not…" Celie waved a hand toward the waiting room, still expecting to hear Mrs. Campanella's strident tones demanding to know why she was being kept waiting.
"She's busy planning a trip to Elmer," Jace said. "I told her if she'd let me have her spot I'd get her a date with a ninety-year-old cowboy."
Celie's jaw dropped. "Artie?" And Gloria Campanella? Good God.
Jace grunted. "Figured it was the least he could do for the cause."
"What cause?"
"Us."
And there it was. There they were. Face-to-face at last.
Us. Celie O'Meara and Jace Tucker. Hardly stranger than Artie Gilliam and Gloria Campanella.
Their gazes met. Locked. Jace's eyes were bluer than the sea and even more unfathomable.
Celie wetted her lips nervously and cleared her throat. Us. He wasn't looking away.
"Did you…" she faltered, then tried again. "Did you really come on the cruise because … because of … me?"
A COWBOY'S PURSUIT Page 9
