The Trouble With Paradise

by Jill Shalvis

  “Excusez-moi,” a man said from behind her, crowding up close, trying to get around her, probably since she was moving at the pace of a geriatric snail.

  Don’t look. Just keep going.

  “If I could please just get around you.”

  “Yes,” she said to the French accent, carefully not eyeing anything but her goal—the end of the plank. “I know. Just a minute—”

  “I have an onboard emergency, so if you don’t mind...”

  Actually, she did mind. She understood he was in a hurry, she really did, but there was the ocean, just waiting to swallow her up. Holding her breath, she did her best to turn to allow more room for him to pass her, expecting . . . well, she didn’t know what she expected. Given his impatient tone, Mr. Stryowski, maybe, complete with a hooked nose and beady eyes and a tight mouth. Maybe a pitted face, and thinning hair. Definitely he’d have a paunch belly.

  Not. Anywhere. Close.

  Long and leanly sinewy, he was built like an athlete, with golden skin that suggested he spent a good amount of his days outside. He had dark waves of hair that curled up around the edges of a baseball hat and around the collar of his black polo shirt, which was untucked over a pair of Levi’s that were clearly beloved old friends with his lower body.

  No pitted face, no hooked nose in sight.

  No paunch either.

  But if Andy-the-Baseball-Cutie had been all smiles and flirting, this guy was his polar opposite—tall, dark, mysterious, and brooding, which was good. Dark, mysterious, and brooding were so not her thing. Nope, her tongue wouldn’t swell here.

  Not that he seemed to care. He didn’t so much as look at her, still attempting to get between the chain handrail and her body. In fact, he couldn’t get past her fast enough, and though he sucked in a breath, they still brushed together, his warm, hard chest and arm sliding against her much softer form, and at the contact, she sucked in a breath. She didn’t really know why, it just happened, but at the sound she made, a sort of involuntary breathy gasp, he looked at her, finally meeting her gaze with those killer stormy gray eyes.

  For some inane reason, she thought about her list: cute, sweet, loyal, and kind. This guy wasn’t cute. More like bad boy edgy, dangerous. Certainly not sweet or kind. A relief—because it meant she got to keep her wits about her. Good thing, too, because she needed every single one of them.

  “Do you need help with your luggage?”

  Huh. She might have to revise her assessment on the kind thing. “As a matter of fact—”

  “Wait here. I’ll get help for you.” He moved onto the boat ahead of her, his stride easy but purposeful, not once looking back.

  Dorie let out a long breath, surprised to find herself a little pissy. And intimidated. “He’s not so different from you,” she reminded herself.

  Well, except for the confidence.

  Oh, and the penis.

  That warm, salty breeze nudged at her. Letting go of one of her suitcases in order to shove the hair from her eyes, she reached back for the suitcase again, but it wasn’t there.

  Because it was now rolling backward on its own, down the plank, slipping right beneath the chain handrail, snagging by its handle so that it hung off the side of the plank, only slightly better than splashing into the water. “Hello?” she yelled up at the ship. “Help?”

  Two men appeared out of the woodwork. “Hi,” she said, feeling ridiculously inept—not an unusual feeling for her.

  One of the men took hold of her arm. He wore a billowy white shirt and loose navy pants low on his hips, with his long, silvery blond hair pulled back by a strand of leather. He looked like a pirate. A really good-looking pirate.

  Was everyone on this boat gorgeous?

  He smiled, his eyes revealing a good amount of trouble—the kind that drew women like flies.

  Uh-oh.And there went her tongue, swelling away.

  “I’m Denny McDonald, the captain.” He jerked his chin toward the other guy, the one rescuing her suitcase. “And this is Ethan Erle. Our burger flipper.”

  “Chef,” Ethan corrected mildly, also incredibly good-looking, wearing the same navy pants Denny was, with an apron over the top. Cute as he was, he looked as if he was still in school.

  Middle school. His youth was probably the only thing keeping Dorie’s tongue from further engorgement.

  “I’m a chef,” Ethan said again, looking at Denny over Dorie’s head. “Unless maybe you’d like to be called an oar specialist, Captain?”

  Denny merely arched a brow. “Oar specialist?”

  Ethan smiled. Seriously, he looked twelve. “Chef?” she repeated.

  He laughed, his baby face crinkling in good humor. “I’m older than you think.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “Twenty-five,” he corrected, still smiling. “Old enough to be experienced. I can promise you, just one of my meals will make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Okay, now that sounded promising. “Well, food is one of my favorite things.”

  “Do you cook?”

  “I can toast a Pop-Tart.”

  He laughed. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

  “You have your ticket?” Denny asked.

  “In my purse.” She patted the purse slung around one shoulder, which as always, carried just about everything she could ever need.

  Except good sense. That she seemed in short supply of.

  “Purse?” Ethan eyed it. “That thing is the size of a suitcase.”

  “No, those are my suitcases,” she said, taking a few limping steps toward the luggage, including the one hanging off the plank.

  Denny was frowning down at her ankle. “What’s up with the limp?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  He didn’t push, but he did rescue her luggage, then guided her on board, where she looked around in awe.

  The Sun Song was impressive, with the sail poles high and proud in the sky above.

  “Enjoy,” Denny said, and left Dorie with Ethan, who gave her a tour of the ship from bow to stern. It dazzled her. The interior, polished teak and accented with bright, welcoming colors and fresh flowers and gorgeous prints, was surprisingly spacious and luxurious.

  Despite her pain, a frisson of excitement coursed through her. She was really doing this, really sailing off into the sunset and the South Pacific, among over three hundred islands made of coral and dormant volcanoes covered in rain forests.

  They walked (Ethan walked, she limped) through the large galley, a place stuffed to the gills with all kinds of mouthwatering food piled high on trays. “Oh my God.” She nearly moaned. “You did all this?”

  Clearly very proud of himself, he nodded. “For the Meet and Greet. It’s in twenty minutes.”

  The adjoining salon was more gleaming teak and held a bar, a gorgeous dining booth, an entertainment center, and a spiral staircase leading up to a lookout deck above. Everything dripped elegance and sophistication, and for the next week, she got to belong in this world.

  Belowdecks, her state room was as glorious as the rest of the ship, done in beautiful wood and brightly colored accents, clearly made for comfort and privacy. Ethan left her with a complimentary bottle of champagne, and she toasted herself. “To no more tripping, falling, or stumbling,” she said to her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. “To confidence. To having fun.” She finished off her glass and then, just a little bit overwhelmed, went to sit down on her bed.

  Bad idea.

  Sitting down reminded her that she had a splinter in a very vulnerable place. Leaping up in response reminded her of her other problem, her ankle, which had gone from some discomfort to unmistakable throbbing, accompanied by a lovely mottled blue bruise—not her color if she said so herself. She needed ice. Grabbing her purse, she hobbled to her stateroom door, thinking to find Ethan again.

  In the hallway, she ran into a different crew member, as extremely good-looking as the rest of them. He was the same guy she’d seen waving to Andy wh
ile on the dock. In his early twenties, he wore the same navy cargo pants and white shirt as Denny and Ethan, and oddly enough, a grumpy frown that rivaled Mr. Stryowski’s. Along with that frown, he wore an Astros baseball cap backward on his head and carried a tray of what looked to be iced tea, along with a small stack of glasses, and was sending off enough waves of irritation to make her wonder what could possibly be so bad about working on a boat in the South Pacific. Try Shop-Mart, buddy. “Houston,” she said. “We have a problem.”

  “Oh, I’m not Houston,” he said. “I’m Bobby.”

  “Well, yes. I was just making a joke—You know what? Never mind,” she said at his blank expression. “Look, I’m sort of injured.” She felt so stupid for adding her problems to his clearly already bad day. “I twisted my ankle, and then got a—” No. She was not going to tell him about the splinter. Her bottom could just fester and fall off before she’d tell a single soul. “I just need—”

  “The ship’s doctor?”

  She blinked. “Do you have one?”

  “Christian’s part of the sailing crew, but also an MD.” He eyed her ankle over his tray. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes.” To prove it, she took a step, but her ankle gave out entirely and she fell right into him.

  And his tray.

  The iced tea fell over, and dumped down her front, soaking into her pristine white sundress. Oh, yes, right on track to having fun.

  Bobby, his Astros cap askew now, eyed the front of her dress, which was drenched through. “Shit on a stick!”

  “I’m so sorry.” She pulled her dress away from her skin, because wow, the tea was iced.

  “Shit,” he said again, and handed her the small linen napkin draped over his forearm.

  She dabbed at the damage, but it was like plugging Niagra Falls with a tampon. Worse, she realized she had a sort of wet T-shirt effect going. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve got something warm,” she tried to joke.

  “This is bad.” Bobby was trying to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her breasts like magnets. “Oh, God.” He covered his eyes. “I’m going to get fired. Again.”

  “No, it’s my fault, not yours—”

  “It’s never the guest’s fault,” he said miserably, as if he’d had this phrase repeated to him more than a few times. “Fuck!” Then he put a hand over his mouth.

  “What?”

  “And I’m not supposed to swear in front of you either. Oh, God, I’m toast. Burnt toast.”

  “No, you’re not. Look, we’ll just forget about the tea, okay?”

  His expression went to sheer disbelief. “You’re not going to tell on me?”

  “Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He let out a long breath, then nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. “That’s good. That’s great.” Bending, he began to clean up the glasses on the ground.

  “Um . . . Bobby?”

  He glanced back.

  “Maybe I could get some ice? For my ankle?”

  “The doctor.” He slapped his forehead. “You need the doctor.” He reached for her, but eyeing her wet dress, he pulled his hands back, shoving them in his pockets. “Uh . . .”

  “I can walk—” Trying to prove it, she took a step and stumbled. Looking like he might prefer facing the guillotine, he bent to scoop her up in his arms, but he was thin, lanky, and she was . . . not. He staggered back with her and hit the wall behind them, where both of them crashed to the floor in a tangle.

  Leaping up, he shoved his hands into his hair. “Listen, just kill me,” he begged. “Do it quick. Before Denny does.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m not hurt.” She stood, then couldn’t control her grimace at the fire in her ankle. “Well, I’m not more hurt. Just give me your hand.”

  Looking miserable, he moved to her side, acting as her crutch, helping her down the hall, both of them dripping iced tea. “Doctor’s quarters,” he said, and opened the last door. “Wait here.”

  Then he hightailed it out of there so fast her head spun.

  She hopped inside. The room was small but high-tech, with all sorts of medical equipment on shelves against the far wall. There was a patient bed, a sink, and a cart with more supplies.

  Dorie eyed a set of tweezers and her bottom actually twitched. Still dripping iced tea, she picked up a medical journal from the counter and was reading about the latest bird flu theories when the door opened.

  To her vast disappointment, it was Tall, Dark, and French Attitude, still looking . . . well, tall, dark, and attitude-ridden.

  “Bonjour,” he said, those pale eyes cool. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting for the doctor.”

  He looked at her, and not at her tea-soaked body either, but straight into her eyes, as if he could read her without her saying a word, and wasn’t exactly thrilled at what he saw.

  “So...” She tried a smile. “Is he coming?”

  He sighed, somehow sounding very French without saying a word. “He’s here.”

  THREE

  Still Kicking Life into Gear Day

  (aka Life Kicking Dorie Day).

  You’re the doctor?”

  At the question from his dripping wet patient, Dr. Christian Montague sighed from the depths of his irritated soul and strode across the small room to the sink. This was his second patient before they’d even set sail. The first, his so-called “emergency,” the one that had gotten him on board a half hour early, had suffered from—stop the presses—a paper cut. She’d turned out to need nothing more than a Band-Aid, though her eyes had wanted something else.

  Him.

  He was used to that. It had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the fact that he worked on a boat that catered to the extremely wealthy, which often equaled spoiled. He was a single man, a doctor to boot, surrounded by exotic, lush landscape that inspired certain emotions, one of them being lust.

  But Christian didn’t mix business and pleasure. Ever.

  At least this bedraggled patient wasn’t coming on to him. She seemed to be in honest distress. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous as Brandy had been. She wasn’t smooth, suave, or sophisticated as their guests often were.

  Instead, she stood there, her dress stained and wet and dripping on his floor, wearing a tote on her shoulder that was nearly as large as she was, looking uncertain, with her wide chocolate eyes broadcasting her naivety.

  Didn’t she know what that doe-eyed, innocent expression did to most men? Turned them into assholes, that’s what. The transparency of her drenched dress didn’t help. She was a walking please-take-advantage-of-me waiting to happen.

  He couldn’t have said why this annoyed him, it just did.

  Because you don’t want to be here.

  Oh yes, there was that. He flipped on the tap at the sink and scrubbed his hands. “I’m Dr. Christian Montague,” he said, and yanked out a paper towel, turning to face her as he dried off.

  “Dorie Anderson.”

  Okay, he could say why she annoyed him. It was those devastatingly dark eyes that gave away her every thought. He wanted to tell her to close them, before he took advantage of what she didn’t even realize she was offering. “What can I do for you?”

  “Uh...” Her wavy, somewhat wild flyaway brown hair was half out of its clip, and she lifted a hand to shove it away from her eyes, her fingers shaking.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Hurt?”

  When she didn’t answer, he attempted to curtail his irritation. “What seems to be the problem here, Ms. Anderson?”

  He knew what his problem was. This room was small. Make that tiny, postage stamp tiny. They were within two feet of each other without even trying.

  “Dorie,” she whispered. “You can call me Dorie.”

  She smelled like lemon. Lemon iced tea to be exact. Not a scent he’d have considered a turn-on by any means, and yet he couldn�
��t seem to stop looking at her, or breathing her in. The woman barely came to his shoulder. She was drenched. And there were those eyes, those drown-in-me, heal-me, I’m-so-sweet-I’ll-kill-you-slowly eyes . . .

  Not his type, not even close.

  “My problem,” she finally said, “is that I tripped on the dock.” Her cheeks went pink. “I nearly lost my luggage, and then I spilled iced tea—”

  “You don’t need a doctor for any of that.”

  At the base of her throat her pulse beat like a humming-bird’s wings. He found his gaze trapped there.

  “I hurt my ankle.”

  Okay, now they were getting somewhere. He gestured to the bed. “So have a seat.”

  Dragging her teeth over her lower lip, she glanced at the bed. “Um.” She slid her hands behind her, over her bottom, and winced. “I prefer to stand.”

  “I can’t look at your ankle while you’re standing.”

  “I—” The boat lurched. She gasped, and her arms flailed out, and so did the huge bag over her shoulder, which smartly connected with his jaw.

  The thing must have rocks in it, because he actually saw stars.

  He also saw her falling, damn it, and grabbed her as those huge pools of melted chocolate landed on him.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “We’ve just left the dock.”

  Pressed against him, hair wild, eyes locked on his, her dress soaking into him, she took in the unmistakable sensation of the boat moving over the water. “Oh. Right. I didn’t think. It’s...”

  Scary. Sickening. Unsettling. He waited for her to say any of those words, or a dozen others, but after another beat, she let out a surprised smile. “Lovely.”

  She had a smile on her, he’d give her that. The kind of smile he didn’t see every day—real. He tried to back away, but she had a grip of steel on him.

  “I hit you.” She touched his jaw. “Or my purse did.” She let the bag slip to the floor, where it landed with a loud thunk.

  Definitely rocks. Unfortunately he couldn’t think about that because her warm, soft curves were pressed against him, and he became so hyperaware of that, nothing else penetrated. For all the people he came in daily contact with, for all the people he touched during the course of his work, he was rarely touched in return.