When the steward appeared a few moments later, she gestured to Alton. “This is your passenger. Please take him to shore to find new gear.”
“OK, boss,” he said, and shrugged his wide shoulders.
Lindsay rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Raoul was the resident all-purpose crewman/steward and bartender. She had no idea what nationality the man could claim but he spoke with a heavy Slavic accent. He was tall and bulky with pale, watery eyes, buzzed blond hair, and a limited-to-nil English vocabulary. At least that’s how he’d played it so far, but who knew?
Considering he had the personality of a newt, she really didn’t care where he came from or how many languages he could speak. All he would admit was he wanted to be called Raoul, and he was not Russian. Right.
She suspected his credentials would not pass close scrutiny, but Carrothers had insisted he join the crew. Lindsay couldn’t argue with the guy paying the bills. However, she’d had experience with international scoundrels like Raoul in the past. Men like him had cost her the first boat she’d lost under her command. So he was part of the reason she and Tommy slept with weapons under their pillows. A Glock for her, and an ugly billy club for Tommy.
The Adonis-like chef continued to throw poisonous looks over his shoulder while he clambered down the ladder behind Raoul to the shore launch. Fortunately, looks couldn’t kill her. She just hoped he didn’t try to poison her food.
If he ditched the shoes and accepted that she was in charge, they’d be good. Maybe.
When she finally returned to the galley with the mangoes, Tommy asked, “What kept you so long?”
“Don’t ask,” she said, and began tossing the fruit into the overhead hanging produce net.
Tommy refused to be put off. “Now I have to know.”
“The mad man who provisioned all this crap finally showed up. Took a water taxi out here.”
“Where is he?”
“He was wearing dark leather loafers with a whole shitload of hard-sided luggage, so I sent him to shore with Mr. Personality to get the right gear.”
Tommy whistled low. “You threw the super chef off the boat?”
“Oh, yeah, with his tail between his legs.”
“Mrs. Carrothers ain’t gonna like you mistreating her foodie boy toy.”
“I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to complain to Becca. Not when he’s as lucky as we are to be on this trip.” Lindsay knew she had been rough on the chef, but her anger had run away with her. She couldn’t apologize, though, because he needed to understand the pecking order on her ship. But she did feel bad.
“I suppose yelling was involved,” Tommy said.
Lindsay hung her head.
“I know you’re tense and nervous about getting everything right on this cruise, but you’ve got to get that temper under control.”
She raised her chin and nodded.
“You can’t take out your frustrations on the crew or, God forbid, the passengers. For once in your life, put a lid on it. You need to practice anger management.”
“Anger management?” Lindsay asked, her ire building again.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” he said, spreading out his palms toward her. “I been readin’ up on how to get control of your feelings.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she said, and made a face. “Where the hell did all this come from?”
“Cosmo, if you must know, Miss Doubtin’ Thomasina. Been readin’ the magazines on the trade shelves at the beach bars lately while you’ve been gluggin’ rum.”
“So now you’re a Cosmo Yoda?” Lindsay rolled her eyes.
“According to Cosmo, if you’re gonna disagree with your boss, you gotta do it in private.” Tommy leaned against the counter and pointed a finger her way. “And that goes for when the boss isn’t around too.”
“You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” she said.
“No, I’m not.” He paused for a moment and snagged a banana from a hanging net, peeling the skin halfway down before taking a big bite. He chewed for a minute and then continued. “Crew gossip always gets back to the boss. That celebrity chef is crew now, and if you mistreat him, Carrothers is gonna find out. Your dad and I did a gawd-awful job of raising you to be a polite young lady, but it’s never too late to start.”
Before she could think of a vicious response, swells rocked the yacht, forcing them to grab for the handrails along the teak-trimmed galley counter. They rode the waves until Lindsay could get to one of the portholes to see what was causing the chop. A huge, three-level motor yacht had rocketed into the anchorage and was jockeying into position to anchor right next to them. Way too close if the winds got squirrelly overnight.
Had to be René. Damn showoff. No one else came in that fast with a huge superyacht.
The French jerk could be a regular seagoing cowboy. Of course he could also be pretty good in the sack—when he wasn’t staring at himself in the mirror. Which worked out to be most of the time. The short fling they’d shared a few years before had been like a close-hauled reach to hell.
* * *
Alton rode across the bay in the fiberglass launch driven by the misnamed Raoul. If he wanted an alias, he’d be better off with Vojtech or Wolfgang.
He certainly seemed capable. He’d used the Bonnie Blue’s hydraulic system to get the launch into the water easily enough. But when Alton tried to make conversation, Raoul replied, “Yes, maybe,” to almost every question.
The steward motored the launch in to the docks and Alton swung himself onto the splintered wood platform. Rickety and swaying, the dock sent his stomach into a sick spiral. God meant for people to walk on land, which is why he had feet, not fins.
Alton sighed and asked Raoul, “So I’m assuming I’ll meet you back here. Is that right?”
The steward shrugged, shook his head, nodded. No clue if the guy actually understood him.
“You stay here,” Alton said loudly and slowly. “I go. I come back. We go back to ship.”
Another shrug, headshake, nod.
Alton wanted to throttle him. “You know, if this whole steward thing doesn’t work out, you could always get a job as an interpreter with the U.N. Your communication skills are dizzying.”
Raoul smirked, maybe scowled. “You funny man. Maybe you try show business.”
Another sigh from Alton. He walked off, nearly fell into the water, but righted himself. He had to thread his way around fisherman and touts selling everything from hats to fruits and vegetables. Only a few tourists ventured onto the dilapidated pier. This was St. Vieux, the bunghole of St. Lucia.
All the cruise ships stopped at Castries, the capital and main harbor. Here there were only small fishing boats, ferries, and water taxies sounding horns loud enough to wake the terminally hung-over.
Everything radiated stink-jungle rot mixed with fish guts, all heated up to a billion degrees. So much heat, it was like walking on the sun in the rain.
Alton looked down and yeah, neck and armpit stains colored his clothes. No way had he brought enough shirts. Wasn’t enough cotton in the world.
He glanced at his Omega. Not sure of the time frame, but the captain, well, no matter how sea-goddess beautiful she’d been, he knew she’d keep her promise and leave him on the island. She was a woman who liked to be in charge.
Their first encounter had not gone well. She’d been so sweaty, so muscular, and so blonde. He was embarrassed at how speechless and cowed she’d left him. Bad first impression, but he’d dealt with such hard cases before. You don’t rise to the top of the cooking world by trembling at every little shout.
A year ago, Alton would’ve taken his Hartmann luggage and Gucci loafers directly back to the St. Lucia airport, picked a city nowhere near the equator, and flown away, first class, to a penthouse suite in the sky.
A year ago, he had a personal assistant juggling cooking gigs all over the globe, and the minute someone didn’t take him seriously, Alton was out of there in a cloud of saffro
n. From Crete. Fifty bucks a pinch.
One year later, the personal assistant was long gone, his entourage had scattered to the four winds (or were there seven?), and now only spammers emailed him. No one called. At all. Except his mom from Iowa, asking for help in the kitchen. Alton, dear, what wines go with Spam and green-bean casserole?
His career had sunk like a collapsed soufflé. Alton had gone back to the basics -- calling, promising, calling some more. When Becca Carrothers had offered him a job on her yacht, Alton had swallowed the last of his pride and agreed.
Though boats were hell and the paycheck one he’d dread to cash in front of his peers, it was the first step back. A gig for him and a good deal for Becca. The star of Kitchen Gods, no matter how disgraced, rarely could be had so ridiculously cheap. And the fact that Becca had told him he was as lickably hot as cinnamon candy? Well, for her, the deal kept getting better and better.
For Alton it was downright embarrassing. When he’d heard “yacht,” he’d expected a floating palace complete with a helicopter pad. Not some glorified rowboat, captained by a fascist woman who probably moonlighted as a dominatrix.
He’d dodge Becca’s advances, because yeah, that was a certainty. He’d avoid the captain as much as possible, and he’d amaze everyone with his food.
He’d cook his way back to the top of Mount Olympus and be the Kitchen God once more.
But first? Shopping in a shantytown.
Chapter Four
Saturday, Vieux Fort, St. Lucia
Alton instinctively jerked away when he felt a small hand grab his. He looked down to see a little brown face grinning up at him. “Monsieur, Monsieur. You go to my aunt’s shop? Yes?”
Alton’s first impulse was to walk away and rub down his palm with hand sanitizer. Instead, he asked, “What does your aunt sell?” The boy was just a street kid after all. No need to be an asshat.
“Everything, Monsieur, good for you. Quality at a good price.”
“What’s your name?” Alton stopped in the middle of the street and gave the small hustler a closer look.
“I’m Damien, and you? What’s your name, Monsieur?” Dressed in ragged canvas shorts and a grimy white T, the boy beamed a bright smile.
“Call me Alton. And Damien, gotta say, your pitch is sounding like a scam. You have two big brothers waiting around the alley to beat the stuffing out of me?”
Damien frowned. “No, no, my aunt is good, has good store. You need postcards? You like real Caribbean T-shirt? We have good things, good.”
“Good?” Alton grinned.
“Bon, oui, you like, I promise.”
Alton let out a deep breath. Why not? If you can’t trust some urchin you just met, who can you trust?
At least he’d go armed. While his kitchen knives were still packed in one of his Hartmanns, Alton carried Bart, a custom-made Brian Tighe pocketknife with a locking blade. He’d never actually used the small knife in a fight, but he had used the sharp implement to clean, de-scale, and filet a rainbow trout in Aspen as well as dress a Turkish game hen in Istanbul. He could shave with the thing, easily.
Damien pulled him past the few sad shops on the waterfront, their only customers some adventurous, overweight Americans slathered in sunscreen. He saw bags, he saw shoes, but Damien was a pro.
“No, you don’t go there. Bad, bad. They cheat you.” He probably sensed Alton wanted to bolt. “My aunt is good. You trust, Damien, no?”
Alton laughed. “No, kid, I don’t trust you. Come on. I’ve been scammed by the best.”
“I don’t scam,” Damien said, and pooched out a lip. “I’m a good boy. You see, you see. My aunt has quality merchandise at low, low prices.”
It was obvious he was parroting some commercial he’d probably seen on the Internet.
The crowds did dissuade Alton from leaving Damien to shop with the hordes of cruise ship passengers. Besides, he hadn’t had this much excitement in a while, and Damien seemed okay. But that was the trick, right? A nice little kid leads you away to get your head beat in and your wallet stolen.
If Damien wasn’t part of some kind of shell game, well, most likely, he was just looking for a little extra cash, working the docks. At least at the boy’s aunt’s store, Alton could zip in, buy what he needed cheap and then scram.
Colonial stone houses with elegant arched front porches melded into claptrap storefronts, corrugated metal and cinderblocks. Third world practical, third world dirt floors swept clean. Alton had seen worse. He’d cooked hardcore vegetarian, lentils and chickpeas mostly, in Mumbai for three months in a Taj hotel. This placed smelled like roses compared to his walk to work back then.
At an alleyway, he paused and said, “Come on, Damien. This just keeps getting dodgier.” The deserted corridor was dark, dank, and smelled like sewage.
The kid didn’t stop, but kept pulling, until Alton jerked his hand away.
“Please, Monsieur Alton. My aunt, she needs the business. Please. Trust me.” Damien’s eyes pleaded his case far better than his words.
Alton’s caution melted. “Well, getting jumped might be better than dealing with the captain and her stupid boat.” But if worse came to worst, he could handle himself. He’d gotten in kitchen fights over the years and had the stove-burn scars to prove it.
Down the alley they went, around a corner and a series of empty shops, far from the busy harbor.
Damien disappeared through the doors of a place crammed to the rafters with flags, T-shirts, sunglasses, sandals, bags, and everything sparkly, Chinese-made and ridiculously cheap.
Alton walked in, and Damien reappeared with what he assumed must be the boy’s aunt. She was an attractive woman, dark-skinned with a nice smile. The two went back and forth in the French patois of the island.
The aunt seemed relieved. “Thank you, sir, for coming to my shop. Damien said you didn’t trust him, but he is a good boy.”
“His eyes convinced me,” Alton said with a shrug. “Now, about duffel bags.”
Both were grateful for his business, so grateful, that when he saw what kind of bags they had, he couldn’t back out. Since the choices were all equally embarrassing, he chose one of each - a pink Princess tote, a Hello Kitty duffel, and a very lurid bag dedicated to “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”
He also bought a flimsy pair of white tennis shoes and a pair of sandals made out of tires. The whole purchase came to fifty dollars, cheap, but they didn’t take credit cards. And he didn’t have change. He had to give them a hundred. “How about fifty bucks for Damien to take me back to my ship?”
After smiles and hugs all around, Alton thought the trip was worth it. Just to see how happy Damien and his aunt were.
Damien insisted on carrying everything, all the way back to the Bonnie Blue. Alton let the kid ride with him in the launch, if only for the conversation. Raoul didn’t glance at the boy once. Didn’t say a word.
* * *
When Alton stepped back onto the Bonnie Blue, Captain Fisher was in a much better mood. Instead of making fun of him, she only laughed when Alton threw down the girly duffel bags on the deck. Damien frowned next to him.
“You know all your stuff is not going to fit in those small bags.” The captain looked at his Hartmann suitcases and shook her head. “I’ll store your luggage in the cargo hold below. I don’t know what you’re going to do with all of your clothes, but space is limited. You want my help?”
“Oh yes, please, because I’m so lost without strong female guidance,” Alton said, rivers of sarcasm in his voice. Getting beaten and left for dead in the back alleys of Vieux Fort was looking better and better.
As Damien watched them argue, his face fell.
“Who’s your friend?” The captain motioned to the boy. Then she lifted the back curls of her short blonde hair and twisted her head from side to side, stretching her neck toward the pitiful shore breeze.
“Personal shopper, if you must know.” Alton paused to appreciate the sweat dripping down Lindsay’s neck
. Necks, especially the spot just below a woman’s ear, were where he liked to begin his conquests. But not with someone he worked with. Not anymore. And especially not with Captain Horrible.
He bent down and started unpacking bags. His knives had their own case, like a magician’s box.
“What’s in there?” Captain Fisher, the nosy, pointed at the case.
“Knives,” Alton replied.
“Big box.”
“Lots of knives.”
He then started stuffing T-shirts into the Hello Kitty bag. Of course the seagoing she-wolf crowded him. “Nobody needs that many shirts. Store them in your luggage, or give some to your personal shopper.”
Damien’s eyes lit up. “I will sell them. You will get half. No, maybe twenty-five percent. Is a good deal for you.”
“Damien,” Alton said, smiling at the kid, “never deal down. Always start low and negotiate. Consider these a gift.” He gave the captain a wink over the boy’s head.
He tossed five shirts over to Damien who caught them, and immediately started the inventory. “Abercrombie and Fitch. Very nice. And these also.”
Alton named the other designers. “Armani, Givenchy, Harvey Nichols. Have a ball.”
“You buy Armani T-shirts?” The captain snickered. Then more packing advice. “You’ll need only three shirts, a pair of pants, and some shorts. And I love the shoes. We’ll see if they last through the weekend.”
“Monsieur Alton is a good man,” Damien said, immediately choosing his side in the fight, “and we sell him good shoes. You are not a nice woman.”
Alton looked to see her reaction. Would she yell at the kid? Make fun of him? Or just banish him from the boat?
Lindsay surprised him by smiling. “I was kidding, Damien. I’m sure the shoes are good. Didn’t mean to insult you.”
“And will you apologize to Monsieur Alton?” Damien asked.
“For him being a moron with designer T-shirts that cost as much as my entire wardrobe? Okay. Alton, I’m sorry you wasted your money.”
Alton had to laugh at that. He liked the scalding banter. If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen? He loved the kitchen. And the heat.
Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1) Page 3