The Trouble With Paradise

by Jill Shalvis

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, hands still on him. “I have a terrible habit of doing that.”

  “Hitting people?”

  “No.” She laughed nervously as he untangled himself from her. “Being clumsy.”

  “Speaking of that...” When he pulled his wet shirt, it came away from his chest with a sucking sound. “What is it, tea?”

  “Yes. Iced.” Reaching out, she brushed a hand over his chest, but he stepped back, free of her touch.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, her gaze flying to his. “That’s going to stain. I’ll pay for it, of course—”

  “Forget it.” Needing a change of subject, he patted the bed. “Sit already.”

  “Oh. Um—”

  She shut up when he lifted her to the bed himself, where she winced big time. “I thought it was your ankle.”

  She blushed. “It is my ankle.”

  “And...?”

  “And nothing.”

  Nothing, his ass. Or, more accurately, her ass.

  But she suddenly became fascinated by something on the floor. Fine. She didn’t want to talk about it. He couldn’t care less. Shifting to the end of the bed, he put his hand on her lower leg, over her wet dress, determined to get this over with.

  But at his touch, she sucked in a breath. A low, husky sort of sound really, but similar to the sound she’d made on the plank, and as it had then, it zipped right through him. He ignored it. This touch was about healing.

  Not sexual.

  Yet she’d brought an innate sensual earthiness right into the room, like a third person. Almost against his will, he looked into those huge eyes, and was seriously leveled.

  Not good.

  He still had his hand on her leg. The material of her dress was soft and gauzy, thin. He could feel the heat of her body beneath. “I need to see the ankle.”

  When she nodded, he pushed the hem of her dress up a bit, and was blinded by brilliant pink toenail polish. Sliding the dress hem up a bit more, he revealed her legs from the knees down. She did indeed have a contusion and swelling around the ankle, and he slid a hand beneath her foot.

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, it’s a good one.”

  “I think the dock’s uneven.”

  “And I think it’s the silly shoes.” He unbuckled her ridiculously high-heeled sandal and slipped it off. “You did realize you were going to be on a boat, right?”

  “Yes, but I was thinking Love Boat, not Gilligan’s Island boat. And these sandals, they’re made by—”

  “They could be made by God himself, I don’t care. Your feet weren’t made for four-inch heels, no one’s were.”

  “Tell that to Jimmy Choo.”

  “Who?”

  “Not much of a shopper, I take it?”

  He found himself letting out a laugh. “I live on a boat, remember?”

  “Well then I can admit that these aren’t really Choos.” A quick smile crossed her lips. “They’re Shop-Mart specials. I got them with my employee discount.”

  “No Shop-Marts around here.”

  “I know.” She went quiet while he studied her ankle some more. Her skirt had slid up to her knees, revealing her pale legs. She was not used to being in the sun, as evidenced by how dark his tanned hand looked against her lily-white skin.

  “Your life must be fascinating,” she said softly, and when he looked at her, she smiled. “At least to me it is. I’m a clothing designer working at Shop-Mart, I don’t get to the South Pacific much.”

  He ran his fingers over her bruise, doing his damnedest not to notice her skin was the softest he’d ever felt. Or that his touch had given her goose bumps up her legs.

  And her arms.

  He absolutely wasn’t noticing that her nipples—visible through her now sheer dress—were two pebbled peaks. “Maybe you should try designing a more practical shoe for women.”

  “Did I break it?” She whispered this, her voice husky and low.

  “Hard to tell without an X-ray, but I don’t think so.” He was whispering, too, and he had no idea why, so he cleared his throat and forced himself to look her in the eyes. “You need to ice it and stay off it for a few days.” Relieved for the excuse to turn away, he reached in a drawer for an ACE bandage. “I’ll have ice sent to your room.”

  He had to put his hands back on her to wrap up the ankle. He didn’t like the fact that her breathing had changed, or that in the deafening silence, his breathing sounded loud and choppy as well. He tucked the ends of the bandage into itself and tried not to look into her eyes. “L’aspirine?”

  “What?”

  His French tended to come out when he was ruffled, and for some reason, he was definitely ruffled. “Painkiller?”

  She managed a smile. “You have something for my klutziness?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh well. I have my own aspirin, thanks.” She pointed to her bag. “In my purse.”

  “That’s not a purse. That’s a weapon.”

  She laughed. “Just inside is a small leather pouch...”

  Reluctantly, he crouched by the bag. The mysterious depths of a woman’s purse had always terrified him, but steeling himself, he opened it. The thing was filled to the gills; brushes, makeup, a wallet, hair bands . . . Damn it—tampons, right on top of an opened sketch pad featuring a pencil-drawn sundress that he’d seen before—on his current patient.

  “The pouch is peach,” she said from the bed.

  He dug past the tampons and found a big box of . . . “Condoms.”

  Her gaze swiveled to his, her cheeks red. “I like to be prepared.”

  He hoisted the mega-box. “Just how many guys did you think would be on this cruise anyway?”

  “The peach pouch,” she reminded him.

  He set down the condoms and resumed his search. “Peach is a fruit.”

  “A light pumpkin sort of color, then.”

  “Also a fruit.” But he kept digging.

  “There,” she said, looking over his shoulder and pointing. “Right there.”

  Orange. Why hadn’t she just said orange? Tossing the thing to her, he straightened and went to the small refrigerator in the corner, because suddenly he was thirsty, dying for a drink. Something stiff would be best, but he grabbed two bottles of water, one for his patient, except she’d already dry swallowed the pills like an old pro. Then she wriggled to the edge of the bed and tentatively hopped down, gingerly putting weight on her right foot.

  “What about your other injury?”

  “What?” She slid her hands to her butt. “I don’t have another injury.”

  He let out a low laugh. “Did you fall on it?”

  Looking away, she sighed. “Yes.”

  “Bruised? Or even . . . cracked?”

  Her head whipped toward him, and at his raised brow, she rolled her eyes. “I’m okay.”

  She didn’t look it. She was in real pain, and some of his amusement faded. “Maybe I really should take a look—”

  “No!” She blew a stray strand of hair from her face and forced a smile. He knew it was forced because it was short of the sheer volume of her real smile, which could singlehandedly knock him off his feet.

  “It’s fine,” she insisted, and hobbled to the door. “Really. Thank you. Thank you so much. Just let me know how much I owe you—”

  “Nothing. My services are on the house.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes were doing that thing again, that killing him slowly thing. “Well that’s incredibly kind of you.”

  Kind? No. Necessary? Unfortunately.

  One year.

  He had one year left of being nothing more than a glorified indentured servant on this gig, and then he was free to live his life how he wanted. He’d be free to go home to his native France if he chose, to ER work, back to everything he’d left behind. No more nomadic lifestyle, no more bandaging paper cuts and twisted ankles.

  He could get back to real medicine.

  “Well.” Dorie flashed a small smile. “T
hanks again.” Then she backed right into the door. Jumping, she blushed again, fumbled with the handle, and then quickly left.

  Christian moved after her, sticking his head out the door to see if anyone else was waiting for him.

  And ended up watching her walk away.

  Actually, she was limping away, yet not all of the limp was from her ankle. She had one hand on her ass.

  A very nice ass, most definitely, but hurting. He shook his head. Women, he thought, just as another one passed Dorie and sauntered right toward him.

  “Well, hello,” she purred.

  Brandy Bradelyne, paper cut victim.

  She lifted her Band-Aid-less finger. “I could use another fix, Doc.”

  Most men would not have objected. She was built like a supermodel and looked like one, too, with her artfully messed golden hair and lean, willowy, tanned limbs exposed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and an even tinier red halter top.

  She was island-ready.

  He had a feeling she was also man-ready.

  “Tough job you have here.” Putting a hand to his chest, she pushed him into the room, then followed, kicking the door closed behind them. “Not as tough as my job, mind you . . .”

  “What is your job?”

  “Me?” She strutted around the bed. “I’m a dancer in Vegas.”

  “Dancer.”

  Her eyes filled with good humor. “You’re wondering if that’s code for stripper.”

  “I’m just standing here.”

  “Standing there wondering.”

  Maybe a little. She had the walk. And certainly the talk. As she trapped him in the corner and rubbed that hard “dancer” body against his, he knew she also had the moves. Blindly, he reached behind him, opening a drawer, feeling for and grabbing a Band-Aid.

  She stared at it, then sighed and took it. Instead of moving away, she shifted closer, so close that she could have checked him for a hernia by coughing herself. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I need anything else?” she murmured.

  “You don’t look like it’s a doctor you need.”

  She sighed. “My date stood me up. And you’re obviously not interested either”—she pushed her hair from her face—“I guess I’m feeling a little off, sorry. And alone.”

  That he understood. “You’re not alone, there are three other guests booked for this cruise.”

  “Yes, but I’m a woman who likes to have personal companionship.” She was still close, close enough to make sure all her good spots touched all of his. “Well, thanks for the Band-Aid—” She rubbed her body to his. “Huh.” Her gaze went to his. “Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, Doc, or are you just happy to see me?”

  He would be seeing her, daily. Hourly. The boat simply wasn’t that big. He could take what she was offering, but there was that whole not mixing business and pleasure thing.

  That wasn’t what had stopped him. Nope, that came from something else, something even more unsettling. If he gave up his own decree and went after a hookup on this trip—which he wouldn’t—it wouldn’t be Brandy he wanted, sexy as she was.

  Nope, it’d be another woman entirely—the naive, completely unaware of her own sexuality Dorie.

  Which cemented it, really. After two years out here, he’d finally lost it.

  Dorie limped away from the doctor’s quarters, managed the climb up the spiral staircase to the deck level, and leaned against the hull to stare out at the sea. They’d left the island far behind. It was just a distant blur now, the curving golden sand lining the semicircular bay long gone. As far as the eye could see lay the azure ocean, dotted with whitecaps that sparkled in the slowly sinking sun. The sky, all long strips of pink and purple, was darkening now to blues.

  Stunning.

  Everyone she’d met so far had been stunning. And so sure of themselves. Baseball Cutie Andy, the pirate captain, the hot stuff chef . . . the gorgeous grumpy doctor. Yep, they all seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

  Especially Dr. Christian Montague with that accent, that relaxed and self-assured air as he’d wrapped her ankle, his steely eyes not missing a thing.

  God, what she’d give for a fraction of that confidence.

  Beneath her feet, the water seemed choppy, and though the rise and fall of the boat didn’t make her feel sick, she was extremely aware of how they sped over the water, as if they were flying. She stared at the whitecaps, unable to see into the depths of the water, but knowing all that separated her from the sea life—especially the sharks—was this boat.

  Yeah, definitely not in Kansas anymore. Definitely out of her comfort zone as well, away from all things familiar. Behind her was a wall of snorkel equipment and other fun-in-the-sun toys, and a full-length mirror that she did not appreciate.

  Her reflection was a mess.

  Her sundress, which had started out with such promise, was now wrinkled and stained by the tea. The material sagged loose and soggy around her breasts, and yet clung persistently to her belly, emphasizing the fact that she’d neglected her sit-ups.

  In summary, she looked like one big Fashion Don’t. Terrific.

  “Shh.”

  She turned around, but saw no one.

  “Did you hear that?” came the voice again.

  Okay, who was talking? She turned around again. Still no one.

  “Never mind, it’s nothing,” that no one said. “Listen, we have to settle this now.”

  Dorie searched all around her, but could see nothing and no one but her own bedraggled reflection. “Hello?” she whispered. “Who’s there?”

  “The deal was seventy-five/twenty-five.”

  Someone answered this ghost’s statement, but so softly, Dorie couldn’t catch the words.

  Then “Fine, fifty-fifty, but you’re taking care of the mess.”

  Dorie gripped the railing. “Hello?”

  The voices—low, probably male, but with the wind and the water hitting the sides of the boat, she couldn’t swear to it—went silent.

  She strained her ears but could hear nothing. Real or Memorex? After all, she’d had that glass of champagne, and her brain had been scrambled by Cute Guy Overload Syndrome. Maybe she’d return to her room, change for the Meet and Greet, and ice her ankle. Maybe sip some more champagne. Turning back the way she’d come, she limped down the stairs.

  “Shh, goddamnit.”

  She hadn’t imagined that. She went still. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Creeped out now, and just barely managing not to break her neck, she hurried, heading for . . . she didn’t know, except she needed to see another human being. She headed back to the last person she’d seen.

  Grumpy Gorgeous Doctor.

  Given that she’d clocked him in the head and spread iced tea all over him, he wouldn’t be happy to see her. Even without those things he wouldn’t be happy to see her, because she hadn’t made much of an impression.

  No problem. He didn’t fit her qualifications either. Hell, she wasn’t even entirely sure he was human—which in no way explained why she was heading straight for him, bursting into his office without knocking.

  He stood there, being swallowed whole by a tall, leggy, buxom blonde who even on a very good day for Dorie, which this was most definitely not, would have made her feel extremely inferior.

  At her sudden entrance, both the beautiful hottie and the grumpy hottie looked up. The beautiful hottie had a canary-eating smile on her face. Dr. Christian Montague had lipstick all over his jaw.

  So much for kicking her life into gear.

  FOUR

  Definitely Life Kicking Dorie Day.

  Damn it.

  Dorie stared at the couple for one beat before she managed to come to her senses. “I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”

  The woman smiled. “No problem.”

  Dorie whirled, hightailing it back down the hallway.

  “Dorie, wait.”

  That French accent made her name sound so exotic. She moved faster. Not easy wi
th the twisted ankle and splinter in her tush.

  “Damn it,” she heard him mutter, which only fueled her into moving faster. “Ow, ow, ow . . .” Painfully aware of him catching up, she grabbed her butt and limped as fast as she could. At least her tongue wasn’t swelling, but she could feel her ears flaming and her left eye began to twitch as she made it back to her room. Alone.

  The champagne was warm, which was a damn shame because if ever there was a need for a drink, it was right now. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. Everything was going to be fine. Fun.

  Or it would be, but first things first. The splinter had to go. She limped into the bathroom, where she searched the fathomless depths of her purse and pulled a pair of tweezers from her first-aid kit. Now all she had to do was reach the damn splinter, which wasn’t exactly in the most accessible place. She stripped out of her still wet sundress and undies, and then eyed the mirror over the pristine, sparkly sink.

  Too high.

  She had to climb on top of the closed toilet, twisting around, just barely managing to catch sight of her own pale behind.

  Make that two splinters. With her handy-dandy tweezers she actually managed to get one. Holding it up in triumph, she did the pretzel twist again to reach the other, but no matter how she bent, she just . . . couldn’t . . . get to it—

  She broke off trying at the knock on her stateroom door. She stared at herself in the mirror, naked except for her bra.

  The knock came again.

  “Uh . . . just a minute!” Hopping down, she limped to her bed and dug through her suitcase for a fresh pair of panties—

  Another knock, this one more firm. “Dorie?”

  Gorgeous Grumpy Doctor. Was Sailing Barbie with him? “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  His French accent made him sound so formal, yet beguilingly intimate at the same time. “I’m a little busy.” Where were her panties?

  “Come on, open up.”

  Okay, forget her underwear, she had no time for underwear. She snatched another skirt and shoved her legs into it. “Now’s really not a good time.” She found a matching tank top, pulled it on, and hopped to the door, opening it just as Christian was lifting his hand to knock again. “Hi,” she said, breathless.