The Trouble With Paradise

by Jill Shalvis

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Catching her wandering hands in his, he arched a brow. “You sure about that?”

  She snatched her hands free. “Yes.”

  “Might want to inform Andy.”

  “I don’t need to explain anything to him.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re quite as insightful as you think, not when it comes to men.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying”—again he exhaled—“be careful.”

  Concern? Was that concern from the man she wasn’t yet entirely convinced was even human?

  Another wave rolled beneath them, making the boat shudder and groan and creak, and she again clutched at him.

  “Helluva storm. Denny’s navigating the waves at an angle to prevent slamming into the back side of the next wave, but he’s missing a few.”

  His hands were back on her, his head bent low to hers. She pressed her jaw to his, taking comfort in his nearness. “Are we going to be okay?”

  “Time will tell.”

  Brutal honesty. She had a feeling he’d always be that way, no matter what, which might be refreshing—if they were on land.

  As if fate wanted to drive home the point, the boat tipped hard to the left, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

  “Need to breathe here.”

  “I could use some bedside manners right about now.”

  When he didn’t respond to that, she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes, which were tense, even for him.

  “Dorie—”

  “Oh, God.” Had she just admired his brutal honesty? Because she could see that brutal honesty in his gaze, and suddenly she wanted a lie. “The boat’s going to break apart, isn’t it, and we’re all going to die.” Her throat closed at the thought, her eyes burned, and when she spoke, her voice broke. “I’m too young to die, Christian. Way too young.”

  “Hey. Hey,” he murmured, and stroked a hand down her back. “I’ve been in worse storms, and I’m still breathing.”

  The boat rocked to the right now, but Christian had his legs spread for balance, and still holding her as he was, they didn’t go anywhere.

  And there, surrounded by the hell of her reality, she felt . . . safe.

  Maybe the shock of that had her feeling other things as well, such as the way her breasts were smashed against his chest, or how the button fly of his jeans pressed into her belly—

  Again the boat shifted hard, groaning and creaking under the strain. His arms tightened on her, and she turned her face into his shoulder. The motion arched her spine, just a little, and tore another of those low, rough sounds from his throat.

  Needing to see his face, she looked up.

  His gaze slid to hers, though he didn’t say a word, or move so much as a muscle.

  “I did not consume enough alcohol for this,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her head, which was spinning. “Or maybe the opposite is true.”

  “You only had two.”

  He’s been watching? “I’m a real lightweight,” she admitted. “A cheap date.”

  “Dorie.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I could take advantage, that’s why.” He glanced at her bed. “Big advantage.”

  Her erogenous zones went on high alert. “Are you that kind of man?” Did she want him to be?

  He closed his eyes briefly. “You need to go to sleep.”

  Yes. Yes, she did. “I’m scared, Christian.”

  “Don’t.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “Don’t tell me that either. Don’t tell me anything. Hopefully this’ll all be over by morning, and everything will be back to normal.”

  “Which would be you being distant.”

  He stared down at her for a long beat, and she became incredibly, intimately aware of their position, and how she’d glued herself to him. But he wasn’t an innocent bystander. His hand was low on her spine, low enough that his fingers were within reach of her splinter.

  Not commando tonight . . .

  He didn’t say a word but she knew he was thinking it, and she realized there was something pressing into her belly, and it wasn’t just the buttons on Christian’s Levi’s. She licked her dry lips. “Um, are you—”

  “Yes.” His voice was a low, rough whisper. “How’s that for distance?”

  Because she was weak, oh so weak, she arched against him. Nearly every bone in her body melted at the feel of him, at the sound that escaped him, one that might have been part laugh, part groan. She felt his fingers spread wide on her bottom, as if trying to touch as much of her as he could. “Bed.” He sounded strained. “You need to go to bed.”

  Yes, she knew. Bed. But if she went to sleep right now, and if the worst happened and the boat broke apart before dawn and they all drowned tonight in their sleep, she was going to die knowing she hadn’t yet accomplished her goal for the trip. Heck, her goal for the rest of her life.

  Live life to its fullest.

  She glanced out her porthole, where the black night and blacker storm had whipped the sea into a frothy, frenzied, terrifyingly lethal state.

  Dying was a possibility, no matter what he said. Pretty damn final, too. No more chances to do what she’d always figured she had time to do. At the thought, regrets filled her, nearly choked her, but she ruthlessly bit them back. She was going to live to tell this tale, and starting right this very minute, she’d allow no more regrets, no more stalling.

  As Brandy’s mom had said—think big, live big, and love big. Now. Because now was all she might have. In light of that, she was going to do something she’d never done before. “Christian?”

  He looked at her warily.

  For the first time in her life she made the first move, reaching up, fisting her fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth to hers.

  He allowed it, until they were only a fraction of an inch apart, and then he went very, very still.

  Holding back.

  Huh. She sort of thought he’d take over from here, which would be helpful since she really didn’t know too much about seducing a man.

  He didn’t move.

  So she opened her eyes and stared into his stormy ones. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “No.”

  Turning her back, she hugged herself. “I’m good now. You can leave.”

  “Dorie—”

  “Please.”

  “All right.”

  She waited. She heard him open the door, and then shut it, and she smacked her own forehead. “Idiot.”

  “You, or me?”

  She froze. He hadn’t left. Of course not. Because apparently she hadn’t yet made a big enough fool of herself. “Me,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I’m definitely the idiot.”

  “There’s something you should know, Dorie.”

  She cracked one eye, thinking if she squinted, it’d somehow be less embarrassing.

  “I don’t mix business and pleasure.” He said this softly, with genuine regret in his eyes. And this time when he opened the door, he really left.

  NINE

  Day Three

  on the Not-Quite-the-Love-Boat Cruise.

  The next morning Dorie opened her eyes and became immediately aware of two things. One, the daylight barely peeking into her porthole looked gray and dingy, nothing like the brilliant sunshine she’d experienced until yesterday evening.

  And two, the boat was still pitching like a roller coaster ride gone bad. She sat up in bed and felt extremely grateful not to be experiencing seasickness, though vertigo was another thing entirely. Taking a shower was an exercise in stamina, but she managed, then dressed—wearing panties today, too, thank you very much. No more commando, even if the material rubbed the splinter. No matter how much it irritated her, it’d just have to stay put until she came up with a solution that didn’t involve requiring outside assistance to remove it.
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  Because the only outside assistance she could think of came in the form of a man who’d rejected her kiss, and that was just a bit too humiliating to contemplate.

  What the hell had she been thinking, trying to kiss Christian?

  Well, she hadn’t been thinking, that had been her problem. She’d have to correct that immediately. Note to self: THINK at all times.

  She could do it.

  She just wouldn’t look at him again. Not for the entire trip.

  But Andy, sweet, kind, sexy-as-hell, Texas Andy . . . him she could look at all she wanted, she promised herself. Because she’d bet that he wouldn’t have rejected her kiss!

  She grabbed her purse and opened her door. The hallway was empty, but walking it with the boat rocking wildly was no picnic. She made it to the stairs and got halfway up before she heard something from below her, a sort of muted hushed whisper.

  The hair on the back of her neck rose as the sense of déja vu hit her. Enough with the mysterious conversation! “Hello?” she called out, turning to try to see behind her, though unfortunately she couldn’t see past her own tush.

  While she was twisted, the boat jerked, and she hit the wall. Ouch. She began climbing again. She felt off balance, inside and out, which is probably why, when the boat lurched, she lost her grip on the railing entirely, flying straight backward—

  Into a hard wall.

  A hard wall that went “oomph.”

  Then that hard wall gave, and she was sailing down the way she’d come—

  Landing in a pile of limbs, half of which did not belong to her.

  “Fuck.”

  Since that single oath was muttered in an unmistakable French accent, with both irritation and resignation, she knew exactly who it was before she even opened her eyes.

  The bane of her existence, of course.

  The boat pitched again, and together they went sliding across the floor. Dorie gripped her purse with one hand and him with the other, and watched the hull wall come directly at her. She closed her eyes and winced in anticipation, just as Christian tucked her beneath him.

  She still hit, but not the wall.

  Nope, Christian did that for her, and then she hit him.

  Hard enough to produce stars in the daylight.

  Flat on her back, she opened her eyes and groaned.

  Christian leaned over her. “You okay?”

  “I think so.” For such a long, lean, hard body, he was quite the cushion. “Thanks.”

  He frowned and held her down when she would have sat up. “Make sure.”

  She must have hit her head or something, because the way he was bent over her, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, jaw bunched, he looked concerned.

  And hella sexy with it.

  Definitely, she’d hit her head. She lifted a hand to it but it didn’t hurt. So far so good. She rolled to her back and winced at the splinter in her butt.

  Still there.

  “What is it?” Without waiting for her to answer, he began running his hands down her limbs. Arms first, all the way to her fingers. She was so shocked she just stared up at him as he shifted his attention to her legs, his warm, firm hands checking her ankles, calves, knees—“Hey!” Finding her senses, she slapped at his hands.

  “Checking for broken bones.”

  “You’re copping a feel!”

  “If I were ‘copping a feel’ as you say, I’d have my hands somewhere else entirely.” He leaned back on his heels. “Good news. You’re fine.”

  “I know!”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you want me to look at your ass.”

  “What?”

  “You hurt it that first day, and you’re still hurt.”

  “I said I was fine!”

  “I’m a doctor.”

  She got to her feet, hands on her bottom. “I’m not showing you my splinter!”

  His brow shot up so high it all but vanished into his dark, wavy hair. “Splinter?”

  She looked away. “It’s nothing.”

  He pulled her around, and this time he wasn’t thinking about smiling. “It needs to come out.”

  “Uh-huh. And when it does, naturally, you’ll be the first to know.”

  He stared at her, apparently—and correctly—gauging her determination and stubbornness as nonnegotiable. “Okay, but when you get infected—”

  “It won’t.”

  “It will.”

  He was deadly serious, and she swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine. I am fine.” Staring up at him, she realized that while she was fine, he was not. His mouth was bleeding, and before she could stop herself, or remember last night’s humiliation, she put a finger to his lip. “I hurt you when I fell on you.”

  He lifted a hand to his mouth, looked at his bloody fingers. “It’s nothing.”

  “So we’re a fine pair then, aren’t we? You need some ice.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “Hey, I’m the aunt of two very agile, slippery, weasely nephews under the age of five. I know my first aid.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “You’re so eager to be up and about, you’re hired.”

  Hired. To doctor him up? An incredibly inappropriate vision of doing just that came to her, of slowly stripping him down to skin to play doctor—

  “On n’est pas sorti de l’auberge.”

  “Translation?”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. This storm isn’t just a stubborn bitch, it’s a hurricane. Winds at ninety miles an hour, and the waves are topping at thirty-five feet. People are mal de mer. Seasick.”

  So he didn’t mean play doctor with him. Damn. “How did this happen?”

  “The low pressure system hit a jet stream and just like science, here we are.”

  She crossed her arms. “You have such a way of making me feel better.”

  “No time for coddling. Wear your life vest if you come above deck.”

  “Why?”

  “No one goes up there without one until further notice. Let’s get going. You’ll need some supplies.” He pulled her down the hall and into his quarters. “The others are on their deathbeds. Just ask them, they’ll be happy to tell you. I think Brandy’s probably the sickest, so check on her first. Keep rotating through the rooms.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Helping Denny.”

  Outside. Vulnerable to the elements. In danger. “Why can’t we go back?”

  “To Fiji?”

  “Yes.”

  Something crossed his face at that, a shadow, a grimace, whatever, but it caused a terrible foreboding to seize her, from the inside out. She took a step toward him and gripped his shirt. “Christian? Talk to me.”

  He looked at her hand fisted on him. “There are some technical difficulties.”

  “Skip the cryptic. I hate cryptic.”

  “We were hit by lightning last night.”

  She gasped. “My God.”

  “Several times. And then there are the thirty-five footers. Some of our equipment’s been damaged.”

  “Damaged,” she repeated carefully.

  “Actually, gone.”

  “Explain, please.”

  He seemed to weigh his next words carefully, but gave her the truth she’d asked for. “The blast of lightning bent the steel deck of the compass room, wrecked the compass, and swept some of the equipment onto the main deck where it was washed overboard.”

  She just gaped at him, trying to understand.

  “The oiler’s door on the starboard side was smashed in by a rogue wave, and some of the windows on that same side have been blown in as well. Is that enough?”

  “There’s more?”

  “We’re taking on water, and without functioning sails, we’re not in control of our direction. We’re off course, way off course. How about now? Enough now?”

  She swallowed hard. “Are we drowni
ng today then? Because if we are, I should schedule in my panic attack.”

  “There is good news.”

  “I’d like that please.”

  He slid open a supply closet. “The storm is losing strength.”

  She stared at his broad shoulders, shoulders that took on so much. “So are we drowning today or not?”

  “Well, it’s not on my agenda, no.”

  “Even without the storm, if we’re damaged beyond control . . .”

  He turned back, acknowledging that with a slight bow of his head.

  She drew a shaky breath and gave up on trying to get promises. There were none to be had, and she didn’t want false ones anyway. “Okay. Let’s—”

  The boat jerked, nearly sending her flying against a wall, but Christian reached out, snagged her by the shirt, and hauled her to his side, saving her from more bruises and who knew what else. When she could stand on her own, he grabbed a bag and handed it to her, filling it with things she might need from his shelves: ice packs, Band-Aids, aspirin . . .

  She watched him work quickly and efficiently, and when he caught her staring at him, he stopped. “What?”

  She dug into the supplies he’d just given her for gauze, and then shifted close, dabbing at his lip.

  He hissed out a breath.

  “Baby,” she murmured.

  His gaze slid to hers, surprised. “Baby? As in infant?”

  “That’s right. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

  “Trust me, I can take anything you’ve got.”

  Oh boy, if that didn’t start her engines. “Sorry, but you relinquished that right last night.”

  “My loss.”

  Did he really feel that way? The boat rocked, and she reached out to balance herself against him, her hand settling on his chest as if it belonged there. She found her fingers sort of stroking over him, and stared at the motion.

  Stop touching him.

  But beneath his T-shirt, he was warm, solid. Her fingers glided over his pec, a nipple. It pebbled, and she did it again.

  “Playing with fire, Dorie?” he asked softly.

  Lifting her head, she stared at him. Her heart had sped up. He could pretend he was unaffected, but she felt his heart do the same, thumping with increasing velocity beneath her hand. She opened her mouth to say so but he put his fingers over her lips, making them tingle, making every part of her tingle.