by Nora Roberts
“Don’t you know he can’t hurt you anymore?”
“No.” He turned back then, torment in every muscle. “I don’t. Worse, I don’t know who else he could hurt. I won’t chance it, Lily. Not even for you.”
“I won’t ask you to. I will ask that you trust me enough to come to me. Always.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I know I’m silly, flighty—”
“Stop.”
She only laughed. “Honey, I know just what I am. And I’m not sorry about it. I’m a middle-aged woman who wears too much makeup and who’ll die without letting the first gray hair show. But I stand behind those I love. I’ve loved you for a long time. You send that check if you feel a need to. And if he asks for more than you can spare, you come to me. I’ve got my own put aside.”
“Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “But he doesn’t squeeze too hard.”
“There’s one more thing I want you to remember. There’s nothing you’ve done or could do I’d be ashamed of.” She turned and began to gather her bags. “I’d better get on home. It’s going to take me half the night to figure out what to pack. Oh, goodness.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I have to fix my face first. I can’t go out in public with mascara all over.” She dashed toward the bathroom, purse in tow. “Oh, Luke, you know you could come on home with me, spend the night in your old room. Might be easier getting things together in the morning.”
It might at that, he mused and dipped his hands into his pockets. It would be even better to go home, even if just for one night.
“Let me get my bags,” he called out to her. “I’ll drive you home in style.”
17
The accommodations for the entertainers aboard the Yankee Princess weren’t quite as luxurious as Roxanne might have hoped. Because of their special guest-star status, they had been given outside cabins—slightly above water level.
The two-berth cabin was tiny enough that she was grateful she wouldn’t be required to share its space over the next six weeks. Her practical nature tugged her away from the porthole to unpack the contents of her two suitcases. As a matter of habit, everything was neatly folded or hung in the stationary bureau and gnome-sized closet. She was romantic enough to want to hurry and be on deck when the whistle blew to signal castoff.
She took time to set out the antique bottles and jars she’d collected over the years, all carefully filled with perfumes and lotions. They’d been a bitch to pack against breakage, and she knew plastic would have been wiser. But seeing them there, all those pretty shapes and colors, made her smile. The extra weight and trouble had been worth it.
She checked herself in the mirror first, glad that her hair had grown back to past her shoulders after her rash decision two years before to crop it chin length. It, too, was a great deal of trouble, taking enormous amounts of time to dry and groom. But she was vain enough to consider the time and effort well spent.
Pleased that the piped-in music included a classical station, she touched up her makeup—a bit more bronze shadow on the lids, a whisper of extra blusher along the cheekbones. That wasn’t vanity—precisely—she assured herself. Part of the job the Nouvelle troupe had taken on was to mix and mingle with the passengers, to make themselves companionable, presentable and pleasant.
It was little enough to pay for a six-week run on an elegant floating hotel.
Grabbing her roomy canvas bag, she headed out, and up. Boarding passengers were already roaming the narrow passageways, seeking their rooms or exploring. Piles of luggage were stacked in front of cabin doors. Larceny tugged gleefully at Roxanne’s heart. It would be so pitifully simple to pluck a bit here, snatch a bit there. Like picking daisies, she mused, smiling at a round-bellied man in a baseball cap who inched by her.
There’d be time for fun and games, she reminded herself. Six long weeks’ worth of time. But this afternoon she was on vacation. She turned at the top of the stairs and wound her way through the Lido Lounge, out to the deck at the stern, where eager passengers were sipping their complimentary cocktails, taking videos or simply leaning at the rail waiting to wave good-bye to the Manhattan skyline.
She took a hurricane glass filled with blush pink liquid from the tray of a waiter and, sipping the oversweet rum drink, sized up her fellow sailors.
At a guess, Roxanne gauged the mean age to be sixty-five. There were a few families with children, a sprinkling of honeymooners, but for the most part there were older couples, elderly singles and a scattering of aging gigolos on the prowl.
“Maybe we should call it the Geriatric Boat,” Luke said close to her ear and nearly had her spilling the rum concoction.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.” Despite her barbed tone, he slipped a friendly arm around her shoulders. He’d decided if they were going to be in such relatively close quarters for the next few weeks, they should try to be civil. “Check this dude.”
He’d bypassed the rum for a bottle of Beck’s and gestured with it toward a dapper, silver-haired gentleman wearing a double-breasted navy blazer and natty white trousers. He already had a cluster of admiring female senior citizens around him. “Joe Smooth.”
“Of the Palm Beach Smooths,” she said, amused. “What do you want to bet he does a mean cha-cha?”
“Probably got a rumba or two in him. And there.” He gestured again, using only an arched eyebrow to have Roxanne’s gaze shifting. Near the portside rail was a big, frowsy blonde in a shocking-pink jogging suit. She had a camera and a pair of binoculars slung around her neck, and was busily lifting one then the other in between sips of her rum surprise. “Sally Tourist.”
“Snob.”
He only grinned. “Come on, you pick one.”
She scanned the deck, then touched her tongue to her top lip. “Mmm. I’ll take him. Tom Terrific.”
Luke studied the ship’s officer, bronzed and blond and gorgeous in his dress whites. His mood immediately soured. “If you go for that type.”
“I do.” Unable to resist, she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, I do. Look, there’s Mouse.” Roxanne gave a wide wave to bring him over. “What do you think?”
“It’s great.” His big, pale face was flushed with pleasure. Muscles bulged beneath the cropped sleeves of the flowered shirt Lily had picked for him. “They let me go down in the engine room. I gotta check the equipment for the show and all, but later, they said, I could go up on the bridge and everything.”
“They got any women down there?” Luke asked.
“In the engine room?” Mouse grinned and shuffled. “Nah. ’Cept in pictures on the walls.”
“Stick with me, pal. I’ll find you some real ones.”
“Leave him alone, you walking hormone.” In defense of Mouse, Roxanne slipped a hand through his arm. “Listen.” She squeezed as the ship blew two long blasts. “We’re casting off.”
“One deck up,” Luke murmured when she began to crane her neck.
She looked up and saw them. Lily, looking festive in a flowing blue sundress, Max dashing in an off-white jacket and navy pants, and LeClerc, hovering like a shadow behind them.
“He’s going to be fine.” Luke took her hand, linking fingers.
“Of course he is.” She shook away the seeds of doubt. “Let’s go up. I want to get some pictures.”
It wasn’t going to be a walk on the beach. The first onboard staff meeting dispensed with any notion that the next six weeks would be a free ride. The Nouvelles would give a mini-performance that night to welcome the passengers on board, along with shortened acts from the other entertainers. A French chanteuse, a comedian who spiced up his monologues with juggling and the six-member song-and-dance group who made up the Moonglades.
In addition to their act, they were asked to assist in daily activities from bingo to shore excursions. When it was discovered that Roxanne spoke fluent French, she was immediately dragooned to help the ship’s two interpreters.
Rules were also dispensed. Being friendly
and personable with the passengers was mandatory. Being intimate was not. Accepting tips was not permitted, drunkenness was frowned on. Meals were to be taken only after the passengers had dined. And, in the event of trouble at sea, all members of the crew and staff would man the lifeboats only after all passengers were safe.
There was some groaning from the more seasoned members of the staff when weekly assignments were handed out. The cruise director, Jack, a youthful vet with ten years’ experience on cruise ships, took it in stride. “If there’s anything you need, just ask. And don’t pay any attention to these gripers. Most of the extra work with the passengers is pure fun.”
“So he says.” A tall, slender blonde called Dori aimed a considering smile at Luke. “Let me know if you need any help getting adjusted.” She smiled at Roxanne to include her in the invitation. “We’ve got a very shaky run-through rehearsal scheduled at three-thirty in the movie theater. That’s on the Promenade Deck, aft.”
“And first show’s at eight,” Jack finished. “Take some time to get familiar with the ship’s layout.”
• • •
Roxanne was given a Yankee Princess T-shirt in fuchsia, a name tag to pin on and a pat on the back for luck. She toured the ship, rehearsed, then toured the ship some more, answering questions, smiling, wishing passengers a good voyage.
As afternoon slid toward evening, she managed to snag an apple and a few hunks of cheese from the buffet the passengers had decimated and smuggled them into the dressing cum storage room where she and Lily were to change for the first show.
“There’s so many of them,” Roxanne said over a bite of McIntosh. “And they want to know everything.”
“Everyone’s so nice and friendly.” Lily avoided crashing into a cardboard jail cell and wriggled into costume. “Why, I met people from all over the country. It’s really like being on the road again.”
“Max likes it, doesn’t he?”
“He loves it. He already loves it.”
That was enough for Roxanne, even though she had to press a hand to her stomach as the ship rolled. “Do you think this is going to keep up?”
“What, honey?”
“The movement.” She blew out a breath, setting the apple aside to reach for her costume.
“Oh, the ship? It kind of feels like being in a cradle, doesn’t it? Nice and soothing.”
“Yeah. Right.” Roxanne swallowed hard.
She managed to get through the first show before the soothing cradle she was in had her dashing down to her cabin. She was just finished being sick when Luke walked in the tiny head.
“I locked the door,” she said with all the dignity she could muster while sitting on the floor.
“I know. It took me nearly thirty seconds to open it.”
“What I meant was, since I locked it, that probably meant I wanted to be alone.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He was busy running cool water on a washcloth. He helped her up and led her out to the bed. “Sit. Put this on the back of your neck.”
He did it himself and drew a long, grateful sigh from her. “How’d you know I was sick?”
He flicked a hand over the emerald spangles of her dress. “Your face was the same color as your costume. Dead giveaway.”
“I’m okay now.” Or she hoped she was. “I’ll get used to it.” Her eyes were a little more than desperate when she lifted them to his. “Don’t you think?”
“Sure you will.” It was a rare thing to see Roxanne Nouvelle vulnerable—so rare he had to resist an urge to gather her close and make it all go away. “Take a couple of these.” He held out two white pills.
“I don’t suppose they’re morphine.”
“Sorry. Just Dramamine. Down them with a couple of sips of this ginger ale. There you go.” As competent as a nurse, he turned the cloth over and pressed the cooler side to her neck again. “If it doesn’t let up, the ship’s doctor’ll take care of it.”
“Stupid.” More annoyed than embarrassed, she sipped more ginger ale and prayed for it to settle. “I could ride everything in the carnival and never feel a thing. One night on a boat and I’m whipped.”
“It’ll pass.” Since her color was nearly normal again, he judged it already was passing. “If you’re feeling shaky, we can cover for you in the second show.”
“No way.” She rose, willing her legs and her system to steady. “A Nouvelle never misses a cue. Give me a minute.” She retreated to the bathroom to rinse out her mouth and check her makeup. “I guess I owe you one,” she said when she came out again.
“Babe, you owe me a lot more than one. Ready?”
“Sure, I’m ready.” She opened the door, stepped out. “Luke, we don’t have to mention this, do we?”
He lifted his brows. “Mention what?”
“Okay.” She smiled at him. “I owe you two.”
Since there was no recurrence of seasickness over the next day or two, Roxanne was forced to consider that the motion of the boat had only been a contributing factor to the whole that had been made up of stress, rum on a nearly empty stomach and nerves. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant admission for a woman who had always prided herself on being able to handle anything that came her way. Her days were too full, however, to allow her to dwell on it.
Jack had been right, she decided. The majority of the work required was pure fun. She enjoyed the passengers, and the games and events scattered through the daily schedule designed to keep them entertained. The rest of her family seemed to be getting into the spirit of things as well. Max and Lily judged a dance contest, Mouse spent most of his spare time haunting the engine room and crew quarters and LeClerc found a trio of poker buddies.
The stress she hadn’t been aware of carrying on board with her began to dissipate with each passing hour. It might have faded completely if Roxanne hadn’t turned toward the stairway on the Laguna Deck and seen Max standing there, looking lost.
“Daddy?” He didn’t respond, so she stepped closer and touched his arm. “Daddy?”
He jolted, and she saw the panic streak into his eyes. In that instant, her blood froze. She saw more in his eyes than panic; she saw total confusion. He didn’t know her. He was staring into her face and he didn’t know her.
“Daddy,” she said again, unable to keep a tremor from her voice. “Are you all right?”
He blinked, a muscle working furiously in his jaw. Like a cloud slowly lifting, the confusion faded from his eyes to reveal annoyance. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, I thought you—” She fought a smile onto her face. “I guess you’re turned around. I keep doing that.”
“I know exactly where I’m going.” Max felt the pulse throbbing at the base of his neck. He could almost hear it. He hadn’t known. For a moment, he hadn’t been able to remember where he was or what he’d been doing. Stark fear had him snapping at his daughter. “I don’t need anyone snooping around after me. And I don’t appreciate being nagged about my every move.”
“I’m sorry.” The color ebbed from her cheeks. “I was just going up to your cabin.” There was a book tucked under his arm, she noted. A tattered, antique book on alchemy. “I certainly didn’t mean to nag.” Cloaked in injured pride, she moved stiffly around him.
A wave of shame had him reaching out. “I apologize. My mind was elsewhere.”
She merely shrugged, a distinctly female gesture that could make any man grovel.
He took out his key to open his stateroom door. Mouse, LeClerc and Luke were already waiting.
“All right, my pets.” Max pulled out the single chair that stood by the bureau, and sat. “Time to get down to business.”
“Lily isn’t here yet,” Luke pointed out, concerned when Max looked blankly around the room.
“Ah, well.”
Roxanne plunged into the uncomfortable silence.
“They’ve already got at least a dozen passengers signed up for the talent show at the end of the week. It should be a kick.”
> “How much do you want to bet someone does ‘Moon River’?” Luke asked.
Roxanne was nervously rubbing her hands together, but she smiled. “No bet. I heard Mrs. Steiner tap dances. Maybe—” She paused, relieved when Lily hurried in.
“Sorry I’m late.” She was prettily flushed and weighed down with purse and camera. “They were having an ice-carving demonstration out by the pool, and I got caught up. He made the most incredible peacock.” She smiled at Max, who only gestured absently.
“All right then, what have we got?”
LeClerc linked his hands behind his back. “DiMato in cabin seven sixty-seven. Diamond earrings—probably two-carat, Rolex watch and a five- to six-carat sapphire pendant.”
“The DiMatos are the ones celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary,” Roxanne put in, plucking one of the grapes from the fruit basket on the bureau. “The pendant was her anniversary present. They’re awfully sweet together.”
Max smiled, understanding. “Something else then?”
“Well, Mrs. Gullager in six twenty,” Roxanne offered. “A ruby set, cuff bracelet, necklace, earrings. Looks heirloom.”
“Oh, she’s the dearest thing.” Lily sent Roxanne a pleading look. “I had tea with her the other day. She lives in Roanoke, Virginia, with her two cats.”
“Another contender?” Max gestured to the room at large.
“There’s Harvey Wallace in four thirty-six.” Luke shrugged. “Diamond cuff links, stick pin, another Rolex. But . . . Shit, he’s such a funny old guy.”
“He’s nice,” Mouse put in. “He told me all about this De Soto he rebuilt in 1962.”
“Jamisons,” LeClerc said between his teeth. “Cabin seven ten. Diamond ring, square cut, approximately five carats. Ruby ring, possibly Burmese, same carat weight. Antique emerald brooch—”
“Nancy and John Jamison?” Max interrupted. “I had a delightful time playing bridge with them on the Promenade Deck just yesterday. He’s in food processing and she owns a bookstore in Corpus Christi.”
“Bon Dieu,” LeClerc muttered.
“We’re a sentimental lot, aren’t we?” Roxanne patted LeClerc’s hand. “And an embarrassment to you, I’m sure.” After choosing another grape, she folded her legs under her. “I don’t see how we can steal from people we’re all but living with day in and day out. Especially when we like them so much.”