His new friends followed him into the throng of the crowd. The beat turned into a faux fifties rockabilly electronica, and the dancers howled approval at the DJ’s choice.
Alton sipped the Piton. Dark and full, good for island beer. Not German-good, but passable.
His two admirers started dancing next to him laughing, smiling, and hopeful.
He needed Lindsay to take her beer, but also to show these guys he didn’t bat for their team. He wasn’t sure if they were looking for love, or looking for a schmuck to hustle. He was a bad target either way. He scanned the crowd but couldn’t find the captain.
When he tried to dance away, they followed, their eyes a little glassy. The two were obviously high. They weren’t picking up on his signals. He didn’t want to get rough, but if he had to, he would.
He finally spied Lindsay, and Alton’s heart did a deep dive. She was dancing with two older women, both smiling at her. First René and now them.
Alton tried to convince himself they’d both be better off, but the image of her glow on the boat under the stars still made his breath catch in his throat. More than that, the thought of her perfect butt and breasts wouldn’t go away. She finally noticed him looking and locked her gaze on the sweating drink he held out toward her.
By now, the two guys were into full grind mode, as if he was the homecoming princess. He found himself sighing, grinning, and dancing along with them.
One knocked the beer he held for Lindsay, and it sloshed a little on his leg. He didn’t think much of it. They were a little stoned, but seemed okay.
Since most of his pants were in storage, he didn’t want to ruin the few pairs he had, so he transferred the dripping longneck to his other hand, clutching both drinks in one.
A lull in the song, just a second, but it was enough. “Okay, guys, thanks for um, whatever it is that we had, but I gotta go.”
The pair gave him pleading smiles, but he tipped the beers at them and took off through the crowd toward Lindsay.
The music switched into high gear, and her girlfriends were swallowed up in the moving bodies. Alton handed her a beer. “Sorry, a little spilled on the way over here. I had a couple of adoring admirers.”
“They’re cute. How come you left them?” Lindsay leaned in to him.
“Not my type,” Alton said. She was so close, he could feel her heat, could smell the delicious mix of sweat and perfume.
She rolled her eyes and tipped back the Piton for a long swig, but spilled it down her front when a muscled arm reached out and spun her around.
The dark-haired, deeply tanned man could have stepped out of an ad for Tommy Bahama. An expensive knit polo shirt was embroidered with “The Other Woman—Captain Baudoin” placed strategically over a set of pecs the clinging fabric did little to hide.
A neatly trimmed mustache and beard completed the look along with a pair of sunglasses he had taken off and was twirling in one hand. With a Cartier logo. Sunglasses Alton knew cost somewhere north of six hundred bucks. He had an identical pair.
When the other captain spoke, he poured on a silky smooth French accent. “Lindsay Fisher, you knew I was on The Other Woman, and yet you didn’t come over to say bonjour. Et pourquoi ça?”
When Lindsay didn’t answer, the Frenchman pulled her close and tried to kiss her. She backhanded him so hard, Alton could almost feel the blow.
Then Lindsay turned, “Alton Maura, this is Captain René Baudoin. He’s an old acquaintance.”
Alton had to blink for a minute. “If he’s an acquaintance, what do you do to your enemies?”
Okay, René could be a dude’s name as well. So what did this mean exactly? Lindsay had obviously been playing with him, letting him think René was a woman, which explained her odd smile from before.
“Mr. Maura, a very famous man,” René said, and Alton shook hands with the Frenchy in spite of his misgivings. They each put a little too much muscle into it, not letting go for a minute.
Alton had to laugh. As if he had to prove his manliness with a handshake. If René somehow wanted to stake a claim on Lindsay, his thwarted attempt at a kiss had done the trick. Lindsay’s sexual orientation didn’t matter. He needed to take a big step back and get a grip.
He was taller than René. He’d use whatever he had to give him an edge over the compactly built, muscle-bound Frenchman.
“Nice meeting you, René.” No, it wasn’t, but Alton would make an exit before he started throwing either punches or insults at the Frenchman. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”
Lindsay grinned. “You’re one ahead of me. I’ll have to catch up.” That was when she took her first full swallow from her Piton.
Then things got strange.
* * *
Lindsay twirled away from both Alton and René. She needed space to process the newest vibes from the chef from hell. She was confused. Just what was up with him? She could swear both of them had just engaged in a pissing contest over her when she introduced them—like a couple of junkyard dogs marking their territory.
When the women she’d been shaking with earlier had moved on to another group, she’d seen Alton dancing with two young, gorgeous island men. A twinge of jealousy had caught her off-guard and she’d tried to rationalize his choice of partners. But she’d finally accepted the truth: Alton probably didn’t go for women.
Still, a tiny beat of hope remained. Maybe they were old friends. When she’d sneaked a quick second look, one of the men had furtively slid a hand across Alton’s perfectly formed tush. Oh well.
The fuse she’d insisted on changing in his cabin that night could have waited until morning. She’d wanted to see what it felt like to be alone with him, close to him, but she’d slammed the door on the ditzy part of her brain trying to convince her she could somehow forge a relationship with the chef.
She had just enough time to down the rest of her beer before René invaded her space again, pulling her into his arms. He took her on a slow turn across the sandy dance space in spite of the DJ’s fast-paced selection, and her attempts to push the French yacht jockey away.
“Why have you been avoiding me?” He nuzzled her ear without invitation, a move that usually would have her hackles up. The buzz she had going gave her a whole new perspective. She seemed to have turned into the kind of woman she normally loathed and made fun of. She couldn’t believe how good it felt to act shallow. She pressed closer to René, grinding against him.
For some reason, she felt exhilarated and powerful all at once. She was euphoric, with no inhibitions.
“Whoa,” he said, and pulled back. “Who are you, and what did you do with Lindsay, the tight-ass?” René laughed and circled her away from the crowd, into the area behind the bar.
Just as he leaned her against a palm tree and moved his hand under her skirt, Alton walked past. A quick stab of regret pierced the incredible high she’d gotten off what? One beer?
His hand moved down, and she tried to push him away again, but she didn’t have the strength. She had an overwhelming urge to curl up on the ground to stop the dizziness and nausea.
Before she could process what was happening, a floating sensation overcame her. One last look for Alton, but he’d disappeared. René was all hands, and she’d lost the will to push him away.
Let him touch her. After all, she was done with the chef and all his drama. That was her last thought before she lost consciousness.
* * *
Alton sighed. It was time to ditch the two over-sexed lover-boys with the permanent loopy grins on their faces. He would hang out at the bar with the cute chick slinging drinks and wait till Lindsay finished with whatever she was doing with René against the palm tree. She couldn’t be drunk on just one beer.
What he’d heard about sailors must be true. A lover in every port. He’d made a quick, discreet exit when she’d chosen to grind against the French bastard instead of him.
He’d just managed to get another beer and was settling in for the night when he heard shouti
ng behind the bar. A crowd of ravers drifted toward the excitement. Lindsay was back there. He’d better investigate. Maybe she’d punched someone. Wouldn’t surprise him, since she seemed to be the female scourge of the West Indies.
It didn’t take long to push his way through the crowd, his height giving him an edge.
God. She was flat on her back, pale as a sheet, and the French cowboy bastard was leaning over her. That’s all it took. Alton elbowed the remaining gawkers out of the way and dropped to her side.
René gave him a sideways glance and waved him away. “Who do you think you are? Allez-vous-en.” When Alton returned a hostile look, he hesitated as if searching for the right word and then spit out, “Vamoose, American. I have to get Lindsay out of here.”
“Captain Fisher is my boss, and I’m pretty sure your ship was not on her short list of places to be tonight.” Alton rose up on his knees, so tall that even with both of them kneeling, he towered over the obnoxious Frenchman. “She’s obviously ill. I’m going to make sure she gets back to the Bonnie Blue and her first mate Tommy.”
“You think you can stand up to me, Pretty Boy?” René bounced to his feet and shoved his fists in front of him.
Alton stood and casually slid his hand over Bart, the sharp, thin blade nestled in its sheath on his belt.
René stopped his nervous prancing and held both hands palms out toward Alton. “All right, okay. If you promise to make sure she gets back safely, I’ll let you handle her from here. But don’t think I won’t radio Tommy to make sure you don’t take advantage.”
“Right.” Alton slid the word out sarcastically. When he leaned down to check Lindsay’s pulse, he was relieved to see she was breathing easily, but her eyelids fluttered erratically. She was definitely out cold. When he looked back up, René had disappeared into the night. So much for the concerned lover.
He thought back over the night, at what might’ve happened to her, and he didn’t like the thought that popped into his head. One of his two unwanted admirers had doctored the beer he’d given to Lindsay. She’d been knocked out by a roofie meant for him.
If he ran into those guys again who tried to drug him, he’d kill both of them without breaking a sweat. No time for revenge, though. Lindsay needed him.
He picked her up, and it nearly did him in to feel her limp body in his arms. She was utterly helpless, and his responsibility. Odd how the sexy-hot body he’d been ogling just an hour earlier now felt almost childlike in his arms. Her heartbeat was steady and strong, her breath warm on his neck.
His heart stuttered, losing an extra beat when he snuggled her closer to his chest and trudged toward the dock. He hoped to hell he could remember the way back through the dark anchorage. Oh yeah—their friendly neighbor, René, and his big, ugly yacht. Couldn’t miss that monstrosity parked next to them.
He looked down again at Lindsay asleep in his arms and knew he could make it, even though he’d have to figure out how to operate the shore tender. If he could keep a Breville 800XL food processor humming in his kitchen, he could damned well get back to the Bonnie Blue.
Chapter Eight
Sunday Morning, Vieux Fort Anchorage, St. Lucia
Lindsay came to gradually, one swollen eye at a time. Her whole face felt puffy, and her mouth tasted like she’d licked the bilge clean. When she tried to sit up, the room spun.
The last thing she remembered was René groping her and Alton walking by.
Once she’d flopped back down on the pillow and studied the ceiling awhile, she realized where she was. Shit. She was in Alton’s bunk. Under the sheets. In nothing but her cami. Note to self: Next time you go dancing, wear something under that skirt. Double shit.
What the hell had she done? At least she wasn’t anywhere near René. But if she was in Alton’s bunk, did that mean he’d taken advantage of her?
Faint whistling sounded down the hallway outside the crew cabin, and she cringed, pulling the sheet up to her chin. She stiffened when the cabin door cracked open a slit. But the face that poked around the door was the most welcome sight she’d seen in a while.
“Thought you could use some of my world famous hangover cure.” Tommy balanced a tray with a steaming cup of deadly strong black coffee and a whipped raw egg in a small glass on the side. She felt her stomach lurch at the thought of that mix sliding down her throat.
All of Lindsay’s pent up fears exploded. “Where in the hell is that no-good excuse for a chef?”
“Now you just settle it down right there, young lady.” Tommy slid the tray onto a storage chest next to the bunk and shook a finger at her. “If it weren’t for him, you’d still be on that sandy shit disco, holdin’ court for whoever slipped you a mickey.”
“Somebody drugged me?” A hot flush crept up from Lindsay’s chest and flooded her neck and face.
“Either that, or you tied on the biggest drunk I’ve ever seen. Alt said you only had one beer.”
“Alt? Since when have you bonded with the Kitchen God?”
“Since he saved your worthless hide instead of leaving you for the sand fleas, or René.” Her first mate reverted to his usual belligerent attitude. He seemed relieved she’d come around and leaned down, squinting and checking out her eyes. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk and then remembered in time to pull the sheet around her. “Who put me in here?” She didn’t mean to use such a sharp tone, but she was fighting a killer headache. What the hell was in that beer?
“You mean who stripped you down to get you there?” He pressed his lips together tight, but a half grin escaped anyway. “You should ask your knight in shining armor. He bunked on the sofas out in the saloon last night.” Tommy turned to leave and then swiveled his head around. “Drink that, all of it.” And then he was gone.
Lindsay shuffled out of the cabin into the head next door and nearly fainted at the sight of her puffy face in the mirror. A nasty knot and bruise formed at the side of her forehead.
She must have done a face plant at some point the night before. Great. Way to go. Dignified as hell for the captain of a super yacht.
Moaning a little, she cleaned up the damage and reached for a tube of makeup concealer. She hoped the high profile passengers arriving later that day wouldn’t notice she looked like she’d been in a brawl.
* * *
Shame was not a word in Lindsay’s vocabulary, but she had to find Alton and work things out with him. Off-key bellowing floated out of the galley area when she reached the end of the corridor linking crew quarters to the rest of the Bonnie Blue.
His music was turned up so high she could almost feel the pounding bass through his ear buds. When she entered the sparkling, all-metal galley, he stood with his back to her, gyrating with the beat, and occasionally grating out something unintelligible that ended with “fy-ah-wuhk” at the end of each line.
He was in an immaculate white uniform head to toe. The only relief was a garish bandanna tied over his preppy hair. Probably compliments of his little shopping buddy Damien. All she could make out from the orange, black, and turquoise folds wrapped pirate-style were letters that looked like “Justin B …” God.
She wished she were back in the safety of her bunk, nursing her headache, when the visual tour of the chef from hell ended up at his perfect bum, outlined for her viewing pleasure in the thin white pants.
Alton turned at that moment without pause in his obnoxious serenade, brandishing a wicked-looking knife.
“There you are.” He pulled one of the buds out of his right ear. “I saved you some breakfast on a plate over there.” He tilted his head toward the microwave oven. “I was going to come check on you, but Raoul said the passengers are already here. Gotta set out lunch and then start dinner prep.”
“Why didn’t he come and get me?” Lindsay’s pissed-off meter moved up a couple of notches. The pounding music unraveling from his dangling ear bud had begun to synch with the pounding in her head.
&nbs
p; “Tommy told him you had a little stomach thing. He handled it.” Alton gave her a weird look before turning back to his machinegun chopping. “Isn’t that what first mates are for?”
She didn’t say anything but clenched her fists and did a silent seethe.
“Okay, let’s talk.” Alton suddenly put down the knife, and turned off the music. He bowed his head for a moment, bracing his hands against the counter. Then he turned around, leaning against the cabinet, his arms crossed.
“I promise you nothing happened. I drove off René, I brought you back here, and got you undressed. I didn’t realize you had gone, um, commando last night. I didn’t look. Promise.” He had the good grace to blush at that half-truth. “Then I tucked you in and left. I didn’t do anything except take care of you. I’m sorry for what happened. I really am.”
Lindsay bored a look at him for a few seconds longer than she wanted, and then something really weird happened. Two tears slid out the edges of her eyes. She never cried. Giving them an angry swipe, she stomped out of the galley without another word, without a backward look.
* * *
Alton slipped his ear buds back in and punched up the music, pondering Captain Horrible’s tears. Yes, he’d taken care of her, protected her, but he would’ve done the same thing for Tommy.
Of course, Tommy didn’t have him sweating and breathing hard. Alton knew he wasn’t completely Prince Charming material. When he pulled off her skirt, he’d hesitated longer than he should’ve and briefly considered parting her sweet legs to take a closer look. But then he’d felt creepy, like a clueless sixteen-year-old, and pulled up the sheet to cover her. He hadn’t even stolen a kiss goodnight.
Maybe Lindsay wasn’t used to someone taking care of her. If things were different, Alton would’ve volunteered for the job, full-time. But things weren’t different. He had to save his career and melt the taste buds of the unbearably rich and pampered.
And not poison anyone. That’s why his first course of his first dinner for Becca Carrothers and her friends was going to be mushroom based. He wasn’t going to chance the mushrooms going bad. Already they were getting a little squishy because of the humidity.
Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1) Page 6