So Mary Katherine would have to quit.
Or he would have to learn to ignore her.
He was thirty-four years old, too old to kid himself about unlikely possibilities.
“Sorry, darlin’,” Sara said. “The gambler outfits are for the men only. Our customers prefer the girls in something far more revealing.”
Gingerly, as if it might hurt, Mary Katherine touched one of the feathers. “Well, you’ve certainly given them what they want. If I squeeze my body into this costume, there’s not going to be anything left to reveal.”
The expression that crossed Sara’s face was sympathetic. “You’ll look fine. Don’t worry about your hips. Men like hips. And did I mention that you can usually take in quadruple your week’s salary in tips?” After a moment, she prodded Mary Katherine. “You do still want the job, don’t you?”
Mary Katherine smiled ruefully. “The library back home has already hired somebody to run the summer reading program. Yes, I still want the job.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Oh, hey, I forgot to ask what size shoes you wear. I guessed an eight, but if I’m wrong, we can trade ’em.”
“An eight’s fine—” Mary Katherine got a look at the shoes Sara was holding up, and rueful turned sickly. “It’s…it’s fine.”
“Take these home. Try everything on, then be back here by six—earlier if something doesn’t fit. That’ll give me an hour to go over things with you before we sail. Eat before you come, because you won’t get a dinner break until after eleven tonight. Have I forgotten anything? No?” Sara smiled brightly. “Then welcome to the Queen of the Night, Mary Katherine. You’re gonna love it here.”
Mary Katherine didn’t look at all convinced as she took the costume and the heels and left the office.
Chance stayed where he was until she’d had time to go up one flight of stairs to the main deck where the gangway was, then he went out and leaned against the railing. She looked dispirited as she stepped off the gangway and started across the gravel parking lot. He watched until she got into her car—a small green import that looked like a million other imports—and then he turned away.
As soon as he got to his office, he would call Jimbo at the gate and get the make, model and tag number. Then he would start doing what Mr. Ianucci paid him very well to do—something he’d already done quite well eight years ago.
He would check out Mary Katherine Monroe.
Holding the hanger at arm’s length, as if the costume might coil around and sink fangs into her, Mary Katherine carried it into the motel room she’d chosen for its cheap price and not its luxurious accommodations. She took it to the sink, hung it on the bar that served as a closet, stepped back and made a small distressed sound.
She was twenty-nine years old. She didn’t get enough exercise, but she watched her diet, and she weighed only six pounds more than she had in high school. But she’d never, ever dreamed of squeezing herself into a garment so revealing.
She touched the filmy, see-through fabric that made up most of the outfit, the sequined cups that would remove any hint of natural shape from her breasts, the man-made super-fiber that would force her hips—where every ounce of the six pounds had gone—into exactly the shape it wanted, and she whimpered again.
The finishing touch—three-inch heels in emerald-green consisting of little more than sequin-studded straps—darn near made her cry.
“You owe me, Granddad,” she muttered out loud in the musty room. “You owe me big-time.”
At the thought of her reason for being in Natchez, she went to the phone beside the bed. After six rings, her grandfather answered in his customary overly loud voice. She pitched her own voice louder. “It’s me, Granddad.”
Immediately he lowered to a whisper—pointless, when he was always alone at this time of day so no one would interfere with the watching of his soap operas. She felt honored that he didn’t ask her to call back during a commercial break. “Is that you, Mary Katherine? Are you in Natchez? Have you been to the Queen? What did you find out?”
“I got a job on the Queen as a cocktail waitress. I start tonight.”
“Wonderful! I knew I could count on you!” If he weren’t holding the phone, he would be rubbing his hands together with conspiratorial glee. “You’ll get the proof I need to convince everyone else I’m innocent. I just know you will.”
She wanted to ask him if he’d heard what she said, if he’d paid the least bit of attention to the cocktail waitresses on his one and only visit to the Queen. Did he really want his granddaughter, his favorite of all his grandchildren, running around in front of a shipload of strange men dressed the way they dressed? Was he really willing to sacrifice her dignity so he could regain his?
And how could she help him convince everyone else of his innocence when she wasn’t convinced of it herself? She’d learned from experience that there were only two hard, cold, indisputable facts about Paddy O’Hara. One, he was a scoundrel. Nothing was ever his fault. He was the unwitting victim of every con artist, ill wind or stroke of bad luck that passed through Mississippi. He was a teller of tall tales, an expert avoider of blame, eternally innocent in a world turned wicked.
And two, she loved him dearly in spite of it.
And that was why she was in Natchez. Why she was going to put on that poor excuse for clothing and wear it in front of God and the world. Why she was going to do her best to help Paddy prove a tale that she didn’t believe could be proved.
Well, honesty forced her to admit it was also because she could spend a summer away from Jubilee. A chance to talk to adults instead of smart-mouthed kids. A chance to make more money in a week than her teaching job paid in a month.
Maybe even a chance to have the sort of wicked, passionate, going-nowhere-but-having-great-fun affair that was impossible to have in Jubilee. If she could find a willing, wicked and passionate man who didn’t scare her to death. The last one she’d come across, back when she was still in college, had done just that.
Feeling a bit guilty, she forced her attention to the phone. “Listen, Granddad, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get ready for work. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”
“Okay. Until then, mum’s the word.” He hesitated, then his voice thickened. “Thank you, Mary Kat. You’re a better granddaughter than this old man deserves.”
“I know I am,” she teased, “but you’re the only grandfather I’ve got, so I have to make do. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Whoops, commercial’s over. Better get back to my show.”
Mary Katherine made a face he wouldn’t see even if she were standing between him and the TV, then hung up. She was hungry, she needed a newspaper and a map so she could start looking for an apartment, and she needed a pair of sheer-everywhere hose to wear with the costume. Preferably made of some super-industrial microfiber that would make her thighs appear a teensy bit firmer, her stomach a teensy bit flatter, her hips a whole lot smaller.
Between standing in line at a fast-food restaurant, getting lost and searching three stores for miracle hosiery, her errands took about twice as long as expected. She returned to the motel in time to shower, cool down in front of the window air conditioner and wriggle into the silky, sheer, illusion-creating panty hose. Now it was time for the moment of truth.
She shimmied, struggled, shoved and tugged her way into the costume, keeping her back to the mirror, not wanting to see herself until she was done. Sitting on the bed—and a bit uncomfortably, she might add, on a rump of sequins—she put on the shoes, took a deep breath for courage, then stood.
And swayed. Tottered. Stumbled. She’d never worn three-inch heels in her life. In fact, after her first year of teaching, she’d cleaned her shoe rack of anything higher than an inch. Already she could tell her feet were going to kill her. Oh, the sacrifices she made for her granddad. And a summer away from kids. And great tips.
Feeling reasonably confident in the shoes after a few circuits of the room, she finally approached the mirror
over the sink.
The costume was in the Mardi Gras colors of green, gold and purple. It left her shoulders bare, with gold-sequined cups fitting—loosely, she noted with some regret—over her breasts. Emerald-green feathers curved down and away over the sequins in front and curled up over her shoulders and across her back. Translucent purple fabric stretched tautly down across her midriff to within spittin’ distance of her hips, where undulating stripes of green and gold sequins extended upward from the crotch to meet in the middle in back.
It was…different. With her hair done up and a heavier hand on the makeup, she would look like a totally different woman. A sexier woman. A woman who just naturally knew things about men, sex and life that Mary Katherine Monroe couldn’t begin to guess at.
She could become that person—could make up a name and a background, could give herself a past, could live a whole other life for two and a half months. And even though she would eventually have to go back to being Miss Monroe, seventh-grade English teacher, she would always have the memories. She would always know she was capable of being more.
Then she became aware of the ache already starting in the ball of her right foot. Who was she kidding? Clothes did not the man, or woman, make. She was who she was. Schoolteacher. Single, small-town girl. Sheltered from the world, innocent, even a bit naive. Wholesome. A summer on the Queen wearing a trampy outfit wasn’t going to change that.
She traded the heels for her own sandals, maneuvered out of the costume and put on a sundress instead, piled her hair atop her head and did her makeup. Feeling queasy, she gathered the sequins and feathers and made the return trip to the Queen.
A security guard at the foot of the gangway checked his clipboard for her name, then directed her to the women’s locker room two decks down. There she changed into the outfit once again, finishing just as Sara came in.
“Not bad,” the redhead said, giving her the once-over-and-all-around. “Let me give you a few tips before I take you upstairs. First, don’t tug at the costume. It’s not going to cover anything that isn’t already covered, so adjust it and leave it alone. And don’t bend over. When you’re serving drinks, bend at the knees.” Pretending to hold a tray on one palm, she demonstrated on her own three-inch heels in a smooth movement that made Mary Katherine marvel.
“By the way, hon,” Sara added candidly, “you might want to stuff something in your top. The tighter the fit, the less chance of flashing anyone.”
Mary Katherine gave her chest a rueful look. The same Mother Nature that had seen fit to give her too-lush hips had stinted just a bit on top, but she’d accepted it and given up stuffing her bra the first time she’d done it at the age of fifteen…or so she’d thought.
“Flirt with any customer who likes it, but don’t try to wander off for a rendezvous on board the Queen. The boss seriously frowns on that. Any private meetings take place on your own time. Oh, and the customer is always right. Always. No matter what. Are you ready?”
“Sure.” Never.
Sara led her out a different door and back to the main, or Mississippi, deck. “Some of the crew gather in the lounge to play cards before we start boarding. They’ll be your first customers. Introduce yourself, first name only, tell ’em you’re their waitress for the evening. Memorize their drink orders, and work on matching drinks to faces. The more special you make your customers feel, the more generous they are with the tips.”
On the next level, she paused outside double doors that led into a smoky lounge. “Last tips—smile a lot. Make eye contact. And keep moving.” She guided Mary Katherine into the room, then, with a wink and a grin, gave a less-than-reassuring explanation for her last bit of advice.
“It’s harder to fondle a moving target.”
By his count, tonight was Chance’s five hundred sixty-second cruise on board the Queen. The first five times it had been interesting. The last five hundred had been rather boring. Uneventful—exactly the way the assistant head of security was supposed to like it.
Tonight he was anything but bored.
Mary Katherine had been assigned, with Sara, to the main deck lounge. It was strictly a bar, a place for their customers to stretch their legs, quench their thirst and prepare to return to the gaming tables. All new girls started there and eventually worked their way up, literally. The restaurant, the by-invitation-only Pacific Lounge and the games were all on the next two decks up. That was where the waitresses made the better tips. That was where he usually spent his evenings, except when he was making rounds or with Ianucci. So far no one had commented that this evening he hadn’t left the main deck lounge.
He sat at a distant corner table, left alone by the waitresses and customers alike. A tepid bottle of water stood beside a cigar burned to ash, and a sheaf of papers was spread out before him. Presumably he was working on the next month’s schedule for the security staff, but for all the attention he’d paid it, he might have scheduled himself to work all forty-eight cruises alone.
He’d been right this morning. Mary Katherine looked incredible in feathers and sequins. A few of their regulars had spent more time in the lounge than their routines usually allowed, and they’d spent it damn near drooling over her. She’d been clearly self-conscious at first, but unabashed admiration from every single customer had taken the edge off that. She still cast an occasional longing glance, though, at the bartender’s gambler getup.
With a few minor modifications, she would look incredible in it, too. Ditch the brocade vest, the starched white shirt, the string tie, and substitute a tiny, bright gold, green or purple brocade bra… Revealing and concealing, masculine and damnably feminine, tempting, tantalizing. Man, oh, man.
He’d made a few phone calls this afternoon and found that everything she’d put on her application had checked out. Just as her parents had planned before she’d even finished junior high, she had graduated from Ole Miss, moved back home to Jubilee and taken a job teaching at the middle school. But the biggest part of their plan—the perfect husband, perfect house, perfect children—hadn’t materialized. He wondered why, wondered what had happened to the perfect fiancé behind whose back they’d met. Whenever he’d allowed himself to remember her, that was how—married to Mr. Right, chauffeuring kids from soccer to Scouts to ballet, living her perfect life. It had helped him keep his distance.
But there was no Mr. Right. No kids. She lived alone. Why?
By all accounts, she was a model seventh-grade English teacher, a model neighbor, a model everything. No one had had anything but praise to offer. She was a dear girl, devoted to her family, beloved by her students, respected by all. She was damn near a saint, to hear them tell it.
And Chance was still too damn much a sinner.
But that didn’t stop him from following when Sara, taking pity on her as she did all the newbies, gave her a break right at ten o’clock. If Red was running true to form, she’d also given her directions to the Texas Deck, the second-highest deck where the bow end was reserved for employees on break. Few of them used it in summer, though, preferring air-conditioning, television and food in their own lounge below.
He knew the Queen intimately and wasn’t hampered by stiletto heels. That was how he reached the Texas Deck a full ninety seconds ahead of her, long enough to settle in the shadows of the overhang from the sundeck above and take a cigar from his pocket.
Her footsteps sounded peculiar, until he realized she’d taken off her heels. As she came into sight, she dropped the shoes into a deck chair, then continued to a point where she could see ahead and to the side. She dragged a chair close to the railing, sat, then squirmed. “Sheesh, I can’t even sit comfortably,” she mumbled. “Whose bright idea was it to put sequins on the butt of this thing?”
“It wasn’t mine, but I’d be happy to remove them for you.”
She jumped to her feet and whirled around, searching the shadows for him. He made it easier by lighting the cigar. As soon as he exhaled the first smoke, he belatedly asked, “Do you mind if I sm
oke?”
He wasn’t sure if she’d seen enough in the match’s flicker, or if she’d recognized his voice, but he was sure she knew him. It was in the shock that left her pale in spite of the heavier makeup she wore. It was in the utter stillness that claimed her for a moment, and it was definitely in the stunned, startled way she said, “Chance? Chance Reynard? Is that—Oh, my God. It is you, isn’t it?”
“Hello, Mary Katherine.” He started to rise from the chair, only to catch the full force of a blow to the jaw that knocked him back down again. By the time he scrambled to his feet, she was on her way to the stairs. He scooped up her shoes as he passed them, stuffed one into each pocket, then grabbed her arm when he caught up with her. “Hey—”
She swung around, her delicate hand clasped again in a fist. Instead of punching him, though, she settled for slapping his hand away. “No, no, no!” she wailed. “This is not happening! You are not here! This is my summer vacation, my summer job! You can’t possibly be here!”
Backing away a few feet, he gingerly rubbed his jaw. “Gee, Mary Katherine, a greeting like that could almost make a man think you weren’t happy to see him. And it’s been so long.”
“Happy? To see you?” she shrieked. “I’d hoped you were gator bait in a bayou somewhere. I’d hoped—Ohhh!” For a moment he thought she might hit him again—Miss Perfect Manners, Miss Impeccably Bred Southern Angel, who had probably never been rude a day in her life, who had assuredly never resorted to physical violence in that privileged life. Instead, she squeaked out a choked, distressed sound, then retreated to the railing and crossed her arms over her chest, making an effort to regain control. “What are you doing here?”
With the cigar, he gestured toward the gambler’s outfit she’d pleaded for with Sara. “I work here. Assistant head of security. Sorry to disappoint you about the gator bait, but I’m obviously alive and well.” He let his gaze start at the incredible hair piled high on her head, slide all the way down to her feet, then back again, and let a seductive note slide into his voice. “And, obviously, so are you. Which leads to the more interesting question of what are you doing here. What is Jubilee, Mississippi’s sweetest, most honorable, most virtuous princess doing in an outfit like that in a place like this?”
Who Do You Love? Page 11