by Jill Shalvis
“Salut.” His gaze settled on her face, which she knew had to be beet red from the wild exertion. Not to mention the no-panty thing. He held a bag of ice in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Why?”
His eyes narrowed. “Because you look like you have a fever.” He pushed his way into her room without waiting for an invitation, dropped the ice next to the champagne, then turned to face her.
She stood her ground in that small space, her skirt brushing her hips and legs . . . and various other parts that weren’t usually so intimately brushed against. “Perfectly fine.”
He arched a brow, silently reminding her of how she’d just burst in on him in his own office as if there’d been a fire on her tail, so how fine could she be.
“Okay, not so fine,” she admitted, letting out a long breath of air. “But I’ll handle it, thanks.”
Please go.
He was quiet a moment, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see far more than she liked. “I was with a patient—”
“Yes, I could see that.”
“I think you misunderstood what you saw—”
She lifted a hand. “None of my business.”
“Clearly you needed something.”
She’d needed comfort. Now all she needed was underwear. “No. It was a mistake, that’s all.”
A silly mistake. So she’d overheard a strange conversation. A really strange conversation. Big deal.
“Coup de grace, huh?”
“What?”
“I’ve irritated you to the final straw, and now you’re done talking.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Not irritated exactly.
He scrubbed a hand over his face so that she could hear the rasp of his day-old beard. Then he pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, which was several weeks past a badly needed haircut, and yet somehow the long dark waves looked right on him. Slightly scruffy.
Edgy.
Dangerous.
Thanks to his fingers, his hair stood up a little, but he either didn’t realize or didn’t care. She voted for option number two, and when he jammed on his hat again and looked at her with frustration brimming from that steely gaze, the oddest thing happened.
A frisson of heat coursed through her.
Uh-oh.
Where was this coming from? She didn’t know, but it was going to stop. He was clearly involved with Sailing Barbie. She gestured to her door.
With a long look that she couldn’t even begin to interpret, he moved—but not out. He came right toward her, stopping only when he was so close she could see his eyes had black flecks swimming in the flinty gray. So close she could smell his soap, or shampoo, or whatever it was that smelled woodsy and cedary and really quite amazing. Close enough so she could see that although his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were, a phenomenon that did something to her, something that definitely hadn’t happened when Andy had smiled at her, or any of the other men.
Not that she wanted to think about what that meant.
“One thing,” he said, lifting a hand to the wood above her head, then leaned in even closer. His long, lean, rangy form surrounded her now, his every exhale brushing the hair at her temple. He had a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, and her finger inexplicably itched to touch it.
He apparently itched to touch, too, because he stroked a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
“What?” she asked, sounding as if she’d just run a mile. Uphill, in the snow.
“The Meet and Greet is in the salon.” His gaze dropped over her body before meeting hers. “You might want to change one more time before you go.”
“What?” Was that her voice, all soft and whispery and very Marilyn Monroe-like? It couldn’t be. She cleared her throat. “Why?”
“Because if you’re going to go commando, Cherie, you need a thicker skirt. Something not quite so . . . sheer.”
Oh, God. She felt her mouth fall open, felt the heat once again claim her face. He could see through her skirt. “Um—”
A hint of a smile bloomed into a full-blown one, and holy cow. If she’d been attracted to him, the pure heat from that smile, the heat that said he knew exactly how to make a woman melt into a boneless heap at his feet, might have knocked her right off her feet. Good thing she wasn’t attracted to him. Much. “Um—”
“You say that a lot.” He shifted just a little closer. “Do I make you nervous, Dorie?”
She managed to snap her mouth shut. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He didn’t make her nervous. Not compared to, say, every other man on this yacht. At least with him, she could swallow past her own tongue!
But he did make her . . . frustrated. Annoyed.
Hot.
As if he knew, he laughed softly and stroked a finger over one of her burning ears.
And just like that, her nipples got happy. Her thighs trembled. What was happening here? Besides a train wreck waiting to happen. “Good-bye, Doctor.”
His lips quirked. “Good-bye, Dorie.” He turned to the door, then turned back. “You know, you didn’t strike me as the commando type.”
“Maybe it’s laundry day.”
“On the first day of your vacation?”
She caved like a cheap suitcase. “I wasn’t finished changing.”
“Ah.” The look he gave her was smug, as if he knew her, knew her type.
“Hey, maybe I go without all the time.”
He full out grinned. “Do you?”
He didn’t believe her, and she pretended not to care. “Yes.”
At that, he laughed, and after he left, she didn’t move for a long breath. She was being cool. Cool as a cucumber. That only lasted so long; after a minute, when she was sure he wasn’t coming back, she raced to her suitcase and pulled on a slip.
But not underwear, damn it. No way. She had a point to prove.
And a life to start living.
A new application of lip gloss and one self pep talk later, Dorie limped her way out of her stateroom. Out of necessity, she wore flip-flops instead of the heeled sandals, but was still commando. Climbing up a spiral staircase, she found herself at the bow of the ship, all by herself, looking at the last sliver of sun as it sank beneath the horizon.
Very by herself.
Leaning against the railing, into the wind, giving herself a little Titanic moment, she wondered at the odd sense of loneliness. Probably if she had Leo DiCaprio standing behind her, she wouldn’t feel so alone.
Actually, it didn’t have to be Leo. She’d have settled for Baseball Cutie Andy. She bet he never made a fool out of himself in front of a woman. He was always sweet, kind, and loyal. She let herself go with the fantasy for a moment but since her tongue swelled in his presence, she had to be real. Tongue swelling could really pose a problem on, say, their honeymoon.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement. Unbelievably, Andy stood there, hands in the pockets of his very expensive linen pants, his equally expensive shirt billowing in the wind. Catching her eye, he smiled, and right on cue, her tongue began to swell.
Damn.
“Hey,” he drawled, his eyes filled with an easy-going good humor and a huge dose of dazzling sex appeal. “How about it. You ready?”
Ready? If he meant for that Titanic moment she’d just been fantasizing about, where she would face the setting sun and spread her arms and let him support her from behind as they sailed off into the sunset, then you betcha.
Maybe they’d go to his room, where he’d slowly strip her out of her clothes, or maybe not so slowly. He’d ravish her, giving her what she hadn’t gotten in way too long . . .
“It’s already started.”
Yep, her engine was started, too.
“There’s food.”
“Food?” Was she missing something, because—
“Looks amazing. They went all out for the Meet and Greet.”
“Oh.” Yes, definitely missing something. Her bra
in. “The Meet and Greet.”
He cocked his head. “What did you think I was talking about?”
Wild sex. “Nothing.” Best not to respond, she decided. Instead, she turned and tipped her face up and studied the spectacular puffy cumulus clouds chasing after the nearly gone sun—
Andy pulled her around to face him. “Did you think I meant something . . . sexual?”
Oh, God. Why couldn’t he just ignore her? She closed her eyes. “Listen, I’m—” Stupid. Socially challenged. Inept. Pick one. “Really in need of food, apparently.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “Women often get all tongue-tied around celebrities. It’s okay, I’m just human.”
Well, human was good. She hadn’t understood that he was a celebrity, but she couldn’t mention that because he’d just put his hands on her hips and was looking the part of the Baseball Stud, and he stepped even closer, and then her heart was attempting a half gainer right out of her chest. She closed her eyes to enjoy the moment, but her tongue filled her entire mouth. If he kissed her now, she’d suffocate. So would he. She’d go to jail for accidentally causing the death of a national treasure. “Andy, I—” She opened her eyes, startled to see that someone had just come up on the deck as well, and was standing right behind Andy.
Dr. Christian Montague.
Tall, Dark, and French Attitude arched a brow, managing to convey buckets of cynicism in that one small gesture. So who was misunderstanding who? his sarcastic gaze asked.
“Excuse me,” she said, pulling free of Andy. “But I really think I need that food. Now.” She walked—limped—past both men, hoping she still had a shred of dignity left.
Andy followed right behind her. “I thought it was your right ankle,” he said in that slow, southern voice that was just dreamy enough to make her sigh.
“It is.” She didn’t look to see if Christian followed her as well.
“But you’re hobbling on both legs,” Andy said.
Damn splinter! “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very! Listen, tell me there’s chocolate at this event.”
“Sure is, darlin’. Lots of it.”
“Perfect.”
Christian entered the salon just behind Dorie and Andy, who clearly believed he had a shot with her.
For all Christian knew, he did.
The salon was filled with people and tons of food. Dorie moved directly toward the large platters and began piling her plate high, a look of glee on her face, as if she’d hit the jackpot. A woman who liked food. He liked that.
Unfortunately, he liked her. But he wasn’t the only one. Andy was following her around like a puppy on a leash.
A horny puppy.
Oblivious, Dorie caught Christian watching her and blushed, but didn’t look away. There was most definitely something about her, something which Andy clearly sensed as well because the baseball star shifted a little closer to her. “Want a drink?”
“Oh.” Dorie flashed Andy a small smile. “You don’t have to babysit me.” She began to stack up a second plate now, speaking with a slight speech impediment, almost as if her tongue was suddenly too big for her mouth. “I can get it.”
“I’m not babysitting.” Andy was really pouring on the southern charm. “I enjoy your company. What’ll it be?”
“Um . . . soda?” Her plates had reached Mt. Everest proportions, but she kept piling the food on.
Christian eyed her petite frame. Where the hell was she going to put it all?
“How about something with a kick?” Andy asked her.
Ah, Christian thought. Let the alcohol-plying begin. But Dorie wouldn’t fall for that. She was sweet and naive, but not that naive. Nobody was that naive.
“It’s not like you have to drive home.” Andy leaned in, waggled a brow. “And afterwards, we could dance.”
Her plate wobbled and Andy steadied it for her.
“I’m not a very good dancer,” she murmured.
“All that matters is that you do it.” Andy shot her the smile that probably got him laid nightly. “Come on, Dorie. Live a little.”
Come on, Dorie, slug him a little.
But Dorie nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay, I’ll take that drink with a kick. Your pick.”
Christian shook his head. Unbelievable. She had fallen for it.
“Atta girl.” Moving to the bar, Andy looked over the display of piña coladas, bushwhackers, daiquiris, choosing two rum punches, no doubt for their potency and potential seduction aid.
Christian’s jaw hurt and he realized he was clenching it. Andy moved back to Dorie, taking one of her plates so she could drink.
“Here it goes,” she said. “Liquid courage.”
“What could you possibly need liquid courage for?” Andy asked.
Christian wondered the same thing. Dorie sucked down her drink, then set both her empty glass and her second very full plate on a nearby table. Drawing a deep breath, she tipped her head back to look up at the baseball player. “I’ll have that dance now. If you still want it.”
With a smile, Andy pulled her in close, sliding his hand low on her spine. Then a little lower . . .
Christian frowned.
Dorie squirmed.
Andy grinned.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dorie muttered.
“Do you?”
She blushed adorably. “I was in a hurry when I got dressed.”
Andy laughed. “Are you somehow apologizing for not wearing panties?”
“It’s just that—”
“Can I see you later?”
She looked up at him, extremely cute, and extremely flustered, and Christian had the inexplicable urge to pull her away from Andy.
Crazy.
“See me?” Dorie repeated. “As in go out with me see me?”
“Yep,” Andy replied.
“We’re on a boat.”
“In the South Pacific. Nothing more romantic than that.”
She blinked, slow as an owl. “You want to be with me.”
“Say yes, Dorie.”
Say no, Dorie.
“I have to use the restroom,” she said, and hightailed it out of Andy’s arms.
Finally.
FIVE
The rum punch had gone straight to Dorie’s head. Or maybe that was just amazement that she was really here, on a sailing yacht, out of her comfort area.
Make that a couple of time zones out of her comfort area.
Baseball Cutie wanted to be with her. Boggled the mind, it really did. In the bathroom just off the galley, she looked at herself in the mirror. “I’d love to go out with you, Andy,” she told her reflection.
See? How hard was that?
How was she going to do this whole living life thing if she couldn’t talk? Well, she’d be a mime if she had to, because this was an opportunity of a lifetime. He was the opportunity of a lifetime.
She touched up her gloss and headed back to the salon, looking around at the beautiful boat as she did. The interior gleamed with obvious care and pride in every nook and cranny, and the view . . . unbelievable. She was used to tall buildings, smog, and traffic twenty-four/seven. Here there was nothing but glorious open water.
And gorgeous, tongue-swelling inducing men. Remembering that odd conversation she’d overheard, she stood there a moment trying to put faces to the voices she’d heard.
But couldn’t.
Captain Denny was talking to Christian near the door. Gorgeous Grumpy Doctor had lost his baseball cap, and now his dark hair tumbled loose and free. He hadn’t changed those faded, well-worn Levi’s, and surrounded by elegance and sophistication, he looked like the last holdout.
His gaze snagged hers, and she couldn’t help but notice he seemed rough and tumble and . . . trouble, pure trouble. Before she could look away, he cocked a brow, and slowly dropped his gaze down the length of her.
Then again, it might just have been her rum punch.
Yet he did it again,
definitely eyeing her skirt. Looking to see if she’d put on panties? Something went through her at that. A bit of daring. Bravery. And because of it—and the slip she’d added—she executed a little curtsy, spreading the material of her skirt out with her fingers, inviting him to do his best to try to see through it.
An invitation he freely took.
His gaze traveled slowly down to her toes and back up, and by the time his eyes landed on hers, they were two scorching balls of pure flaming heat.
Yowza.
She hadn’t realized the full potency of the serious sex appeal he was packing behind that edgy, dangerous front. So much so that she nearly staggered back a step. She actually had to look away to breathe, and then, unable to help herself, she turned back.
He was still looking at her.
She swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of even attempting to play, because unlike Andy, who probably ran bases during a World Series game looking relaxed and easygoing, Christian was one long, lean line of tensed muscle.
Ready.
But for what, she hadn’t a clue. Just thinking about the possibilities did the oddest thing—it heated her from the inside out. Interestingly enough, her tongue didn’t swell.
It made sense, she supposed. The men in her life had mostly been safe and sweet and kind. Fun and easygoing. Her father. Her sister’s husband. Her own too few and far between boyfriends. She liked fun and easygoing. In fact, it was what drew her to Andy. Fun and laid-back counterbalanced all the stresses in her life, such as working at Shop-Mart when she really wanted to be designing clothes.
But, and this was something she’d never really admitted to herself until she’d won this cruise, something had been sorely missing.
What, exactly, she wasn’t yet sure. Sex? Definitely. But if she could just get her nerves under control—and her tongue—she could have that. No, this went deeper. Maybe she needed adventure. Excitement. Danger.
A brooding rebel.
Another peek at Christian assured her that she was the only one still thinking about this because he and the captain were deep into conversation, both looking . . . extremely uptight? In fact, there was a tic in the captain’s jaw, and Christian’s eyes were still hot, but no longer sexy hot.
