Inevitability?
Oh, Celie. She shook her head at her own idiotic notions.
The first gurgle welling up in her chest caught her by surprise, jolted her. But she couldn't swallow it, couldn't make it go away. And it spilled over. She giggled. She gurgled. She laughed. She could feel tears she laughed so hard.
It was preposterous. She and Jace Tucker. And yet … it wasn't.
She didn't believe it. And yet she wanted to. And that surprised her, too.
She'd dreamed of finding the other half of her soul for as long as she could remember. She'd thought she'd found him with Matt. She'd dreamed foolishly that she'd found him in her fantasies of Sloan. Those, she'd begun to realize recently, had existed merely to keep her hopes alive. They hadn't been real. They hadn't been substantial. They'd simply been there—holding a place for the real man whenever he came along.
And was the real man Jace?
Did he love her?
Did she love him?
God knew she hadn't thought so. She'd hated him for years—even as she'd been fascinated by him.
Watching Jace had always been like staring into the sun—tantalizing and dangerous. His joy of life, his boundless enthusiasm, his easy way with people—especially his ability to charm the opposite sex—had always been a source of fascination. When Matt had gone down the road with him, she remembered listening eagerly to the tales he'd told about Jace. And Celie had been torn between her fascination and her very real fear that emulating Jace's lifestyle would not be conducive to Matt's getting happily married to her.
It turned out that she was right. And that was when her fascination had turned to resentment.
She had been convinced that Jace didn't think much of her, either. He'd certainly gone out of his way to tease her, to bait her, to get in her way these last few months every time she'd turned around.
She'd thought he had been doing it to annoy her.
Now she didn't know what to think.
But she was intrigued. Astonished. Amazed.
He'd kissed her—very nearly melted her where she'd stood—and instead of seeing where things would lead, she had panicked and run.
She couldn't go back, either, she realized now. Because somewhere down there Simone was lurking—no doubt ready to fire her.
Oddly the possibility didn't make her knees knock. She would have expected to be gibbering with fear that Simone was going to sack her. But she wasn't. She wasn't even thinking about Simone.
She was thinking about Jace.
Something had quickened inside her at his kiss. Something had happened between them. It scared her and attracted her at the same time. The old Celie would have been crawling into a hole right about now. This Celie was intrigued. This Celie wanted to know more.
Tomorrow she would. They would sort it out, she and Jace.
They would talk tomorrow after she'd been fired. For the moment she would play it all over and over in her mind. She would taste his kiss and remember his words. You could get your own damn husband. Find a local guy. That's what I'm doing here. She knew she wouldn't sleep a wink tonight.
She didn't care.
Celie was up, waiting for Simone to rap on her door before seven. It had happened when she'd sacked Tracy. She'd turned up while Tracy was still in her nightclothes and had sent the other woman packing then and there. Celie expected the same.
"What are you doing?" Allison had squinted at her out of one bleary eye when Celie had got up at six. She hadn't slept at all, so it really hadn't mattered when she got dressed. It had been all she could do not to bounce off the walls. She wanted it over and done with. She wanted to go see Jace.
"I'm … restless," Celie said. She was tempted to tell Allison about last night, about Simone, about Jace. But she didn't want the entire ship gossiping about her. There would be plenty of that after Simone fired her.
So she sat on her bed, fully dressed, and waited. And waited. Allison dragged herself up finally, grumbling. She gave Celie an odd look, went to take a shower. When she came out Celie was still waiting.
"What are you doing?" Allison demanded.
Celie shrugged. She picked up the book she'd been holding in her lap. "It's a thriller."
Allison didn't look impressed. "If it's so thrilling how come you're on the same page you were when I went in to take a shower? Coming to breakfast?"
Celie shook her head. She didn't want to be at breakfast when Simone arrived. She might not care that she was getting sacked, but she didn't relish public dismissal. She nodded at the book. "I want to read this."
Allison shook her head. "Whatever." She waggled her fingers and went off to get a bite to eat.
By ten minutes to eight Simone hadn't come. She was obviously going to force Celie to come to work. So it would be a public dismissal in the salon. Celie squared her shoulders and went.
Simone was already there, picture-perfect in her pencil-thin black skirt and black silk shirt. She was chatting with two of the passengers, but looked up when Celie came in.
"A word wiz you, s'il vous plait, Mademoiselle O'Meara." Her mouth, outlined in bloodred lipstick, formed the words as one long finger with an equally blood-red nail beckoned Celie into her office.
So the execution wouldn't be public after all. Celie was grateful.
"Come in. Shut ze door, mademoiselle."
Celie shut it. She took a deep, careful breath and let it out slowly. She would explain. She would be polite. And then she would be on her way. "About last night … Ms. Sabot. I went to—"
Simone cut her off. "I speak, mademoiselle. You listen."
Celie fell silent. The woman was, after all, still her boss, and Celie was always polite. She had also never been in a situation like this before. This must have been what it was like to be sent to the principal. The very notion of being so bad as to be referred to a higher authority had horrified her as a child. Now she simply waited for the inevitable and didn't really care.
"I speak wiz your friend," Simone began.
"My friend?"
"Ze man in ze room," Simone said patiently. "He explain why you were zere. He tells me he invite you to see pictures from home."
Celie stared, nonplussed. Jace had done what? She didn't speak.
Just as well because Simone went right on. "Of course, you understand zis is not so good." Simone shook her finger under Celie's nose. "Going to rooms of passengers is not recommended. You remember I say zat?"
"No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am." Three bags full, ma'am.
"But I understand homesick. Is a difficult zing to be homesick."
"Er, yes."
"You are new, Mademoiselle O'Meara. I understand you can be homesick when you are new. You will not let zis happen again. Yes?" Hard eyes bored into hers.
"Um…" Celie floundered.
"Yes," Simone answered her own question for Celie. "Ze answer is yes. You understand? So, good. Now is time to get to work." She gave a brisk nod, turned away and opened the door.
Celie didn't move. She stood stock-still, staring. She wasn't fired? Jace had lied and saved her job for her? And why had he done that? Her mind was doing somersaults again.
"And so, what do you wait for, zen, mademoiselle?" Simone tapped her pointy-toed shoe impatiently. "Your first appointment is waiting."
"Er, right." Celie hurried out past the older woman. She still had a job.
But what about Jace?
All day long Celie expected him to come to her.
It was a sea day. And the seas were somewhat rough because the wind had come up and there was a storm brewing. But though the ship rose and swayed, Celie remained steadfast at her post. The weather didn't bother her—and she wanted to be here when Jace came.
As long as she was here, he knew where she'd be.
She cut hair all morning, and though she kept one eye on the mirror as she clipped and snipped and shampooed and styled, Jace never came. In the afternoon she worked in the spa, giving massages. There was no mirror where she worked,
and she had to crane her neck to see who came in. So making sure she saw him was a little more difficult.
"You remember my friend," she said to Allison and Stevie, "the guy from home? Well, if he comes in looking for me, let me know."
"You don't want us to tell him you're not here?" Allison said.
"No. I … I want to talk to him."
But the afternoon passed and Jace didn't come.
She didn't understand it. A guy didn't just blurt out things like Jace had and then vanish into thin air.
Except it seemed that Jace had. She worked until six o'clock. But he never came.
Lots of second thoughts did. They made her crazy. They caused her to question what she'd heard last night. Had she misinterpreted it? Misunderstood? She felt hot and then cold and then sick to her stomach.
But regardless of the words, there was no misinterpreting that kiss.
Was there?
Celie didn't see how. But she didn't see Jace, either. Where was he?
"He never came in?" she said to Allison when they got off work.
Allison shook her head. "Never saw him. And—" she grinned "—believe me I looked. He's so gorgeous he'd be hard to miss."
"I know." It was one of the things that had always made him seem so daunting. When you got right down to it, he was every bit as good-looking as Sloan Gallagher. Far more gorgeous than she was, that was for sure.
Jace Tucker could have any woman he wanted. He couldn't really want her!
But every time she thought that, she thought about the kiss. She thought about his words. And she thought she had to know.
She would have to go to his room. Simone breezed past on her way out the door and gave Celie an arch look, as if she had been reading her mind. Celie took a deep, desperate breath and smiled brightly.
"Want to catch the film after dinner?" Allison asked as they left the salon.
"Not tonight. I need to … to do something."
"Oh, yes?" Allison slanted her a glance. "Going to read some more of that thriller?"
"What?"
Allison just laughed. "I thought so." She didn't push any further, just grinned and said, "Good luck."
Celie figured she needed it. She felt wobbly and uncertain. All her insecurities came clamoring back. Maybe she should just forget the whole thing, pretend it hadn't happened.
Impossible. She couldn't.
She hadn't come this far to turn and run now. So what if she was mistaken? So what if she'd misinterpreted? She had to go see him, anyway, didn't she, to thank him for saving her job?
Yes, definitely. She had to do that.
She showered and changed her clothes, tossing the polo shirt and white denims that were her work uniform into her laundry bag and putting on a pair of dressy black slacks and a red silk shirt. It had been one of her first purchases after her first week's work, a bit of casual sophistication. Whenever she wore it she felt braver.
She needed to feel brave tonight.
Then she did her makeup, using every trick of the trade that Simone and Stevie and Birgit had taught her. War paint, Allison had called it once laughingly before she'd headed out on a date. Celie needed that tonight, too.
It was hard to do it well because the stormy weather was still rocking the boat, making her attempts at mascara and eyeshadow difficult. And she smeared her lipstick on the first attempt and had to scrub it off and start over. But finally she was ready.
Or not.
"Ready," she told herself firmly. She could do this.
But why hadn't he come? The thought niggled at her all the way to his room. It taunted her, worried her. It was making her crazy. Jace had always made her crazy.
Was it only twenty-four hours since she'd come to take him to task for attempting to seduce every woman on the ship? Oh, God. She stopped stock-still in the hallway, feeling equal parts panicky and foolish.
There was still time. She could turn around and go back to her room.
No, she couldn't.
At Sloan and Polly's reception she had danced one slow dance with Sloan. Once upon a time that would have been the stuff of dreams. It was very special even when he was Polly's husband.
But what made it most special of all was right at the end, when he had stopped and looked down into her eyes, his own gentle as he'd said, "It will happen to you, Celie. Believe it."
She knocked on Jace's door.
He didn't answer.
She shifted from one foot to the other, hyperventilating—her nerves jangling and fingers clenching as she waited. Far down the hall a couple came around the corner. Please God, don't let it be Simone.
It wasn't. The couple approached. Celie knocked again. They smiled at her as they passed. She jigged from one foot to the other and told herself she might as well leave, he wasn't there.
Of course he wasn't there. It was just past dinnertime. He was probably in one of the dining areas with the blondes. He was probably at the captain's table—he and the captain and eight of the ship's most gorgeous women.
He was probably in some woman's room right now—in bed. He was…
The door opened a crack, and Jace's unshaven face peered out. He took one look at her and groaned. "Oh, hell."
"What's wrong?" Celie demanded.
He looked awful. His dark hair was spiky and uncombed. His face was pale beneath his normal dark tan. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. It looked as if he'd dragged them on as they hung low on his hips and didn't seem to be completely zipped.
"Jace?"
"Go away." He started to shut the door. She stuck her foot in.
"Damn it, Celie!" He pushed again, but she pushed against it and practically knocked him down as she went in.
"What's the matter with you?" she demanded as he glowered at her.
He looked around desperately, helplessly, then shrugged, took half a dozen steps and crashed facedown on his unmade bed again. "I'm seasick."
It was, Jace was sure, worse than being dead.
Dead sounded great. If he were dead, it would be over. He wouldn't be spending hour after hour enduring the most gut-wrenching, sweat-inducing, head-pounding experience of his life.
Boats! Cripes! Why had anyone ever invented them? If God had wanted men to float He would have made the sea flat. How the hell did people live like this?
Why had he come?
Celie. He'd come to win Celie. Artie had thought it would be a good idea. Jace wanted to kill Artie. Drowning would be too good for him.
He'd been moaning and tossing and turning for hours. He hadn't had a rational thought since sometime in the middle of last night. He'd lain awake most of it, worrying about what Celie must be thinking.
He'd known he would have to track her down first thing in the morning and tell her what he'd told her boss about her coming to see pictures in his room. She had to know he hadn't tried to get her fired.
And she had to know he wasn't trying to seduce her, either. Or take advantage of her. Which heaven only knew that kiss certainly could have implied.
That kiss. He'd tried to regret that kiss. He couldn't. He'd savored it.
But he knew he'd have to explain it, too—if she'd let him. He'd tried to figure out what he'd say. He'd muttered and paced and raked his fingers through his hair for hours. His head had begun to pound, his mind to reel.
He wasn't exactly sure when it was that he'd started feeling sick. Maybe it was when the floor began to shift sideways as he walked. Maybe it was when the lights seemed to sway. He got dizzy watching them and lay down so it would wear off.
It hadn't. And when he'd tried to get up again he could barely make it to the bathroom without losing his dinner. He made it. He lost his dinner. Things had gone downhill from there.
"Bit of a storm," the steward had said when he'd come to make up the room. He'd been smiling brightly. Jace had groaned and told him to go away.
The man had offered to bring him something to make him feel better. "Perk you right up," he said with conside
rable relish.
Jace had declined. The very thought of putting anything in his stomach had sent him staggering toward the bathroom again.
The steward had straightened up while he'd been in there. "You call when you want something," he'd said as he was leaving.
How about a funeral? Jace thought. It was the only thing that appealed.
He didn't get out of bed all day. The ship continued to rock. The lights continued to sway.
The blondes stopped to see if he wanted to come to lunch and dinner. He didn't. The understatement of the year.
"Want us to bring something back for you?" Deb asked, looking at him sympathetically as he clutched the door and tried to remain upright until they left. "There's something you can drink that's supposed to help."
"No." Jace didn't think he'd ever drink anything again, and he said so. They left with Deb muttering that he really should try. He stumbled back to bed again and wanted to die.
An hour later he heard knocking again. He didn't want to answer it. It would be Deb, undoubtedly, determined to force some awful medicine down his throat. He ignored the knocking. But it continued. She didn't go away.
He groaned. Damn it. Every knock pounded not just on the door, but in his head. "Okay, all right. I'm coming." Anything to get her to quit. He staggered up, stumbled across the room and wrenched open the door.
"Oh, hell."
He'd been horrified to see Celie standing there. God, no. He couldn't deal with her tonight. But he hadn't been quick enough to shut her out. And now he was lying facedown on the bed and she was standing over him.
"How long have you been like this?"
"Forever," he muttered into the sheet.
"Did you take anything for it?"
"No."
"You should. You'll be sicker if you don't. I'll go get something."
He tried to shake his head. A serious mistake. He hauled himself up and bolted for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. A man needed a shred of dignity. He'd be damned if he'd let her in to play Florence Nightingale and hold his head for him.
A COWBOY'S PURSUIT Page 8