“And I’m sorry, captain, your mother didn’t teach you manners, though she must’ve taught you the tough girl act. Or did you come out of the womb like a semi-cute Popeye?”
He flashed her his best turn-on-the-hormones smile, the one that never failed to make women surrender their underwear. She lasered back a look hotter than the blowtorch he used to caramelize crème brûlées.
Alton broke eye contact first. No fighting. No flirting. This was business. “When do we ship out?”
“Once our guests arrive. Later tonight.” Lindsay said.
Alton had to close his eyes and grit his teeth. “So I had all day to shop?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Yeah, and looks like your personal shopper made out like a bandit.”
Damien frowned again. “I am not a bandit. I’m a good boy. I help Monsieur Alton.”
“The guy needs it, obviously.” Lindsay said, and laughed. “And yes, Damien, you are a very nice boy.”
“You—,” Lindsay said, and pointed at Alton. “Get the rest of your gear packed, and follow me below. “And you.” She raised an eyebrow at Raoul. “Take our young friend back to the dock.”
The Bolshevik bastard didn’t respond right away, just stood there with a face like winter ice. When he did talk, he scowled. “I already come from there, Boss. Maybe I take him later.”
Lindsay didn’t hesitate. “Take him now. And it’s Captain Fisher to you. You call me anything else on this trip, and we’re going to revive the ancient, but effective, practice of keelhauling.” The authoritative tone of her voice did not brook any disagreement, and the steward led the way down the ladder to the launch, motioning for Damien to follow.
Once he was at the wheel of the launch, Raoul hesitated a tad too long, a suggestion of a sneer at the edges of the mechanical facade he used in lieu of facial expressions.
“Now get going and do what I ask,” Lindsay said. “Don’t make me call St. Lucia Customs. I’m not sure your Serbian passport will hold up. That photo of yours is definitely on the fuzzy side.”
Raoul frowned long and hard.
Damien came over and bumped fists with Alton. “Merci, Monsieur, for the business. You come back, yes?”
“Kid, I can guarantee, the only place I’ll ever shop in Vieux Fort is at your aunt’s.”
Damien grinned and climbed into the launch with his treasures. Raoul swept the tender around the yacht and headed back toward the docks at Vieux Fort.
Lindsay shook her head. “Did Raoul tell you his life story while you were together?”
Alton chuckled. “Yes, his real name is Vladimir.”
Captain Horrible finally relaxed some. “Maybe he’s a relative of Rasputin. He has that creepy, mysterious Russian thing going for him.”
Alton was already sweating from the heat, but his pulse ratcheted up a notch every time a swell lifted and rocked the ship. He tucked a hand over his stomach to keep the queasy traitor from racing for the nearest exit.
Boats. He’d rather cook in hell for the devil himself, but so far, Satan hadn’t offered him any kind of deal.
Chapter Five
Saturday, Vieux Fort Anchorage, St. Lucia
“Tommy.” Lindsay shouted down the companionway to the cabin area below.
He poked his head around the bottom of the steps. “Yes, ma’am?” A drop of sweat hovered on his chin. A red bandana tied around his forehead gave him the look of a pirate. Dark slashes of brows and longish silver hair tucked behind his ears only added to the effect.
“If you’re done stowing food, could you help with Mr. Maura’s luggage?” Her first mate threw her a look that could sear paint off a trawler. He motioned back toward the galley with a jerk of his head and disappeared again into the bowels of the ship.
She turned to the chef. “Guess my first mate’s still busy with provisions. We’re on our own.” She bent down and hefted the two largest Hartmann cases. Good thing they weren’t still full. “You can bring the duffels,” she said. “We’ll come back for the rest of the hard luggage.”
“I can still go help your first mate put stuff away,” Alton said.
“Not necessary,” she said, “and no offense, but what are you going to do with all that food? We’ll only be cruising for a week.”
“Even though there’s only a week, each meal has to be perfect. And I’ll need every bit of food I can cram on this tub to make that happen.” The humidity spiked his hair in all directions, lending an air of comedy to the intensity of his speech.
She glanced at her watch to hide a smile and motioned for him to follow her down the companionway steps. Only an hour until the afternoon flight landed in Vieux Fort. Then she’d have to deal with Becca Carrothers and her friends, Moj and Fiona Stuart. Fiona was a B-Plus celebrity at best, but since she’d hooked up with Moj, her IMDB score had rocketed. Moj was an outlaw hip-hop music producer, known to be difficult to work with and a perfectionist in search of OCD medication.
The fourth passenger was Carrothers’s business partner, Devin Manning, but Lindsay didn’t think he’d arrive on anything as normal as a commercial flight. She’d dealt with him on several occasions before and knew his ETA could be anyone’s guess but usually required a harrowing rendezvous.
His previous modes of arrival had ranged from transfers from other yachts at sea, to private launches in various harbors. On one memorable occasion she’d been instructed to heave to on a set of coordinates near Italy’s Amalfi Coast.
That night there was a mysterious radio transmission right before a helicopter chucked him into the waters near the Bonnie Blue. When she raced the tender toward the blinking light bobbing on the waves, she found him in full scuba gear, his face smudged black, calmly treading water.
She couldn’t imagine what Manning’s business interests included besides the nebulous dealings he shared with her boss. On second thought, she really didn’t want to know what the hell he did.
She turned to the chef and motioned for him to follow her down a second set of steps leading to the engine room below. Just then the ship’s satellite phone rang and vibrated in the secure holster attached to her belt. Her boss treated the expensive communicator like a toy, calling every time he thought of some new form of employee abuse.
“Yes, sir?” she answered.
Alton grimaced and shrugged his load of Hartmanns down onto the floor near the steps.
“That’s more like it, girl,” Carrothers said on the other end. “Finally coming to your senses and acting like an employee. Good.”
“How can I help you, sir?” She clamped down hard on her lips to keep from striking him dead over the airwaves for the “girl” slur. “We’re on a tight schedule today. I’d like to cast off tonight and start down island so we can pick you up in Grenada on Friday.”
“Well then, isn’t it a good thing I called? Plans have changed. Manning’s not coming in today.”
Lindsay kept her sighs to herself. No surprise there.
“And Becca and her guests didn’t make the flight out of Miami this morning. They’ll arrive tomorrow. Cool your jets until they all get there.”
There was a long pause on the other end. Finally, when she thought maybe they’d lost the connection, he spoke again.
“And for your information, there will be a pick-up at the spa at Palm Island.” Another long, awkward silence.
“Who?” In spite of her best intentions, Lindsay couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice.
“As my employee, you are on a need-to-know basis, and I don’t think you need to know just yet.”
“But, sir—.”
“Before you say another word, let me remind you how many kinds of hot water you’re in right now, Missy.”
Damn. A creepy niggling inched along her neck, like one of the no-see-um bugs on the beach at dusk. She couldn’t keep from swiping at her skin. With a nauseous drop, her stomach warned this trip was going to be another Carrothers family fiasco.
“Anything else, sir?” Lindsay’s knuc
kles whitened as her grip tightened on the phone and her nails scratched into the waterproof cover.
“No, that should do it. You just relax, take good care of my Swan, and everything will turn out fine.” He clicked off, leaving her to sag onto the topside cushions and stare angry daggers at the now silent phone.
She despised the impersonal way he referred to the Bonnie Blue as “my Swan.” She couldn’t ever remember him calling the beautiful ship by her christened name.
Alton stood with a smirk on his face like a large tomcat just back from a tour of the neighborhood tabbies and garbage cans. He’d obviously eavesdropped on her side of the twisted conversation with her boss, but how much had he heard?
“Looks like you get another day off,” she said, plastering a smile on her face and hoping he hadn’t caught any of the negative stuff during her conversation with Carrothers. “Becca and her friends won’t get here until tomorrow. And nobody knows where, when, or how the other passenger will arrive.” She stared a little too long. This time he stared back, and she didn’t like it.
“As long as we have some extra time, I might as well give you a tour of the boat while we stow your stuff.” She waved her hand at the pile of bags at his feet.
When Alton opened his mouth, Lindsay snapped. “Don’t. Just follow me and listen. We’ll stow your hard-sided luggage in the cabinets along the walls in the engine room, then come back for the duffels to stow in your crew cabin.” She let her gaze skate past the disapproving line of his tightly pressed lips and got snagged on his eyes—the irises large and impossibly blue.
He suddenly turned his gorgeous backside toward her and barged ahead to the engine room door.
The man was steaming hot, but prissy and difficult.. If she were a betting woman, she’d take three-to-one he didn’t like women. This was going to be a looong cruise.
* * *
When Lindsay returned Alton to the top of the engine room steps, she pointed out the spacious living and dining area extending forward toward the bow. They were so close, Alton could smell the light perfume of her scent.
Stop it, Maura.
This was business. She was the captain. End of story.
Besides, she was a damn-the-torpedoes sea captain warrior woman. That didn’t automatically make her dislike men, but so far he’d gotten no indication she didn’t bat for that particular team.
Didn’t matter, He would stay away from her and focus on cooking.
“This is the saloon where the owners and guests will spend most of their time below,” she said. “There’s plenty of room at the dining table for eight guests, and smaller tables can accommodate snacks and drinks throughout the day.”
“All I care about is the kitchen,” Alton said, a little sharply. He was staring again. Dammit. “Let’s get this tour done so I can move on to more important things.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know the layout of the ship in case you have to serve something in the owner or guest quarters?” Lindsay asked.
He had to laugh. “You got me. Lead on, oh captain.”
She walked across the saloon area and opened a teak door to a narrow hallway. Once inside, she opened two doors to the left and right. Guest rooms were tucked to either side with light flooding them from see-through bevels embedded in the deck above.
“Moj and Fiona Stuart will probably stay in the larger suite to port,” Lindsay said. “Port is the left side of the ship when facing the bow.”
“And it’s also a dessert wine,” Alton quipped. “Originally from Portugal.”
She didn’t explode, just kind of shook her head. “Right.”
“As in starboard?”
“Correct.” That got a grin out of her.
She opened another door ahead of them and inside was a large, airy cabin with a king-size bed, sofa and separate dressing and bathroom areas. “This is the owner’s suite,” she said. “Whatever he says, whatever he wants, we take care of him and his wife.”
“Sounds like a medieval king in his castle,” Alton said.
Lindsay turned toward him and asked, “What’s your point?”
“None, I guess,” he said, and wished for the hundredth time that day he could touch the vulnerable spot just below her ear.
* * *
Lindsay flattened her body against the inside of the starboard aft crew cabin door to make room for all the chef’s obnoxiously decorated duffels, not to mention his own considerable, well-built frame.
Now that she saw Alton in the context of the compact crew cabin, she felt a tingle at the breadth of his shoulders and the curl of his muscles when he stooped.
While he was busy cramming his stuff into the storage area, she licked her lips and hoped he couldn’t read her mind. After he jammed his bags onto the narrow shelves, he straightened and turned around. “Where’s my sleeping cabin?”
“This is it.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s cozy once you get the hang of it.” She pushed a button on a wall console that looked like something out of an episode of Star Trek, and a narrow bunk snapped down out of the wall.
“This is all you have to do when you’re ready to hit the sack.” Lindsay pushed the bunk back into its narrow alcove, demonstrated the pop-down mechanism again, and then motioned for him to try.
“I suppose your quarters are a hell of a lot roomier than this.”
“As a matter of fact, this is my cabin.” She socked her hands onto her hips and gave him her best go-to-hell look. “I’m bunking with my first mate on this trip to accommodate you. I didn’t show you that cubicle because we both couldn’t fit in there.”
“Why do you get to decide where everyone sleeps?” Doubt and suspicion clouded his eyes, making him look like a two-year-old pouting over the last piece of birthday cake.
Any lust she’d been feeling died right there. “You don’t like it, you’ll have to talk to the owner once we get to Grenada,” she said. “His ten-million-dollar boat, his call on who sleeps where.”
“Whatever.” He pushed his longish blond hair out of his eyes.
“What’s wrong? Hair gel meltdown?” She grinned, entertained by GQ Chef’s inability to deal with tropical humidity.
“Don’t change the subject.” He pushed at his hair again, this time with all the fingers of his hand, shoving the whole formerly perfect do into a stand-up blond jungle. “We’ll just see about the postage stamp space when Becca gets here.”
“Good luck with that.” Lindsay led him out of the cabin and pointed toward the forward companionway. “Let’s go topsides.”
Lindsay pulled herself up the steps ahead of the chef and then headed toward the well with ladder access to the tiny cabin in the bowels of the ship, next to the anchor locker.
She bent over the deck opening to the quarters below and twisted her neck for a better view of the pit below. “Tommy—front and center. I want you to meet the chef.”
Her first mate popped up through the opening and gave Alton a piercing look. “So you’re the one givin’ us so much trouble.”
“Pay no attention to him, Mr. Maura.” She tried to pat Alton on the shoulder while he crouched next to her, but missed when he straightened suddenly and her hand landed instead on his butt.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m so sorry.” She almost stuttered in her scramble to apologize.
“That’s okay. I’ll just pretend you’re one of my many inappropriate lovers, or better yet, why don’t we both forget it and move on?” Sarcasm rippled in his tone.
“All right. If you need anything, just let Tommy know and we’ll try to take care of you, Mr. Maura.” Her teeth ached from the strain of keeping a smile plastered on her face.
Tommy said nothing but rolled his eyes.
There was an awkward silence before he finally said, “Please. Don’t you think you should call me Alton, since we’re all going to spend this trip packed together like sardines?”
“Are you two done?” Tommy levered himself back up from
the well by his forearms and gave them a disgusted look. “I don’t know who you’ve shipped out with before,” he said, pointing at Alton. “This ain’t the Queen Mary, but the Bonnie Blue is still a helluva sight better than a lot of other boats you coulda landed on. As I see it, you’re hired help, same as us. So shape up and get on with whatever ol’ man Carrothers is payin’ you to do.”
“Got it,” Alton said. “Lead me to the kitchen. That’s what I wanted to see from the very start.”
“The galley is this way,” Tommy said, and the two of them disappeared toward the middle of the ship.
Easy, Lindsay, she thought, clenching and unclenching her fingers. If she killed the chef from hell, they’d all have to eat Tommy’s cooking.
Chapter Six
Saturday, Vieux Fort Anchorage, St. Lucia
Alton closed his eyes tightly and tried to breathe. The kitchen, no, excuse me, the galley, was a cramped twenty-by-ten-foot space with only five burners and one compact oven.
Sure, it was a custom-installed marine Eno range, but cooking in the galley was going to be like slinging hash in a closet. He’d done it before. Freshman year at Drake University, his apartment had been tiny, with a tiny kitchen. He’d started his catering business out of it. For big jobs, he’d gone around borrowing hotplates from everyone he knew.
Wasn’t long before he dropped out. His dreams of being a world-class chef would not wait while he suffered through math for non-majors. He’d slaved in his apartment kitchen until he had the cash to get into the Culinary Institute of America in Napa Valley. Then he kissed his mom goodbye and left Iowa. He was in California for only a year, and then transferred to Paris and Le Cordon Bleu.
He’d been back to Iowa only to visit his parents in Des Moines. And to hit Big Daddy’s BBQ, which, as far as Alton was concerned, deserved at least two if not three Michelin stars.
He opened his eyes. The rocking of the ship, even in the harbor, made his jaw tighten and his stomach pitch. He’d eventually upchuck. He knew that. It was called getting your sea legs. It wasn’t the first boat trip he’d had to suffer through, and he’d managed to develop a loathing for anything that floated.
Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1) Page 4