by Macy Beckett
• • •
No shit. It was hot out here all right—in a way that had nothing to do with the brutal Louisiana sun. Marc glanced at the sign hanging above Allie’s camelback store. THE SWEET SPOT: SOMETHING TO TEMPT EVERY SAINT IN NEW ORLEANS. He was no saint, but he was sure as hell tempted. A man would have to be gay, castrated, or dead not to sport wood around Allie Mauvais.
She swept the back of her hand across her forehead, then blotted her flushed olive cheeks. One black curl escaped her twist and sprang free, refusing to be tamed . . . just like all Mauvais women. She looked like a wild Gypsy who’d just rolled out of bed with her lover, and when she locked those mismatched eyes on him, Marc’s jock twitched.
Damn. He’d like to inch up the hem of that short denim skirt and find her sweet spot.
But Marc never would. Not even he was that stupid.
“Maybe another time,” he lied.
He had no intention of spending a moment alone with her. He’d learned his lesson back in high school. Against his pawpaw’s advice, Marc had asked Allie to junior prom. He’d kissed her that night and had awoken the next morning to boils beneath his boxers. Pawpaw always said sex with a Mauvais woman would rot your pecker, and after that incident, Marc wasn’t taking any chances with his manhood.
Why risk it?
“Sure, another time.” When she arched to stretch her lower back, her breasts strained against the front of her thin white T-shirt, revealing the lacy pattern of her bra. Lord have mercy. “How’s your family?” she asked, lips twitching in a smile as she caught him staring. “I heard you’re going to be a big brother again.”
“Yep, in December.”
“How many kids does this make for your daddy?”
“Six.” With five different women, but he didn’t need to tell Allie that. She probably knew better than anyone.
According to legend, it was her great-great-grandma who’d cursed his family, vowing the Dumont men would never be lucky in love. It must’ve skipped a generation, though, because Marc was real good at getting lucky. Some might say an expert. He had women all over the parish—willing women who didn’t ask for more than a night of sweaty, tangled flesh and a quick good-bye. And unlike his dad, Marc had enough good sense to keep it wrapped. So what if a Dumont man hadn’t made it to the altar in almost a hundred years? If you asked him, that was a blessing, not a curse.
Allie took a step closer and fanned the back of her neck, filling his senses with the candied scent that clung to her body. It made him want to lick her throat to see what she tasted like.
“Been behaving yourself?” she asked.
“Only by default.” Marc retreated a pace. “I’m taking over the Belle. She keeps me pretty busy.”
That seemed to surprise her. “Your daddy’s retiring?”
Marc shrugged. “Had to happen sooner or later.”
But truth be told, the news had surprised him, too. In all the years Marc had spent working aboard his family’s riverboat, his old man had never found a nice word for him, never clapped him on the back for a job well done or given any indication that he’d trust Marc with the Dumont legacy. When he’d deeded over the Belle, he’d left Marc with seven words: She’s yours now. Don’t muck it up.
The old man neglected to disclose how much work the Belle needed or how much it would cost. Or, more importantly, that he owed the waitstaff and cleaning crew two months’ back wages. But if everything went according to plan, the two-week Mississippi cruise he’d booked should draw enough income to pay off the bank.
Which reminded him . . .
“I should run.” He nodded toward the French Market Place. “There’s a lot to do before the next trip.”
“Good luck. Don’t be a stranger, baby.” She winked an eye—the one the color of aged bourbon—and pulled open the door to her shop. A blast of cool, delicious air rushed onto the sidewalk as she stepped inside, and Marc pulled it deep into his lungs while his mouth watered.
Damn, he wished he could stay, and not for a bear claw, either.
He peeked through the glass and watched the gentle sway of Allie’s hips, then exhaled in a low whistle. If only she weren’t a Mauvais.
Marc shook his head and strolled onward. For no real reason, he crossed to the other side of the street before continuing to the river.
Chapter 2
Marc shielded his eyes and gazed at the love of his life. She was seventy-five years old, high maintenance, and she’d been ridden hard by thousands of men, but he’d never beheld a more glorious sight than the Belle of the Bayou.
Sunlight glinted off the solid brass roof bell, polished to a gleam by Marc’s own loving hand. You couldn’t see it from here, but his family crest was engraved deep into the metal, a testament to four generations of Dumonts who’d broken their backs to keep Belle riverworthy. The steam whistle perched nearby like an open-beaked eagle, ready to call travelers aboard for relaxation and adventure.
Marc took in all four white-railed decks, lined with arched windows and doorways, and pictured them teeming with guests, imagined the inimitable noise of conversation and laughter reverberating off the water. From there, his eyes moved upward to the twin black smokestacks and the pilothouse beyond, where he would soon stand at the helm for the very first time as captain.
Lord, he couldn’t wait.
Even though Belle threatened to drown him in a tidal wave of debt, he couldn’t deny the surge of pride beneath his rib cage every time he looked at her.
But there was work to be done. A rhythmic percussion of clunks pierced the air as workmen hammered at the oak paddle wheel, repairing damage from last season’s collision with a bridge. John Lutz had parked his familiar windowless van near the dock, which meant the mechanics were already in the boiler room. Now Marc needed to schedule the last round of interviews and meet with his managerial staff—his brothers and Pawpaw.
Time to quit standing around.
He jogged up the bow ramp onto the main deck, then took the stairs to the second-floor dining room, where they’d always held their staff meetings. It was no coincidence that the executive bar—and all the top-shelf liquor on board—was located in that room. A couple fingers of Crown Royal Reserve made working with family a whole lot easier.
Marc tugged open the door, relieved to find the air conditioner running again. Nothing put a damper on a cruise like the reek of three hundred sweaty vacationers. He noticed the ancient red-and-gold-patterned carpeting had been steam cleaned. He hated that carpet. It had always reminded him of the creepy-ass hotel in The Shining. Maybe next season he’d have the cash to replace it.
All the tables were bare, chairs were stacked along the wall, and clear plastic bags of white linens from the dry cleaner had been tossed in the corner. Marc crossed to the far end of the room, where three heads were huddled in conversation—two blond, one gray. At the sound of his footsteps, Nick and Alex glanced over their shoulders and gave him a wave.
“Cap’n,” Nick said with a mock salute, then took a deep pull from his Heineken.
“Cap,” Alex parroted.
Most folks would never believe Marc was related to the towheads. He had Pawpaw’s tawny complexion, while Alex and Nick had inherited their mama’s Swedish coloring: blue eyes, fair hair, and skin that had to burn a few times before it tanned. Of Daddy’s brood, these two were the only ones who shared the same mother, but that’s because they were twins. Identical—right down to the matching cowlicks that swirled the hair above their left brows.
Marc had resented his baby brothers when Daddy had left his mama for theirs, until the same thing had happened to them a few years later. It was then, at the tender age of seven, that he’d learned to quit blaming his siblings for the sins of their father.
“Papa was a rolling stone,” all right. But no matter which woman he shacked up with, he’d always made time for all five of his sons
. . . if working them to death aboard the Belle counted as quality time.
Marc took a seat at the head of the table, and Pawpaw pushed a tumbler of amber-colored liquid toward him. Breaking out the hard stuff already? That wasn’t a good sign.
“Drink up, boy,” Pawpaw said. “You’re gonna need it.”
Marc ground his teeth and glared at his brothers. The last time Pawpaw said those words, Nick had seduced the state inspector’s daughter and nearly cost the Belle her license.
“What’d you do?” he asked them. “Or should I say who?”
The two shared a quick glance before simultaneously admitting, “The jazz singer.”
“Both of you?”
Alex held his palms forward. “She came on to me in the ballroom and practically ripped my pants off. How was I supposed to know she thought I was Nicky?” He elbowed his twin. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing her.”
“Well, ‘seeing’ is a strong word,” Nick argued. “It wasn’t as serious as all that.”
“Mother of God.” And Marc thought he got around. Fresh out of college and still in frat mode, these two made him look like an altar boy. “I assume she quit,” he said.
“Yep,” Pawpaw answered. “Called in this mornin’. But jazz singers are more common than mosquitoes in July round here. That’s not why you need the sauce.”
Marc brought the tumbler to his lips and belted it back, savoring the smooth, smoky burn of aged whiskey. He cleared his throat and clunked the crystal onto the table. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s have it.”
“Well, for starters,” Pawpaw began, scratching his turkey neck, “someone double-booked the honeymoon suite. Now the head’s busted in there, so neither of them can use it.”
That wasn’t so bad. “Call Herzinger Plumbing. He’s expensive, but he’s quick. Give the room to whoever booked it first, and offer the second couple the state suite. Then comp all their off-board excursions and give them a free bottle of champagne.”
“There’s more,” Alex said from the other side of the table. “Lutz found an issue with the train linkage, and he says he doesn’t like the look of the throttle valve.”
“Shit.” Now that was a problem. The city wasn’t exactly overflowing with steam engine mechanics, or spare parts for an antiquated machine designed in another century. “Can he get it fixed in time?”
Alex shrugged. “Probably, if you make it worth his while. You know how it goes.”
“Yeah, I know,” Marc grumbled. “Offer a twenty percent bonus for his crew if they get it done by next week.”
“And the Gaming Control Board called,” Nick added. “They’re auditing last year’s income statements, and they said there’re a couple pages missing from the general ledger.”
“That’s no biggie.” Marc’s sister could handle that. “I’ll have Ella-Claire fax them over.”
“Yeah, but the Mississippi permit still hasn’t come through for the Texas Hold’em tournament.”
“Son of a bitch.” Marc was going to need another shot.
Licensing was an unholy nightmare when Belle crossed state lines, but nothing aboard the boat drew as much income as the casino. Nothing. And tournaments doubled their cash flow, because the participants tended to gamble damn-near around the clock. He’d bent over backward to book that event. Without those earnings, they were screwed like—well, like the jazz singer they no longer had.
Marc pointed to Nick and said, “This takes priority over everything. Drive up there yourself and make sure we get that permit. Turn on the charm—do whatever it takes. We won’t cast off without it.”
“Want me to go now?”
Marc nodded at the door. “I wanted you there five minutes ago.”
“It’s just . . .” Nick hesitated. “There’s more.”
Marc slid his tumbler to Pawpaw for another pour. “What is it?”
“Daddy called,” Nick said.
“And?”
“He wants you to bring on Worm. Said to start him off busing tables.”
“And who’s going to look after him?” Their little brother wasn’t a bad kid, but fourteen-year-old boys had a way of gravitating toward trouble, and Worm was no exception.
Instead of answering, Nick tipped back his beer.
“Let me guess,” Marc said, accepting another shot from Pawpaw. “He expects us to do it for him.”
“The boy’ll be fine,” Pawpaw promised. “Just like when y’all were that age. Family takes care of their own.”
Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one responsible for keeping Belle afloat—both literally and figuratively. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least Daddy hadn’t asked him to hire Beau. To say there was bad blood between Marc and his older brother was like calling Mount Fuji an anthill.
Marc tossed back his whiskey and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Fine, but we need to keep him busy. I want that boy so worn out, he falls down dead in his cot each night by eight.”
“That won’t be hard,” Alex said, “considering we’re short staffed.”
“What?” Marc’s backbone locked. “Since when?”
Pawpaw laughed and gestured at Marc’s empty glass. “Remember when I said you were gonna need that hooch? This is why. That shoddy employment agency that Alex used to hire the cleaning crew got shut down for forging work visas.”
Marc pushed both palms against the air. “Hold up a minute.” Everything had been fine when he’d left yesterday. “When did all this happen?”
The three shared a quick glance, and Pawpaw guessed, “’Bout thirty minutes ago.”
“It was the damnedest thing,” Alex said. “Like a shit storm blew into town and opened up right on top of us. It all happened at once.”
“All of a sudden,” Nick added. “When it rains, it pours.”
“Half an hour ago?” Marc whispered to himself.
Wasn’t that about the time he’d crossed paths with Allie Mauvais? That’s what he got for standing on the same side of the street with her. Maybe her great-great-grandma’s spirit knew all the filthy things he’d wanted to do with Allie.
“We’ve got to have a full cleaning crew,” he said, “or this trip won’t last long.” In such close quarters, sickness spread like wildfire, especially stomach bugs. All it would take was one bout of norovirus or E. coli to shut them down.
“No joke,” Alex said. “Remember that one year?”
All four men cringed at the memory.
A few summers ago, their vegetable supplier had delivered a bad batch of iceberg lettuce. Within days, hundreds of folks had it coming out of both ends—even the guests who’d avoided the salad bar. There wasn’t enough Pepto in the world to counteract a puke-fest of that magnitude. Just thinking about the smell . . . Oh, God, he was getting queasy. He quickly derailed that train of thought.
“If the press got wind of another outbreak like that, it would ruin us. Let’s station hand sanitizer pumps near all the doors and stairwells,” Marc suggested. “One inside every room, too.” He addressed Alex and said, “Call another temp agency. While you’re at it, see if you can snag us a few more servers.”
When a few seconds ticked by in silence, Marc asked his family, “Is that it?”
Pawpaw snorted. “That ain’t enough for you?”
More than enough. Marc felt the urge to knock on wood, toss a pinch of salt over one shoulder, cross his fingers, and tuck a rabbit’s foot in his back pocket—and he wasn’t even superstitious.
He dismissed the meeting and headed belowdecks to the boiler room. He wanted to see the valve “issues” with his own eyes and make sure Lutz wasn’t screwing him over.
Halfway down the first stairwell, his cell phone vibrated against his left butt cheek. Marc pulled it free and discovered a text.
Are you free for some afternoon delight?
A smile f
ormed on his lips. It was Nora, the perky redheaded waitress he’d taken home a couple of weeks ago. She was hotter than hellfire in the sack, with a carpet that matched the drapes. But despite that, he found himself texting, Rain check?
You at the boat? she replied. I can be there in 10.
No dice. Marc was wiped out, and Nora wasn’t on his to-do list. Will make it up to you after this cruise.
It better be good!
Isn’t it always?
She signed off with an xxx/ooo, and Marc shoved his phone into his pocket.
For the first time since he’d sprouted short-n-curlies, he didn’t have the energy for sex. Hell, maybe he was jinxed after all.
• • •
One week and two dozen headaches later, Marc gathered his hair in a low ponytail and donned his captain’s hat—pristine white with a gold-embroidered black bill. He straightened his tie and grinned at his reflection in the pilothouse window.
He’d waited a long time for this.
Through the port bay, he could see a flurry of movement as early-morning shipments of fresh food and last-minute supplies arrived for loading. In a few hours, guests would begin boarding, and there was plenty to do before then. Just when Marc had managed to weather last week’s shit storm, the main chef had changed the menu and demanded a list of new ingredients.
Typically, Marc didn’t tolerate that crap, but booking Chef Regale for this cruise had drawn a full house. The man was unarguably a ranting diva, but his name was legend. As a bonus, Regale had brought on his associate pastry chef, a bigwig in his own right. That was worth makin’ groceries.
He buttoned his white suit jacket and headed downstairs for a walk-through of the main level, pleased to find the carpets freshly vacuumed and the brass handrails buffed to a shine. The new cleaning crew had mopped the deck so thoroughly, its wooden planks practically glowed, and each bench and lounge chair was clean enough for the most discriminating backside.
Satisfied, he touched base with his event manager and then strode outside to supervise the deliveries and greet any guests who might arrive early. He’d just stepped off the bow ramp when Worm waved one bony arm from the sidewalk and dragged himself over in a Hooters T-shirt, jean cutoffs, and a pair of Converse Chucks held together by a dying breath of glue.