Private Dancer

by Suzanne Forster

  Bev saw the extent of her mistake then. Sam was a powder keg. He was torn with jealousy, but he couldn’t admit it, just as he couldn’t admit his own vulnerability. It was second nature for a man like him to question motives, to mistrust even a kind gesture.

  She was trying to decide if there was any safe way to explain herself to him, when she heard a knock at the cabin door. A rustle of sound drew her attention to an envelope being slipped under the door. “Look,” she whispered.

  Sam went to pick it up. Kneeling, he ripped open the envelope, read the note, and crushed it in his hand. “Your lunch date, lovely creature. You’re late.”

  Bev hurried up the stairway, smoothing her dress as she rushed to join Arthur for lunch. Her legs felt wobbly and she was still trembling from the encounter with Sam. She had to get herself calmed down.

  As she dashed out onto the Promenade Deck, a fine mist sheened her skin. She glanced up at the spindrift of clouds overhead and smiled. They looked like white powder puffs arranged on a rich, velvet-blue swath of sky. The mist was one of the sun showers the tropics were known for, she realized. She’d been told it wasn’t unusual for them to occur several times a day. A lone cloud would whoosh in, dump its warm, steamy load, and whoosh away.

  Impulsively, she held up her face to the delicate veil of moisture. She was still a little flushed and feverish, and the tepid rain felt marvelous. She closed her eyes a moment and absently ran her fingers over the dampness collecting on her lips and down her arched throat. Soft, startled laughter welled up, warming her breath. What was happening to her? Was she becoming a pleasure seeker?

  “Hey, gorgeous!”

  The shouted greeting startled Bev out of her reverie.

  Tony, the man she’d mistaken for Arthur, was jogging down the deck toward her, a gold St. Christopher’s medal bobbing against his tanned, hairless chest. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, she admitted, but definitely not her type.

  “Where you been hiding, lover?” he said, jogging in place. “I’ve been searching this banana boat for you since the bon voyage party. You never gave me your last name.”

  “Actually, I was just on my way somewhere.” She began to walk toward the restaurant, wondering how she was going to get rid of Tony. Had she ever been in this situation before? Leaving a torrid encounter with one man, then trying to get rid of a second so she could meet a third?

  He jogged alongside her. “Hey, no problem, babe. I’ll walk you there.”

  Now she had two of them calling her babe. That couldn’t be a good omen. “I have plans, Tony.”

  She glanced around, looking for a way to escape, and saw her dance partner coming directly toward her. Unfortunately, he saw her too. A fireplug of a man, he spread his arms wide in welcome.

  “Shake your booty!” he sang out.

  Bev smiled wanly. Four men in her heretofore manless life. Was this an embarrassment of riches, or what. “Later, maybe?” she said as her dance partner shimmied up.

  The man Bev didn’t notice in her “embarrassment of riches” was a shadowy figure who was watching the entire episode from the cover of a lifeboat bow. Sam Nichols could have saved Bev from her surplus of suitors, but he’d decided to let her sweat it out. His conscience was back at it, nagging him again, but he was taking great pleasure in ignoring it. Served her right, he told himself ... dressing like a Barbie doll, dancing like a harem girl, throwing her head back in the rain. She was giving off enough body language to attract sperm whales.

  “Bev!”

  Sam looked up to see Arthur on the deck above calling down to her. He held up a single red rose as he started down the stairway. Bev immediately excused herself, leaving her puzzled admirers in the dust as she rushed to meet Blankenship. Sam had never seen two poor suckers get the gate so quickly.

  “You dear, sweet man,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur’s cheek as she took the rose from him.

  Blankenship looked as if he were about to faint. Sam turned away in disgust. This was getting sickening, he decided. He wanted to stalk off and let the two of them wallow in mushy romantic swill. But the truth was, his stomach was tying itself up in queasy little knots. Even his breathing was off, quick and harsh. Motion sickness, he told himself, glaring out at the vast expanse of bright, rolling water. It had to be that.

  Sam hunkered down over the railing, pretending to be admiring the view as Bev and Arthur passed. They were so busy laughing and hanging on to each other’s arms, he doubted they would have noticed if he’d jumped overboard. He could feel heat pooling at the base of his neck as they disappeared from sight. What he needed was a good, long swim in an ice-cold pool.

  He headed for the cabin to change, and by the time he reached it, he’d decided the only changes that were in order were between himself and Ms. Brewster. She’d accused him of jealousy, and that was exactly how he was acting—like a brainless idiot. It was damn embarrassing.

  He made no further attempt to analyze the situation beyond assuring himself that he could easily get things under control with some judicious exercising of his willpower. After all, he had no interest in Bev Brewster other than the obvious sexual thing. He’d never been jealous of a woman in his life, and he wasn’t going to start now. Dueling at dawn wasn’t his style.

  It had to be the physical attraction making him crazy. He’d let himself get turned on so high, it had burnt out his neural circuits. He couldn’t think straight, he wasn’t sleeping right. Just last night he’d lain awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could tie one on and drink himself into a stupor.

  The solution was obvious. He had to keep his hands off her. It was better that way anyway. There was Harve to think about, there was the case, and there was his own sanity. From now on, Nichols, he told himself, you’re going to keep your nose clean, your fly buttoned, and your hands to yourself.

  He stripped off his T-shirt and flung it across the room, triumphant, the captain of his soul once more. B.J. Brewster could dance naked in front of him, she could drop to her knees and beg, and he still wouldn’t touch her.

  Eight

  BEV SHOULD HAVE been having the time of her life. The first few days of the cruise sailed by in a giddy whirl of masquerade balls, glittering stage shows, calypso music, and limbo dancing. She was undeniably the belle of the ship, but nothing in her background had prepared her for such extravagant amounts of male attention. Arthur doted on her. Tony flirted with her every chance he got. Her dance partner, whose name turned out to be Sergio, was married, but that didn’t stop him from tossing her playful winks and shaking his shoulders.

  She didn’t know whether to blame it on the cruise, on Arthur and her retinue of male admirers, or on Sam Nichols, but she’d changed dramatically from the woman who was afraid to leave the safety of her Encino home. Now Bev Brewster laughed and danced and boogied with the best of them. She struck up conversations and returned smiles. She juggled coconuts in the Passenger Talent Show.

  She wasn’t sure if she liked the new Bev, or if the changes would hold once she’d returned to California. In her more fanciful moods she wondered if the Caribbean sun showers were a form of magic dust and they were all on a strange, enchanted voyage.

  There was only one thing she’d become reasonably certain of in the last week, and that concerned Sam. He wasn’t himself. He was behaving strangely, to say the least. He hadn’t touched her since their showdown in the cabin. He wouldn’t talk to her except to discuss business, and then he was terse and remote. He slept on the floor without even flipping to see who got the bed.

  And now, at two in the morning, as she lay sleepless on the bunk, listening to the heavy drone of the engine, she fought the urge to roll to her side and call his name. He’d been restless all night, tossing and turning, letting out little groans in his sleep. Once he’d said something unintelligible and she had whimsically decided it was the nickname he’d given her, Lace.

  “Sam,” she whispered, “are you awake? I want to talk to you about the case, okay?”r />
  She heard a heavy sigh as he rolled to his back, opened his eyes, and stared up at the ceiling. “What about the case?”

  “Arthur’s not taking the bait,” she said, thinking quickly. She hadn’t actually expected Sam to respond.

  “Surely you jest. The fish is hooked and landed. You could grill him for dinner.”

  Bev tried to decide if it was sarcasm or rampant boredom she heard in Sam’s voice. Some choice, she thought. “I meant the financial bait. I let it slip that I’d come into a great deal of money recently, but he wasn’t even interested enough to ask me how much. Isn’t he supposed to be trying to talk me into a phony investment deal?”

  “He will,” Sam said, turning his back to her again. “Ask him for some investment advice. He’ll bite.”

  “You’re sure?” In her heart of hearts she almost hoped Arthur wouldn’t bite. Perhaps Sam was right, and she had lost her professional objectivity, but she had trouble imagining Arthur taking advantage of anyone.

  When Sam didn’t answer, she released a sigh and rolled to her back, gazing up at the ceiling. This wasn’t going well. Perhaps she ought to be grateful that Sam had backed off, but she wasn’t. His remoteness made her feel strangely bereft, as though he’d already become a part of her life, a touchstone of sorts. Some kind of emotional bonding had taken place, she realized, at least on her part. That seemed impossible with a man as difficult and inaccessible as he was, but he had stirred feelings and needs....

  Most of them were sexual, she admitted, aware of the soft ache in her loins that wouldn’t go away. She actually missed him. She drew up her legs as a jolt of longing rocked through her. Lord, she did. She missed the rough thrill of his touch, the power, even the crudeness. What did that mean?

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to try to analyze the confusing relationship. She just wanted him talking to her again, that was all, even sarcastically. She wanted him to acknowledge that she was there, alive.

  Sam knew she was alive. He was aware of every breath she took, every whisper of the sheets beneath her body, every rustle of her sable hair against the pillow. He’d kept his vow. He’d stayed away from her, but it hadn’t eased his turmoil any. Much as he hated to admit it, seeing her with other men was driving him nuts. Sleeping in this cabin with her was driving him nuts. He woke up in pain night after night, as hard as the floor he slept on. Tonight he’d come awake with her name on his lips, and with a tightness around his heart that wouldn’t let him breathe. If there was a limit to how much a man could take, he’d hit it. Days ago!

  “You’ve never crushed passion plums with your bare feet?” Arthur pretended shock. “Well, now’s your chance.” He pushed back from their table for two, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the party crowd. “Let’s do it!”

  “Oh, Arthur ...” Bev considered the huge wooden vat of purple fruit and the couples frolicking inside it, pants rolled up, skirts held high. The island they’d docked at that morning produced a sparkling wine made from the exotic fruit, and according to West Indian folklore, the juice of the passion plum had aphrodisiacal properties. The entire cruise ship had been invited to attend the annual winemaking festival, but Bev wasn’t in the mood for revelry.

  “I don’t think so,” she said as Arthur leaned close and draped an arm around her waist.

  “Is something wrong? You haven’t touched your drink.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him quickly, smiling. She picked up her wineglass, took a sip, and nodded her appreciation. “Delicious, really. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”

  Arthur beamed, happy once more.

  Lighten up, Bev, she told herself. At least you could look as though you’re having a good time. Her pensive mood was certain to provoke Arthur’s curiosity eventually, and she didn’t want him quizzing her about her personal problems.

  She sipped the wine and pretended to be fascinated by the entertainment, which really was marvelous. Stilt dancers, fire eaters, and sword throwers delighted the crowd with their exotic and dangerous feats. Fiery torches burned high in the velvet darkness, and sensual music thrummed, penetrating the senses as vibrantly as the wine.

  It was a fabulous party, and one Bev might have enjoyed thoroughly if she hadn’t been so distracted. She glanced around the crowd, looking for Sam. She hadn’t seen him since he’d stumbled into the cabin at three that morning, obviously under the influence. She’d tried to talk to him, but he’d rebuffed her, making some vague reference about women holding the ace hand. When she’d kept after him, trying to learn what was wrong, he’d walked out without telling her where he was going.

  “More wine, lovely lady?”

  Bev glanced up as Arthur refilled her glass. He set the carafe down and gazed at her, his head tilting like a child’s as he searched her features. There was obvious concern in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Bev? Is it me? Have I done something?”

  “You? No! Oh, Arthur, of course not. You’re wonderful company. I’m enjoying myself, really. Here,” she said, raising her wineglass. “Let’s toast to a good time.”

  They clinked glasses and Bev drank deeply. She had to get Sam Nichols off her mind. He was distracting her from her job, which was to establish a relationship with Arthur. He was also ruining a perfectly good party without even being at it.

  “By the way, I just finished the book you loaned me,” she told Arthur, leaning toward him as though she intended to share something personal and confidential. “It was wonderful.”

  Arthur’s eyes lit up. “You liked it too?”

  A moment later they were huddling together, discussing passages in the book and comparing the differing philosophies of the two poets, Byron and Shelley. Arthur expounded on Shelley’s idealism at length, but Bev preferred Byron’s more jaded, satirical view of the world. As they laughed and talked, Arthur continued to refill their glasses. And Bev continued to sip.

  The wine was delicious, she decided, wondering how many glasses she’d had. It was light-bodied, piquantly sweet, and redolent with the heady perfume of passion plums. She could easily have drunk the whole carafe herself if she hadn’t been warned not to imbibe freely while wearing a seasick patch.

  “Seasick patch!” She sat up and touched the bandage on her neck. “You’re not supposed to drink with these things!”

  Arthur grinned and splashed some more wine into her glass. “You’re not on a ship now. Why don’t you take it off?”

  “Arthur,” Bev said, pretending to be scandalized.

  “Dah dah dum, dah-dah dah dum.” Arthur hummed the bump-and-grind stripper’s anthem, winking at her mischievously. He was obviously a little high, and Bev was beginning to feel the effects of the wine herself. Warmth was spreading up the back of her neck, and her earlobes were tingling.

  “Here goes,” she said, rolling her shoulder as she peeled off the bandage. She ticked the patch back and forth as though she’d just removed a long black glove, and then she tossed it into the crowd.

  Arthur convulsed in giggles as the bandage stuck to her fingers. “Goodness,” he said breathlessly, “I’m getting squiffy. How about you? Maybe we should dance it off?”

  “What a brilliant idea!”

  Bev felt a little squiffy herself as she and Arthur undulated to the sensual reggae rhythms. Her face was flushed with color, and the music pulsed around her irresistibly, as though it were daring her to let go of her concerns and give in to the festive mood. Her peasant blouse kept slipping off her shoulders as she danced, and for some reason that struck Arthur as enchantingly funny. He fought off one hit of giggles after another, and his efforts were so sweetly hilarious that Bev finally lost control too.

  Arthur tried to take her in his arms as the music turned slow, but neither of them could dance worth a darn. Instead, they held on to each other helplessly, laughing, swaying. It was a good thing Sam hadn’t shown up, Bev decided as she wrapped her arms around Arthur’s neck. He wouldn’t like her having so much fun.

&nbs
p; Bev didn’t know the half of it. Sam was there. He was posted not fifty feet from her, watching her every tipsy move. He’d been there the entire night, hidden in the shadows of the bandstand, a forbidding presence in his street uniform—jeans, T-shirt, and black leather jacket. One look at him, and Bev would have sobered up quickly. He was as silent and ominous as unexploded nitroglycerin.

  Sam Nichols was having a bad night. He was fighting off a massive hangover, the urge to do serious bodily harm, and the annoying racket of his conscience, which was trying to tell him he had no business judging Bev for her behavior when he’d just tied one on the night before. His conscience was losing the battle.

  Sam was a muscle twitch away from breaking up the whole damn party. One twitch. He didn’t like the way every male in the place was ogling Bev, including the ship’s captain. He didn’t like the way Arthur’s hands were glued to her swiveling hips, and he damn sure didn’t like the way she had draped herself on Arthur’s neck. If she didn’t settle down and start behaving herself, the winemaking festival was going up in flames.

  Even the dress she had on made his head throb. It was one of those peasant jobbies with big flowers and flounces that hung off her shoulders and looked as though it was going to drop to the ground any second. She couldn’t be wearing a bra underneath the way she was jiggling, and if she guzzled any more wine, she was going to get totally swacked.

  Swacked, he thought, not a half-bad idea. A primitive fantasy flashed through his tortured brain, and a grim smile surfaced, the first in days. His jaw clenched tighter as he pictured himself throwing her over his shoulder, hauling her off, and teaching her a thing or two about standard operating procedure. Spanking a fully grown woman as an object lesson was as obsolete as the horse-drawn carriage, but he didn’t give a damn about social history at the moment. He was so far gone, even his personal aversion to that kind of practice didn’t faze him. The fantasy brought him almost as much perverse satisfaction as the one where he drowned Arthur by dragging him behind the ship on a bowline.