Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  Surrounded by pink and white cow carcasses hanging from hooks, Elodie pointed Betty the filet knife at Alton’s midsection.

  The air was freezing, and Alton was not one for the cold. However, he wasn’t about to leave until he smoothed things over with the French Girl.

  Alton slammed the cleaver into frozen cow fat. “Look, I spent the night with Cynthia, yes, but only because her love life was in trouble, and I was afraid she was going to hurt herself. You know how good she is at deveining shrimp.”

  Elodie’s dark eyes flashed hate. “So you say she deveined your shrimp?”

  “No, I was talking about her deveining herself. Like suicide. Do you understand?” She lunged with the knife, but Alton pushed a carcass between them.

  She laughed. “I’m French. We invented suicide.”

  “But nothing happened,” Alton said, flailing his way back into the freezer through swinging beef. “We talked. I told her she was better off without either Claus or Billy Lee.”

  Speaking of which, the battling chefs outside slammed into the freezer door, shaking frost into the air like snowflakes.

  “So nothing happened?” Elodie asked, ignoring the commotion outside the freezer door. “You lie. I know you like onions.”

  Alton stepped out into the open. “Yes, Cynthia is gorgeous. And oniony. But I also know how sleeping around in the kitchen spoils everything. You and I are together again, right?”

  Elodie’s breath came out in a cloud as she exhaled. “So I can trust you?”

  “Always,” Alton said. They met in the middle of the cows. It was frigid, but Elodie’s mouth was hot, wet, and their kiss zinged through Alton. Lips and tongues lashing, she groped for him, and he pushed her against a shelf.

  Dropping the knife, Elodie plucked at the drawstring of his chef’s pants, freeing him. When he gasped, she licked his lips.

  He started to undo the buttons on her chef’s coat, to free her glorious breasts, like ripe, cherry-tipped cantaloupes, but stopped.

  He eased her hands off him. “As much as I would like to heat up this freezer, I have to get back out there. I have a soap opera to referee and a seven-course meal to serve.”

  Elodie wiped his kiss off her lips and smiled. “Oh, it won’t matter. We have all the time in the world. I wasn’t sure about Cynthia, but I am sure of the African line cook you used during Kitchen Gods. Do you even remember her name?”

  “Lani,” Alton whispered. Terror snipped at his breath.

  “Yes, Lani. I have pictures of you with her. And yes, the French invented suicide, but we also know about vengeance.”

  “You put the blowfish in the soup on Kitchen Gods.” Alton could barely speak the words.

  The world stopped turning. The sky turned black above, Alton was sure of it. And the ocean was all poison now. As poisonous as blowfish in his vichyssoise.

  Elodie kissed the corner of his slack mouth. “And I doctored the soup for this little event as well. Your career is over, you cheating little monkey.”

  Alton shoved her away and went to storm off, , but not without Betty and Hilda. He plucked the filet knife off the floor, dislodged the cleaver, and ran out of the freezer.

  The kitchen was wrecked. Black smoke poured out of the consommé simmering on a burner. The ovens also belched black smoke, and the sauces, spices, flour, sugar all painted the floor, ceiling, and cabinets in a spectacle of color. The fire alarms wailed like scalded cats.

  All the line cooks had fled except for Cynthia and Claus. She was bent over, tending to his bruised and bleeding face. Billy Lee was long gone.

  Alton sprinted past the scene, trying to swallow the panic in his throat, trying to stop another disaster. Behind him, Elodie cackled like a witch in heat.

  He crashed through the doors into the dining area. The windows reflected the lights of San Francisco on the dark ocean water capped with white waves. Alcatraz, the Golden Gate, and Pier 39 were shadows in the night.

  Inside the dining room, dimly lit strings of light sparkled and winked across the Waterford crystal. Black silk napkins lay across linen tablecloths topped with Flora Danica gold-rimmed china plates and bowls.

  Like perfect little soldiers, the Ricci silverware lined both sides of the plates and bowls. All except the soup spoons. Those had already been used.

  The spoons were scattered about as the elite of San Francisco bent over, retching from the soup he’d spent days making.

  His career was over.

  * * *

  Alton wandered back into the smoking, deserted kitchen. No Elodie. He turned off the burners and ovens, and the shrill fire alarms abated.

  The irony felt razor sharp. He had been telling the truth about Cynthia. For the first time in his life, he had kept his libido leashed, but things had still blown up even though he was innocent. Or had been with Cynthia at least.

  In a small skillet, he melted Indian-spiced clarified butter, and then sliced off two thick pieces of the fresh-baked French country bread. He found the aged Mimolette cheese as well as the Morbier marked by a stripe of ash running through the middle.

  He gathered his knives (Sophia and Margot specifically) and chopped shallots and tomatoes to add to the cheese on the bread. Gently, lovingly, he placed the sandwich in the pan. He let the first side cook, then flipped it after adding more butter.

  The puking sounds in the other room had been replaced by shouting.

  A very pale Dame Olivia burst into the kitchen. “What in the hell did you do to us?” Her voice came out in a rasping screech.

  Alton didn’t answer but carefully laid his gourmet grilled cheese on his own Flora Danica gold-rimmed plate. With a sprig of parsley. He then took a bite of the sandwich, closed his eyes, and let the richness melt into his mouth. His mother had always loved his grilled cheese sandwiches, but back in Des Moines, he’d made them with Wonder Bread and processed cheese food.

  “What are you doing now?” His client howled the question.

  Alton smiled. “I’m eating my last meal as a professional chef.”

  Chapter Three

  Saturday

  St. Lucia anchorage

  Aboard the Bonnie Blue

  Lindsay felt the spit but not the polish of being the captain of a top-of-the-line yacht again. Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes.

  She and Tommy had been working for an hour, but there were still crates of provisions to be stowed. Although the 105-foot Swan luxury yacht was air-conditioned, the long and narrow galley heated up in a hurry when she and her uncle worked inside its close quarters.

  No matter how awe-inspiring the ocean-going ships of the rich and famous, the designers seldom wasted precious space on areas where the crew worked and lived.

  Nor did the owner of the yacht care how hard he worked his employees or how much he tortured them. Carrothers should’ve hired more crew, but then again, the celebrity chef his wife had enlisted for the voyage should’ve been there to help.

  Lindsay stripped off her uniform shirt down to a serviceable white knit cami. “I know, I know, it’s hotter than the hinges of hell, but we damn well better suck it up, Tommy.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I love the heat,” he said. “Makes me thirsty. Thirst leads to beer. Beer leads to happiness.” Her uncle gave her a sideways grin and wink. His usually grizzled silver beard was neatly trimmed in honor of their latest gig.

  “Are you kidding me? You and my dad rarely found happiness when you got too thirsty. Beer leads to trouble.” A drop of moisture trickled down her nose, and she caught it with the crook of her elbow. “Seriously, Tommy, we can’t mess this up.”

  “You’re tellin’ me?”

  Lindsay ignored the accusing tone in her uncle’s voice and reached for another box of fruit. After the oranges, lemons, and limes, the flats of greens below smelled like grass clippings. She stowed them in a second chiller next to a crate of twisty mushrooms, a whole cave-full it seemed.

  “Jesus, just because there are four refrigerators in
this damned galley doesn’t mean the high and mighty chef needs to fill every fucking one of them. And I can’t believe the bastard isn’t here to help us.”

  Tommy tilted his head and widened his eyes.

  “What? What did I do now?” she asked, feeling like a dog caught trashing the couch.

  “You gotta clean up your language. Like you said, we can’t mess this up. It’s our last chance. If Charters International fires you, the buzz will travel everywhere.”

  She bent over the edge of the second cooler and piled freezer boxes on the bottom. “I can’t believe Carrothers asked for me again.”

  “I can,” Tommy said. “Carrothers thinks this may be his last chance to get in your pants.”

  “You really know how to make a girl feel special. Thanks for reminding me.” She pawed tomatoes out of another crate and tossed them into a net hanging across the ceiling of the galley.

  Tommy handed her a mini water tank, and she peered inside. A batch of long, slimy fish writhed in the murk. “Ew. What the hell are those things?”

  “That celebrity chef must have a helluva sense of humor if he thinks anyone is gonna bite into somethin’ that disgusting,” Tommy said.

  She hoped to hell no one saw the creatures before the “Kitchen God” reduced them to filets. She lifted the heavy fish tank, securing the nasty cargo onto a storage shelf.

  Lindsay didn’t mind the extra work. The physical labor helped her feel less anxious, but tension and fear still gnawed at her insides.

  The Boadicea hadn’t been the first vessel she’d lost under her command. There had been one before. Normally, losing two boats would mean the end of a captain’s career, so Lindsay was on thin ice.

  Everything depended on this voyage going perfectly.

  Too bad it was Carrothers who held her future in his hands. Lindsay had captained his ship, the Bonnie Blue, five times, each trip worse than the last. His wife Becca never made things easy.

  The snooty LA society maven would arrive later that day on the afternoon flight from Miami with a few guests in tow as well as Devin Manning, Carrothers’s business partner.

  However difficult Becca and her entourage, at least her presence would keep away her husband’s latest woman du jour. On one trip, he’d brought aboard a hot blonde masseuse named CeCe who looked as if she had been poured into her uniform. The twenty-something Swedish girl was sweet but had horrible taste in men.

  The young woman disappeared the night Becca Carrothers showed up without warning in Cannes. Becca accused her husband of cheating, and the yelling had almost split the hull. The sound of the noisy make-up sex had made her stomach roil. Tommy had resorted to earplugs.

  Becca was such a hypocrite, since she had her own selection of boy toys she smuggled aboard right under her husband’s nose.

  Carrothers had made half-assed passes at Lindsay on all of their previous trips, maybe out of revenge against his wife, but more likely out of boredom. Or maybe he needed the challenge of bedding someone who didn’t tremble and get all breathless at the size of his bank account.

  Their last encounter had led to a noisy, no-holds-barred fight off Porto, Portugal. When her boss had gotten grabby, Lindsay had resorted to colorful language and threats. Didn’t work. Finally, after too much sangria, he’d cupped her butt and called her his spicy muffin. That was when she’d clocked him.

  Nose still bleeding, he’d thrown her and Tommy off at the next marina. Lindsay thought that would be the last time she’d have to deal with the “Carrothers Family Circus.”

  Stranded, she’d jumped at the chance to captain another boat across the Atlantic to get a big paycheck and get home. That mistake had cost her the Boadicea.

  During her heart-to-heart talk with her boss at CI, she was surprised when he said Carrothers had asked for her again. Didn’t make sense, but this was her chance to make nice and save her career.

  Carrothers was an idiot, but at least she wouldn’t have to deal with him until they picked him up in Grenada. That would give her five days of peace and quiet, as long as Becca and her friends behaved on the few stops they had planned.

  “Where’s that third crate of mangoes?” Tommy interrupted her thoughts.

  “I thought you brought them down.”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn.”

  “How the hell many trips do I have to make up top? At this rate, we’ll still be loading provisions when Becca and her fucking cronies show up.” She clapped a hand over her mouth when Tommy waggled his eyebrows at her again.

  * * *

  Heat radiated in waves off the deck, nearly crushing Lindsay’s chest when she exited the companionway from the lower level of the yacht.

  She gulped hot air into her lungs for a moment, and then noticed a man standing on deck surrounded by a collection of bulky Hartmann luggage.

  She had to look at him twice. Once, to recognize him as the big-time chef Becca had hired. And again, to drink in his perfect face. He was one of the tallest, hunkiest guys she’d ever laid eyes on.

  From his neatly pressed white cotton slacks to the tennis sweater knotted around his pristine white polo shirt, nothing was out of place. Her gaze ground to a stop at the leather Gucci loafers encasing a pair of tanker-sized feet. She hated to think how many cows had to give it up for those shoes.

  But then she snapped back to reality. No matter how hunky he was, he had screwed them by showing up late.

  She walked steadily across the scrubbed and brightened teak deck. The steward, Raoul, had done a nice job. She’d have to compliment him, maybe jolt him out of his surly attitude.

  As she neared the newest crew member, she extended her hand and said, “Welcome aboard the Bonnie Blue. I’m Captain Lindsay Fisher.”

  Instead of acknowledging her hand, he folded his arms in front of his chest and asked, “Is this really the Carrothers yacht?”

  “What an odd question. Why do you ask?” Lindsay shook with the need to deliver a sarcastic comeback.

  “I expected something more than a sloopy-looking thing low in the water,” he said. “Don’t super yachts have two or three stories and big flying bridges?”

  “You have a lot of gall,” she said, throwing to the wind all her vows to be nice. “You order a shit-ton of food, you show up too late to help stow provisions, and now you stand here dissing one of the most beautiful yachts in the world. And for your information, this ship is your employer’s most prized possession. But then I’m not used to working with important celebrity chefs. Maybe that’s just how you roll.” Damn, she’d cussed.

  “Yeah, that’s how we roll,” he said with a smirk. “Don’t you have pursers or swabbies or some other nautical slaves to do the schlepping?”

  “No,” Lindsay shot back. “My first mate and I had to pitch in and stow your stuff, like those mangoes over there, so they didn’t spoil before you got here.”

  He eyed the crate of fruit and then returned his gaze to her, and this time his wide open smile caught her by surprise. Most likely he thought he could unhinge her knees with one gorgeous glance. But she couldn’t help responding to that smile, so genuine you could almost ignore the snarky stuff coming out of his mouth.

  I’m Alton Maura,” he said, and extended his hand. “Since you’re the captain on this tub, I’ll haul those mangoes down below if you really want me to.”

  “It’s just the one crate. I’ll manage,” she said. She extended her hand again, and this time he returned the handshake, holding her hand a little too long.

  Suddenly she was conscious of how calloused her palms were compared to his and then let go of the thought. Screw his smile. She was too busy to get silly.

  She straightened and withdrew her hand. “You’ll need to do something about your shoes and all your stuff,” she said, motioning to the mounds of luggage. Lindsay swallowed back the knot in her throat and hardened her stance. “Becca should’ve given you my contact information. I would’ve warned you that we have limited space for personal belongings
. And your shoes are all wrong. We can’t have you leaving black marks on the deck of a ten million dollar yacht. You’re going to have to make some changes.”

  “Changes?” He sighed as if she were just too much work.

  “You’ll need a soft-sided duffel bag for your gear.” She toed his three large, expensive suitcases. When he continued giving her a clueless look, she added, “Again, I wish I had been able to email you with all the details, but it is what it is.”

  He didn’t budge, and her irritation returned, cranked up a few decibels. “Get going,” she said, and huffed, waving her hand. “We’ll take care of loading the last of the provisions, and I’ll stack your Hartmanns under a bench until you get back.”

  He blinked at her. “You can’t be serious. You want me to buy all new stuff? Where? Not sure there’s a Nordstrom’s on this little island.”

  “There are shops in St. Vieux. You’ll be able to find everything you need.”

  He turned and exhaled hard. “This is ridiculous. What if I refuse?”

  “I’m the captain. If you refuse, I’ll leave your butt on St. Lucia.” She grinned and feigned shock. “Oh, Mr. Carrothers, so sorry, but your wife’s chef didn’t show. I waited, but well, you know those celebrity types. When they aren’t poisoning people, they tend to be very high maintenance and really fucking irresponsible.”

  His mouth fell open, and his baby-blue eyes turned hard. “Nice, classy. Your mother must be proud, or are you just embracing the cliché of cursing like a sailor?” He looked behind him to the safety rail with nothing but a boarding ladder reaching down into the water. “Okay, new gear. Whatever you say, but am I supposed to swim ashore, captain?”

  Lindsay returned his glare and pushed a button on the helm’s intercom speaker. “Raoul, we have a guest on deck who needs to be taken to shore to do some shopping.” She clicked off and waited for an answer.

  “Da, er, yes, boss lady.” A deep, disembodied voice answered her, contempt evident in the tone. “I come.”

  “Captain Fisher, please, Raoul.” She didn’t let her disgust show, but dealing with the hulking weasel Carrothers had hired always made her feel as if she’d swallowed something nasty.