by Doreen Alsen
“That was an accident. I called you over to find out if you’re okay.”
“I’m not fired?”
“Not today, lass. You’re not hurt or anything?”
“N-no.”
“Right-o. Here’s a clean shirt for you to change into and then go back on the floor.”
Angelique blinked as she took the tee. “Thank you.”
“Get on with it.” She nodded then turned and left Angelique alone.
She’d dodged a bullet, thank God.
But what was up with Tim? She wanted to pay him a visit when she got home, but she got the feeling he didn’t want to talk about what had just happened.
She, more than anyone, should respect that.
****
“You sure you want to take the boat out today in this wind?”
Tim didn’t look at the guy watching him launch Fantasy. “Yep.”
“You at least have someone sailing with you?”
“Nope.” If this jerk kept talking, Tim was going to have to punch him.
“Got a death wish?”
Yes. He could make it a murder-slash-suicide deal. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Hope so.”
Tim gritted his teeth and went about the business of rigging the boat.
Two episodes in twenty-four hours. A nightmare and a panic attack.
The need to fight the water and wind rode him hard. Boat ready to go, he turned her loose and steered out to Frenchman’s Bay.
The wind bit into the jib right away, so Tim changed course and let the sail out a little. The waves slapped viciously at the hull, sending cold spray up on either side of the boat.
It was nearly summer, but the water never got truly warm, even in August. He supposed he should be wearing a wet suit in case he capsized, but the hell with that.
The hell with all of it.
He would conquer the water. Conquer it and defeat it so it would never be able to terrify him ever again.
He could have walked away from the nightmare. He knew how to manage that. Getting doused with liquid when Angie lost control of the tray, so soon after the horrendous night he’d spent, had triggered a panic attack the likes of which he’d never experienced.
And in front of Angie no less.
What a pansy ass bitch he was. He should have been all over helping fix the situation. Instead, he’d stood there like a damn fool.
What happened to him? He used to be so cool; nothing rattled him, not bombs, not bullets, not nothing.
Now he lost his shit over broken pottery?
Damn terrorists. They’d taken away what made him a man.
He reached out of the harbor, past the breakwater, and into the bay. Immediately, the air got heavier and changed direction, so he had to make adjustments to the sails and course.
Tim could have changed direction so he could still reach across the bay, but he wanted to work. Instead, he turned so he could beat upwind.
He situated himself on the high side of the boat and leaned out as far as he could to keep the boat flat against the sea, using the tiller extension. That way very little air spilled over the top of the sails and he got more stability from the keel and didn’t lose the ability to steer the boat because more of the tiller stayed in the water.
Both the tiller and the keel didn’t work as well when the boat heeled so far over; hence, Tim hiked out as far as he could on the high side.
The salty waves chopped high, spraying him in the face. His heart started to beat a little bit faster but not so fast that he froze or freaked out.
He welcomed the challenge. He craved the victory over his demons.
Boo Yah.
What was he going to say to Angie?
Both Jeff and Beth knew about his PTSD and were so supportive. He doubted they’d tell Angie about his pitiful story and condition.
Jeff and Beth were true stand-up people. They’d let Tim tell Angie in his own time.
Which he wouldn’t do soon, or ever, for that matter.
The wind kicked up and he pulled in the jib to counteract it then he tacked to change course. The chop increased and water sprayed him in the face. Cold, nearly frigid, water started to ship over the lee rail and pooled in the boat’s cockpit and sloshed over his feet.
Determined to conquer his fears, he gritted his teeth and faced the elements.
The damned terrorists were not going to win, not this time.
Chapter Ten
Angelique stared at Tim’s front door. Her nerves jingled and jangled like a set of handbells played by rabid chimpanzees.
After her breakfast and lunch shifts, she went home, took a shower, and gave herself a pep talk.
Usually clueless, or rather, not keyed into anyone else’s emotions than her own, it startled her to be so concerned about Tim.
Something just didn’t add up.
And what did she know?
Nothing. She had to think about someone else.
Which was something she never did.
Argh. She had to get over herself. Just knock on the door and see if he is okay.
It wasn’t rocket science.
She pounded on the door.
A barrage of low pitched, scary woofs streamed from behind the door.
Chester. Great.
“What are you doing here?”
Angelique turned at the sound of Tim’s voice coming from behind her.
To quote a southern phrase, he looked like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet, which she usually snorted over because of the sexual innuendo, but not right now. The man looked as if the hounds of hell had ridden right up his butt and camped out there.
She dug deep and pulled up her inner diva, who was closer under her skin than Angelique was comfortable with. “I want to apologize to you about dumping a tray full of food on you this morning. I of course apologized to Jeff and Beth and their children, but you were gone before I could get a chance.”
He swallowed, took a moment to stare at his shoes, then brought his head up to meet her gaze. “It’s okay. No big.” He scuffed his Topsider clad foot over a lump of crushed quahog shells on his front walk. “Are you okay? Did you get into trouble?”
“No. They were good to me. Kind.”
“Good. It was an accident after all.”
“You looked a little weird there. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
He sighed and studied the tops of his shoes again. After an overlong moment he said, his voice flat, “You didn’t hurt me.”
“Well, good.” Angelique Durand, the queen of holding men in the palm of her hand, didn’t know what to say to this man. How the mighty have fallen. “I’ll go now, then. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Oh yeah, I’m just finest kind.” He brought his head up and caught her gaze with his. “Thanks. I’ve got to go let Chester out, so I’ll see you around.”
Yes, Chester was barking like it was his job, which she supposed, it was. Fish gotta swim, dogs gotta bark.
“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”
She left, clutching the tatters of her pride around her.
****
Tim watched Angie scurry away. He’d pretended to be happy.
He really just wanted to wrap his arms around her, take her up to his bed, and lose all his miserable problems in her body.
And wasn’t that just the best reason to take a woman to bed?
No. If she were just some other piece of tail, he’d have no problem with using her and discarding her, getting rid of all the sexual frustration that had been building in him since before he’d been kidnapped.
This woman deserved more. If he couldn’t give her more, he shouldn’t touch her.
But, oh, Christ on a crutch, his hands itched to run up and down, all over her body.
He let himself into his house and Chester nearly knocked him over in Dobie ecstasy. “’Kay, buddy. Need to go out?”
The dog started running in circles around him. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”
He let Chester out the door to the beach, grabbed his leash, and, out of habit, his camera.
He felt, rather than saw, the exact moment Angie came out of her cottage and headed down the beach. She walked away from him, her slim body surrounded by the soft light of late afternoon.
She might as well be the angel she was named after.
He picked up his camera and pointed it at her, placing her in the middle of the frame. Some kids were flying kites, which dipped and swooped in the brisk wind. He managed to get them in the image and snapped the picture.
She’d been worried about him. So much for his hope that she hadn’t seen him freeze.
Damn.
On the other hand, the thought of her concern thawed something deep inside him, something that had frozen up in the hot desert of Iraq.
All the more reason for him to stay away from her.
As she faded from view, Tim put the camera down. “Chester! Want to go for a walk?”
Chester ran down the stairs and headed for the beach. Tim had to hurry to catch him, so he could point the dog in the opposite direction Angie had taken. “Let’s go this way, buddy.”
Chester turned on a dime and raced away like he was Secretariat.
Tim understood the need for speed, only when he indulged, he was racing away from his demons. His dog wouldn’t know a demon if it jumped up and bit him on the nose.
But it looked to Tim like he’d gained a new demon to fight. Her name was Angie and his nearly overwhelming desire for her.
Looked like there would be a lot of cold showers in his future.
****
Angelique pushed a cart laden with towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies down a hallway in the Sea Crest Inn. Cleaning up other people’s messes totally sucked.
The pigs in the last room she’d made habitable for the next guests left dirty diapers on the floor. Really?
Really.
She almost threw up, as the diapers smelled like they’d been there since Y2K. What did they feed that kid? Dead, putrid skunks?
O. M. Effing. G.
So totally pukeworthy.
She’d spent a few terrible moments in front of the toilet gagging. She’d, against all odds, gotten over SmellyDiaperGate.
The next room was even worse, as the happy couple staying there had managed to discard their used condoms on the floor instead of the wastebasket or toilet.
What was wrong with these people?
She did have to admit that in her previous superstar life she hadn’t given one single thought about the person coming around to clean up after her. Another new regret. Yay!
This job, however, went a long way in preserving her anonymity. Much more so than working in the dining room, so she’d pull up her big girl panties and cope.
She finished making up the rooms, stowed her cart and supplies, and took the dirty linens and towels down to the laundry room. The bag holding the soiled wash felt like it was weighted down with boulders. By the time she muscled it to the basement, her lower back and biceps were screaming at her.
And, oh look. She broke another nail. Peachy.
After clocking out, she slipped out the kitchen entrance and made her way around the grounds. She happened to pass by Keen Quinn’s workshop. The son of the owners of Sea Crest Inn, he handcrafted all the Adirondack style furniture featured by the Inn.
From the sound of it, she figured his wife, Bobbie Darling, kept him company.
“I tell you, Keen, that man is infuriating. I have his book signing all set for the end of June and he’s not helping at all with the publicity.” Bobbie owned the bookstore next to the Inn, Cliff Notes.
“He’s been through a lot. Maybe you could give him some leeway?”
“I suppose you’re right. I’m just really excited about the event and want to get the word out.”
Angelique kept on walking past and remembered Tim telling Jeff that he was late because of stuff to do with his book.
She wondered what kind of books he wrote. She’d have to ask him.
She wanted to see him again. She’d enjoyed her date with him, up to the point when she’d heard the motorbikes. She felt her face heat at the memory of hiding when they passed by.
She took the chance that someone would recognize her every time she took a customer’s order at the Inn. It felt rather presumptuous to ask him to come over for dinner. She shook her head.
There was also the fact that he hadn’t seemed too happy to see her the other day when she knocked on his door, checking up on him. So an intimate dinner was out of the picture.
She herself wasn’t ready for that yet. She thought about him joining his friends for breakfast. What about a casual brunch on the beach? On her patio?
Low key. No pressure. No innuendo, which was more important to her. She’d been gossiped about enough.
A brilliant plan took shape in her mind.
****
“You want what?”
Angelique sighed and rolled her eyes. “Do you have a hearing problem, Lucien? I need some of Grand-mère’s recipes.”
“Why?” Lucien sounded suspicious. What a surprise. He always sounded suspicious when he talked to her.
Granted she’d given him lots of reason not to trust her.
“I’d like to learn how to cook them.”
“You’ve never been interested in learning to cook them before.”
“I never had to learn before because you would make them. I miss that kind of food. Maine cuisine is nice and all, but there are only so many lobster rolls you can eat. I really crave some good ol’ Cajun dishes.”
“Which ones do you want?” Lucien still didn’t sound convinced.
“Gumbo, so if you could send me some of your special filè powder, that would save me from trying to find it here or settle for someone else’s version, her shrimp and ham gumbo, and if you wouldn’t mind, that oyster preparation you invented for Hope.” She knew Lucien wouldn’t be able to resist that one.
“You have to swear on a stack of Bibles that you will never share that recipe.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She thought about asking for Hope’s apple pie recipe, but most likely, it was too soon to be asking Hope for favors. “And beignets.”
“Beignets? You want to eat something deep fried?”
She remembered mornings spent at the Café du Monde drinking chicory coffee and nibbling on a warm beignet topped with powdered sugar. Homesickness washed over her. She couldn’t go back to New Orleans. Everyone knew her there and all her old crowd would laugh at her. “Yes. I very much want to learn to make beignets.”
Silence from the other end of the line. “Lucien? Are you still there?”
“Oui. I’ll scan and e-mail the recipes to you today and send the filè to you. Do you need it soon? Should I overnight it?”
Her heart once again swelled with love and with extreme gratitude that this man was her brother. “You don’t have to overnight it. I’m not making these dishes all at once.”
“You can get good oysters there, n’est-ce pas?”
“Lucien. Lobster Cove is a fishing town. The whole coast around here is all about the fish. I think I can find some good oysters.”
“Make sure they’re in season and local.”
“In season? When did you start to care about things being in season and local?”
“Since my amazing wife taught me a thing or two. If you need any advice, just give me a call and I’ll talk you through it.”
“That’s so sweet, but I’ve got to figure this out on my own. I’m a Durand, after all. The Force runs deep in our family.”
For too long Angelique had represented the dark side of the Force. Darth Durand. Time to find Angelique Skywalker.
“Okay then. Let me know how things turn out. Angelique?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll strangle you with my bare hands and drop your dead body in the bayou for the gators if you reveal my Oysters Hope recipe.”
She smiled as t
ears welled in her eyes. “Merci, Lucien.”
“Take care of yourself and let me know if you need any help.” He clicked off.
Angelique wouldn’t be making that call. Determined to make this happen, all she had to do is keep her eye on the prize.
She smiled. She had the feeling that Tim Baldwin was worth the effort.
Chapter Eleven
“Alma, I have a favor to ask.” Angelique approached the head chef at the Sea Crest Inn.
“Shoot!” Alma stopped stirring the pot she had bubbling on the stove.
“I’m trying to make some old family recipes, you know, Cajun things, and one of the things I want to try is my Grand-mère’s recipe for beignets, but I don’t have a deep fryer. Can I try them out here when the dining room is closed and the kitchen isn’t busy?”
“Beignets! Absolutely, as long as you give me the recipe and let me help out. Are they any good?”
Angelique grinned. “Better than the ones you can get at Café du Monde. My Grand-mère, she could cook.” She silently begged Lucien’s forgiveness about giving this one recipe to Alma.
“Yum! I’ve only been there once, but I fell in love with New Orleans. I still dream about the meal I had at L’Enfer, the restaurant owned by that famous chef guy, whose name escapes me right now.”
Angelique stifled a grin at how Lucien would react to being called ‘that famous chef guy.’ “Lucien Durand.”
“That’s him! What other of your grandmother’s recipes do you have?”
“Her jambalaya and her gumbo.” She purposely left off Lucien’s secret oyster recipe.
“I’d love to try those, too, if you wouldn’t mind.” Alma clapped her hands together. “I could put a version on the menu, like switching scallops for shrimp in the jambalaya, and lobster for shrimp in the gumbo.”
“Sounds like fun.” Angelique kept it to herself that there were already too many lobster preparations in this town, but what could one do?
“If the beignets come out good, I’d love to put them on the breakfast menu along with the Danishes and other pastries.”
“I don’t have a problem with that.” It occurred to her that Lucien might. Well, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “Would tomorrow afternoon work?”
