“West, your back!” I exclaim, seeing the bright red splotch on his shirt just below his right shoulder blade. He groans a little.
“Yeah, it hurts.”
“It’s bleeding! We have to get you to a doctor.”
West reaches around with his left hand to feel the wound. He winces, but shakes his head.
“No. I’m fine, it’s only a scratch.”
“A scratch? You haven’t even looked at it yet,” I argue. “You might need stitches.”
“The ship’s clinic is going to be overwhelmed right now. It would take hours. We’ve got to get all this set up again.” He gestures to the fallen lights. “I hope nothing broke. We really need to be able to take pictures tonight.”
I can only stare at him, my jaw slack. “You’re bleeding from two places, and you’re worried about some stupid passenger pictures?”
“A big chunk of our revenue comes from Formal Night photos,” West says. I cross my arms, and he shrugs. “Fine, I’ll grab a first-aid kit.” He ducks into an office off the hallway, returning to plunk a white box at my feet. “I’ll put a Band-Aid on it, and we’ll get back to work.”
A Band-Aid? The stain on West’s shirt is still spreading, and he wants to slap on a Band-Aid and call it good? He’s being ridiculous.
“Quit trying to be macho,” I say, though I’m not sure what else to do. He’s my boss—I can’t make him go to the clinic.
“I’m not being macho. We have to get these photos, or our sales numbers will suck.” He crouches to rummage in the box, then pauses with one hand steadying himself against the wall. A pained look crosses his face.
I drop to my knees and put a hand on his good shoulder.
“West, are you okay?”
His lips tighten. “Just a little seasick.”
Seasick and injured and stubborn. No wonder he was in such a bad mood earlier. Suddenly, I’m reminded of all of the times when Sofia claimed she felt better than she really was, and I decide to take charge. Boss or not, West needs my help.
“Come sit somewhere while I patch you up,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“I think passengers might be a little weirded out by you bleeding everywhere as you’re taking their picture,” I say.
West frowns, as if he hadn’t considered that, then sighs.
“All right. But we need to be quick.”
I grab the first-aid kit and steer West to a plush micro-suede chair in an alcove. He sits on the wide arm, his feet resting on the seat, so that I can reach his back and arm. “Hold on a sec,” I say, and dash to the bathroom for a stack of paper towels, some of which I dampen at the sink.
When I return, I help West take off his company polo and undershirt. The gash on his back is a bloody mess, and it’s only my long experience with Sofia—reacting to unpleasant sights, like a stomach tube, only made her more anxious, so I learned to keep calm—that keeps me from sucking in a dismayed breath.
I feel around the wound. “Take a deep breath,” I tell West, and he does, his back and shoulders rising. “Does that hurt?” I ask, wondering if it is possible to have punctured a lung or something.
West shakes his head. “Nothing’s broken.”
“You should get a doctor to look at it to make sure.”
“Yasmin, we’re losing time,” West says, his voice clipped. Pushing my lips together, I grab the damp paper towels.
The gouge in his back turns out to look worse than it is, and I gently clean it, disinfect it—West hisses softly, but doesn’t jerk away—and press paper towels to his skin until the bleeding stops. When it does, I tape gauze over the injury.
“There you go,” I say, running my fingers lightly around the wound to make sure everything’s dry. His skin is warm, and with only a square patch of white to mar his back, I finally notice how distracting his torso is. Muscled and tan, his broad shoulders taper nicely to a trim waist. I swallow hard, hit with the desire to see the rest of him too. The way Camelia did last night. I frown, then shake my head. No way am I jealous.
“You finished?” West says irritably, and tries to get off the chair.
“Wait, I have to do your arm.” Before he can protest, I move to block him, and he resettles with an impatient grumble. The wound on left bicep has stopped bleeding by now, but the blood is dry, and I have to rub at it with wet paper towels to clean it.
I grip his arm near the elbow to keep him still, and though I keep my focus on the injury, my hand is noticing the hard muscle under my fingertips. My gaze flicks to his chest of its own volition.
Don’t, I tell myself. I don’t want any distractions during my contract on board, especially not a guy who cares more about sales figures than people. And it’s not like he’s impressed with me either: Diva. Ship life is going to eat you alive.
“What do you think?” West asks. I glance up and see him watching me. My cheeks heat. Oh no, did he catch me checking him out? But then I realize he must be talking about his arm.
“It looks okay,” I say, “but you should really get a doctor to look at it.”
West shakes his head. “No time. If we lose money on this cruise …”
“Is that really more important than your health?”
“Than a couple bruises and a scratch or two? Yes.”
I snort. “It’s just money.”
“Spoken, I’m guessing, by a girl who’s never wanted for it.” West’s voice has gone dry, and I glance up with a frown.
“My family’s not super-rich or anything.” Especially not after all of Sofia’s medical bills. Health insurance only goes so far.
“But you haven’t been super-poor either.”
“And you have?” I retort. West’s face tightens, and I pause. I don’t know much about him at all, I realize. Maybe he was poor, and I should shut my mouth.
“Are you done yet?” West asks impatiently. Passengers are starting to trickle through the hallway, chattering excitedly about the rogue wave as they head to the dining room.
“One sec.” I keep my eyes off West’s pecs and on his hurt bicep, and soon I’ve cleaned and bound it in gauze.
“Thanks,” West says, and stands to face me. He studies me, then raises his hand to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes my face, and then his expression clears. “Just a smudge, not a bruise.”
His touch shouldn’t stun me into speechlessness. Neither should his lack of a shirt. Thanks to the Greek system at college, I’ve been around lots of shirtless frat guys, guys who were in great shape and not afraid to flaunt it. They were eye candy—this is something different. West’s nearness, the heat from his skin, makes me aware of every inch of him, and how solid his body felt on top of mine. I suddenly feel almost shy.
West drops his hand.
“Let’s get back to work,” he says curtly, and walks back over to our studio set-up. Even with two injuries, his bare torso is really distracting. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time,” he barks, and that snaps me out of my daze. This is West, my jerk of a boss, and I am not lusting after him. I chalk my momentary lapse up to feeling shaky after the rogue wave.
I help West set everything up again. “Thankfully, I was more hurt than the lights,” he says happily. “If they’d broken, our profit margins would have been shot by the repair cost. We got lucky.”
I shake my head. I don’t understand why he ranks the company’s equipment above his own safety. “You can’t wear your polo,” I say. “You’re covered in blood, and so am I.”
West glances at the bundle of his clothing. Extracting his undershirt, he shrugs it on with a wince. The t-shirt is black, so it barely shows the blood.
“I’ll wear this for now,” he says. “Go change into a new polo, then stop by my cabin and grab me one too.” He hands me his room card and tells me the cabin number, then eyes me doubtfully. “Do you know how to get to your room?”
I give him as haughty a glance as I can manage. “Of course.” And I do, thanks to Elise. Last night she drew a map of the crew levels
for me, and I’ve kept it in my pocket all day, along with the map of passenger areas that I picked up from the purser’s office.
Dashing quickly to my cabin, I throw on a new polo shirt and fix my hair, then find my way to West’s room. I use his key card and go inside.
West gets a room to himself, lucky dog. Other than the bigger, full-size bed, the room looks like mine. There’s more engine noise, though; the room almost vibrates with it. A backpack slouches in the corner, and instead of snapshots of friends on the walls like Camelia has put up in our room, his walls are blank. An open laptop sits on the desk. West must have disabled the sleep function, because the screen saver is on, cycling through images.
I rummage through the small dresser beside the desk, looking for a clean polo and undershirt for West. First I find a drawer full of socks and boxer-briefs, and before I can help it my brain forms an image of West wearing only those two items.
“Stop it,” I mutter, exasperated with myself.
The second drawer contains his shirts, so I grab a polo and tee. As I’m closing the drawer, his laptop’s screen saver catches my eye with a splash of color.
I step closer. This image looks to be of a painting featuring a stylized bird in shades of teal and blue and yellow. It’s gorgeous, with sure, delicate strokes. In the corner I spot the artist’s signature: Campbell. That’s West’s last name.
Did West’s mom create that? He did say she was a painter.
The bird fades, the image replaced by a photograph of the dawn over a city landscape. I recognize the Freedom Tower, so it must be Miami. The sun reaches fingers of color over thin clouds that melt from white to red to gold, and the buildings in the foreground are black shadows, silhouetted by the brilliant sky. It’s a gorgeous photo, in both color and framing. It’s not anything like the photos I’ve been snapping all day of passengers. This is art.
The screen changes again, to a close-up of a raindrop reflecting a rich blue sky dotted with clouds. I can’t help but think about my own raindrop photos that I took before I arrived on the ship—and how much better this one is.
I should scurry back above decks, but I’m mesmerized by the procession of photographs, each more striking than the last. I know the basics of balance and perspective, and can use my camera on manual settings, but these photos are in another league entirely. They’re like Sofia’s: professional. Vivid. Surprising. They tell a story, and make something special out of the ordinary.
Did West’s mother take these too? Or is West himself the one behind the lens?
I tear myself away from the laptop and head back up to the hallway outside the dining room. Once there, I find West joking around with a family from Orlando, instructing them to lean to the side and pretend it’s another rogue wave. They laugh and pose, and he snaps a photo.
“This might actually be better than a normal Formal Night,” West says cheerfully after they head into the dining room. “They’ll all want memories of the rogue wave.”
I hand him the shirts with a wry smile. “Thank God we can use a potentially dangerous accident to part passengers from a few more dollars.”
“That’s the job, Yasmin.”
“It’s just so mercenary.”
“Life is mercenary,” West says, fiddling with his camera. “Get used to it.”
Oh, I want to smack him sometimes. If he hadn’t thrown himself on top of me to save me from the light, I’d consider doing just that.
“I saw some paintings and photos on your screen saver,” I say instead. “Are they your mother’s paintings?”
He gives me a startled glance, and I recall him telling me not to ask about his mother again. I brace myself for a sharp reminder, but instead West’s mouth softens into something that’s almost a smile.
“Yeah,” he says.
“They’re beautiful. She was really talented.”
His smile broadens, and for a moment I get a glimpse of something other than his Boss persona. But it fades as quickly as it appeared, and he returns his gaze to the camera.
“She never made much money on them.”
“Money, schmoney,” I retort. “And the photographs? Did she do those too?”
West shakes his head. “We didn’t have a decent camera until I won a contest in high school and got this baby.” He holds up his Nikon D3s. “Those are mine.”
“They’re gorgeous.”
He shrugs. “Just messing around.”
“They should be in a gallery.” I’m totally serious. Sofia was hampered by the fact that she didn’t have the strength to do much, go anywhere, but if she could have, she’d have poured her whole heart into it. West has the same kind of talent, if a different style. For him to ignore that would be a tragedy. “Why haven’t—”
“I’m set here for now,” West cuts me off. “I need you to go find out whether any of the other photographers are injured. I have a list of their favorite Formal Night spots.”
I blink. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
West gives me his hard-eyed Boss look, the one that has never heard of a smile.
“I’m trying to do my job. And I need you to do yours too.”
West rattles off his ideas about where the rest of the team is, and I plug it into a notepad app on my phone. I look up, about to ask how his back feels, but West steps away to coax another couple into getting their pictures taken.
I watch him for a moment, but whatever crack I’d seen in his façade is gone. And it shouldn’t matter to me anyway, I remind myself. Once I’m done with my shift, I decide, I’ll hit the gym instead of the bar. An hour of kickboxing should punch my inconvenient lust into submission.
Turning on my heels, I slip my maps out of my pocket and head off.
Chapter 8
West
“Another costume? Seriously, West?”
It’s the morning of our first port day in Portales, Mexico, and in the bright glare of the storeroom lights, Yasmin’s eyes flash daggers at me. She mumbles something to herself, and I blink.
“You’re going to do what to me with a butter knife?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says. “But I’m not wearing that thing.”
“Newbies wear the costumes,” I remind her.
“That’s like, a stripper dress.” Her dark brows pull together in annoyance. “It’s practically sexual harassment to make me wear it.”
“I don’t make the rules. The guys wear a sombrero and a mariachi outfit. The girls wear this.” Yasmin glowers at me, and I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. I make my expression very neutral. “There’s always the Kippy costume if you’d rather wear that.”
Yasmin rolls her eyes, then grabs the bundle of fabric from me. “Fine,” she says, somewhat less than the model of good grace.
“Good call. It’s over ninety degrees out there.”
“Get the hell out of here so I can change,” Yasmin snaps. My amusement fades, because if any of my other staff took that tone with me I’d reprimand them, and I’m not going to take it from Yasmin just because I can’t forget her soft hands on my skin when she patched me up last night. Even though the cuts on my back and bicep hurt like hell, her touch felt like fire. The best kind of fire, a sweet burn in which I could all too easily lose myself.
I cross my arms and stare her down. Yasmin pauses, and I can see from her expression that she realizes she crossed the line with her attitude. She opens her mouth, and I wait for an apology.
“Fine,” Yasmin says, a devilish smile slipping across her lips. “Stay, then.”
Pivoting, she puts the costume pieces on a crate of photo paper. Her back to me, she pulls her shirt over her head, and I’m suddenly staring at a swath of lightly tanned skin that my fingers itch to touch. Her bra is turquoise, and as her fingers go to her shorts, I have a craving to know if her panties match.
But I’m her manager, and while making her wear the sexy costume doesn’t count as sexual harassment, watching her undress would definitely get me fired. She’s won this ro
und, and I beat a hasty retreat to the photo shop.
Camelia and Charlie are waiting for me by the entrance. The four of us will make up today’s debarkation team, even though we’d much rather be sleeping. The rest of my staff has the morning off, since nearly all the passengers are heading out on shore excursions.
I talk to Camelia and Charlie for a few minutes about our agenda for the day and to make sure we all grab the right gear. While Camelia checks over her camera bag, I stand with my back to the storeroom door and try to forget about the sight of Yasmin taking off her shirt, forget about her small waist and her lace bra that looked so easy to unclasp. I slide a glance at the clock, wishing there were time for me to grab a cold shower.
When the door behind me opens, Charlie halts his complaining about his hangover mid-sentence. Grinning, he whistles.
“Damn, girl!” he says. I turn and take her in.
Yasmin blushes and scowls, using her hands to cover her bare stomach. “I look stupid.”
“You look fantastic, Señorita Star Heart.” Charlie eyes her in what seems to me to be overdone appreciation.
Not that she doesn’t deserve it.
The señorita costume consists of a stretchy white blouse and a red skirt. The shirt has puffy cap sleeves, a low neckline, and a hem that stops well above Yasmin’s belly button. The skirt skims her hips and ends just above her knees in a bright ruffle, and her black heels make her legs deliciously long despite her petite frame. The outfit is sized as what the company calls one-size-fits-most. “Most,” apparently, being limited to girls in great shape. The fabric hugs Yasmin’s curves, and her naked, toned midriff has my eyes following her as she crosses the room to us.
She’s done her dark hair in a sexy updo, accented with a company-provided red silk flower. Her face is bare, but her lashes and eyebrows are dark, and she looks so sultry that for a moment I can’t look away. When I do, I find Charlie grinning at her.
“Let’s get going,” I say.
“Wait,” Camelia says, handing Yasmin a little pouch. “She needs makeup.”
With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) Page 6