She turned down the heat under the quinoa and raced back up the companionway to check on her patient.
* * *
Lindsay nearly lost her grip on the rail when her head cleared the top deck level. Alton was at the wheel, laughing with Tommy and acting like a born sailor.
“What are you doing?” Her question was more of a statement, and sharp.
“She wants to know what I’m doing.” Alton glanced at Tommy and the two of them broke into another round of laughter.
“I thought Alt could use a turn at the wheel, take his mind off his misery.” Her uncle gave her a crooked smile, like he thought he was a latter day Professor Higgins, making a sailor out of the sea-challenged kitchen god. “He’s a natural, captain. Took to the helm right away.”
“You know, at the wheel, I feel like I’m in control of this tub and not the other way around. Kind of like driving curvy mountain roads. I never realized I was such a control freak.” Alton’s grin was so full of wonder, she didn’t have the heart to slap both of them senseless.
“Let me get this straight. While I was down below, slaving in a hot galley so Alton doesn’t get canned, you two were up here doing a sailing lesson?” Lindsay gestured with her palms up, looking to both of them for an explanation. “And this isn’t a tub. It’s a ten million dollar yacht I’m responsible for. You want to see a control freak?”
Somehow Alton ignored everything she’d said and asked with widened eyes, “You’re done cooking already? Are you sure it’s something edible?”
A weapon. She needed something she could use as a weapon. Not even a winch handle when she needed one. The Bonnie Blue’s winches were all electric.
* * *
“What in the hell could you have fixed in that short amount of time?” Even though Lindsay’s fists clenched and unclenched at her sides, Alton ignored the danger signs.
“Tuna salad.” Her answer came out in a dangerously clipped tone.
“With the grilled fresh ahi. Right?”
“Nope. Out of a can, with red onion, dill pickle relish, lime juice, and hot sauce.”
“I might as well throw myself overboard now, before the guests see the lunch mess the potato chip queen whipped up,” Alton said, even though the grim set of her lips screamed “stop.” He forged on. “Oh. My. God. What about Fiona?”
“I did her vegan thing with quinoa. Same ingredients, minus the canned fish. Oh, and some veggies.” Lindsay’s chin lifted, defiance burning in her eyes. “It’s 1100 hours, and we’re about an hour away from anchoring at Wallilabou. When we get there, I expect the two of you to help Raoul set out lunch. All the makings are in the chiller, ready to serve. I’ll take the tender to shore and get more flowers for the table.”
“I’m going down to the galley to fix some real food.” Alton switched places at the wheel with Tommy and headed for the companionway.
“No.” There was no mistaking the menace in her voice. “If you go back down now, you’ll get sicker than you were before. As the captain of this ship, I order you to stay up top until after lunch.”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m feeling better.”
“I’m not kidding. Don’t make me get the flare gun.” She ducked back down the steps and pointed toward Alton. “Stay. I’m going to finish the quinoa salad. Then I’ll be back.”
Alton turned to Tommy. “If I went down there, she wouldn’t throw me off the boat, right? I mean, that whole captain thing can’t be for real. She can’t order me around, can she?”
Tommy grinned. “She can, and she will. Legally, she’s the captain. If you disobey her orders, she could tell me to throw you off right here, right now, and I would ‘cause, yeah, orders are orders.”
Alton’s shriveled, abused stomach twisted. He wasn’t nauseated anymore, but he was dancing between rage and terror.
“We can’t serve Lindsay’s tuna surprise to these people. My reputation will be destroyed.”
Tommy tossed a glance from under his thick eyebrows. “It’s one meal, boy. If they get their panties in a wad over one meal, hell, they ain’t worth it. And you’re lucky I’m not cooking.”
Alton went over the ingredients in his head, and yeah, they pretty much added up to a tuna sandwich his mom in Des Moines might have served. Dill pickle relish out of a bottle. It was a horror show.
“I need to talk to Lindsay. I can add a sauce. Yes, they’ll have to suffer through her Midwest cuisine, but I can add a little flair that might save the day.”
His go-to sauce he’d learned in Paris, living in a flat with Bernadette. She was from Nantes, and her family had been cooking fish since Julius Caesar divided Gaul into three parts.
Tommy pushed a button on the console next to the wheel and handed Alton a small speaker attached to a curled line.
Lindsay picked up in the galley. “What?”
“Lindsay, it’s Alton. I need you to make a sauce. It won’t be easy, but I can walk you through it from up here. Please.”
“Alton, lunch will be fine.” A crackle of static punctuated her clipped answer.
“For who? For you, yes. But this meal, every one of the meals on this ship is like, like, like …” His mind went blank for a minute, and then he latched onto the appropriate metaphor. “Every meal is a ten million dollar yacht. If I screw one up, it will ruin everything. I know people, Lindsay, I know how these rich people think and eat. They don’t remember the last meal and they don’t care about the next, all that matters is what they’re eating now. Please.”
“Being a little dramatic, aren’t we?” she said.
“On the life of my mother, please, I know rich people. Please. Give me twenty minutes.”
Another burst of breath from Lindsay. “Fine.”
Alton nearly fainted from relief. “Thank you. Now, do you know what a shallot is?”
“Not really. Is it some kind of root vegetable?”
Alton’s heart stuttered, and he nearly dropped the phone.
“It’s a type of onion. We’ll need the cold butter and one of the bottles of Dom Perignon. I was going to save the Champagne, but at this stage, it’s critical I get this right. We’ll serve your sandwiches with this sauce on the side, though I tremble to think what the dill will do if they try to mix and match. We’ll just have to soldier through.”
He had her assemble all the ingredients which meant he had to guide her through his fresh herbs and explain each leaf. But she was a quick study. Alton thanked God he had come prepared with garlic already roasted. Once she had everything on the counter, they were ready to start.
“First, I need the shallots finely diced, as fine as you can get them. Minced, ideally. Use Jolie.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Oh,yeah, Jolie is my paring knife, the bird’s beak paring, the sheep’s foot.”
“Sheep’s what?”
“It’s the little knife with the straight edge and sloping point. It’s called a sheep’s foot paring knife.” He went on to describe exactly how to cut the shallot. The peeling, cutting the bulb into fanning segments, and then slicing each section as finely as possible. The boat pitched to the left and Alton felt nausea threaten again.
No, he had to focus. He wasn’t at the wheel, but he was cooking, not with his hands, but in his mind.
“I won’t tease you about naming your knives, she said.
Only one response to that. “Thank you.”
Lindsay’s voice stormed out staticky. “I put you on speaker. I’ll chop as well as I can, but the ship is going over some swells. I don’t want to lose a finger.”
“Love your fingers,” Alton said, “but I might love my shallots more.”
“You love my fingers?” she asked, with a smile clearly in her voice.
Alton felt heat rise in his face. “You do have nice hands. But we have to focus. No time for flirting.” He had to blink and clear his mind of Lindsay’s body, from her fingers to the swell of her hips and that butt.
“Yes, sir,” Lindsay said.
>
“I like it when you call me sir,” Alton said, before he could catch himself.
“We can take turns being on top,” Lindsay said, her knife clicking into the cutting board. Then, “Shallots are finely chopped. You said twenty minutes. The next step better not be complicated.”
“It’s all complicated,” Alton said, referring to both his cooking and his flirting with Captain Horrible. He was massively attracted to her, and openly flirting with her now felt so freeing. Nothing would come from it, of course, and so he could say what he wanted and enjoy the ride. “Now, open the champagne, but carefully. We don’t want popping and gushing, so we can serve the bubbly with lunch.”
“Pop and gush.” She laughed. “Are you sure we’re talking about cooking?”
Alton squinted and again, had to ignore the pounding of his heart. Never had cooking made him shiver so.
“Oh, girlfriend, the things you say. Now, combine the shallots, the roasted garlic, the Champagne, and the lemon juice in that good saucepan over high heat. We’ll want to reduce it to about two tablespoons. Keep stirring.”
“Good saucepan?”
“The non-reactive one. Oh God, I hope you chose the right one.”
“Simmer down,” Lindsay said, and then laughed at her own joke.
The ship broke over a wave and went splashing down the other side. Alton felt like he was on an old Star Trek episode. He fell against the banquette next to the helm, but mercifully, didn’t feel sick anymore. He was too focused on cooking and imagining what Lindsay was doing in his kitchen, with his sauce. He prayed she’d cut the shallots finely enough.
“That was a big one,” she said.
“Why thank you,” Alton returned.
“Almost knocked the pan off the stove, but I saved it,” Lindsay said.
“Because you’re so capable,” Alton said, meaning every word. Say what you will about Captain Horrible, but she was a powerful woman who could get things done.
“Okay, Alton, two tablespoons? That’s about how much butter I put on my popcorn.”
“Trust me and pay attention. Here comes the tricky part. Cream and butter. Add the cream. But the second it bubbles, you’ll have to turn down the heat. Right away.”
“That’s odd,” Lindsay said.
“What?” Alton asked, panic in his throat.
“When I bubble, I like more heat, not less.”
Alton sighed. “Of course you do. You and I are a lot alike.”
He waited, imagining the pan, and then heard the stove dial snap to a lower temperature.
“Okay. The butter?” Lindsay asked.
“The butter, yes. Now it’s all in the whisking. You got the cold butter, right? That’s key.”
“Yes, cold butter, and I can whisk. Believe me. You like to whisk, Alton?”
“I’ve been known to whisk a time or two, though I don’t really like to whisk alone.” He heard the whir of metal on the pan, but she was whisking too quickly. “Slower, slower. Okay, yeah, that’s it.”
“Am I whisking right, Alton?” Her voice came out sexy.
“Oh, yeah, almost there, almost there.”
“Are we still talking about cooking?”
“Off the heat,” Alton said quickly, heart hammering from both her banter and this key moment in the preparation. The temperature levels of the sauce had to be perfect. “Take her off the heat, but keep whisking. We have to get the butter and cream completely emulsified into the reduction.”
“Now, you’re just talking dirty,” Lindsay said.
A few more minutes of whisking and Alton smiled. He felt like he’d landed an airplane with an amateur pilot at the controls. She did great.
“That was exciting,” Alton said.
Lindsay sighed. “If I smoked, it would definitely be time for a cigarette.”
“Amen to that,” Alton said. “Now add in the herbs, season to taste, and we’ll just have to hope your tongue is sensitive enough to catch the right nuance.”
“I suppose you have a sensitive tongue,” Lindsay said. “Are you as good with your tongue as with your whisk?”
“My whole career is based on what I can do with my mouth,” Alton said.
Behind him, Tommy laughed.
Alton turned. “What?”
Tommy continued to shake his head and laugh. “If you don’t know why I’m laughing, your daddy didn’t raise you right.”
Alton knew. And he also knew that however flirty he got with Lindsay, that was all it would ever be. He had to stay professional. His career depended on it.
Chapter Twelve
Monday, Wallilabou Bay, Martinique
An hour later, Alton and Raoul organized lunch in Wallilabou Bay while Tommy set the anchor and Lindsay went ashore to find flowers. Rough rock faces peeked through thick, jungle-like greenery. Palm trees crowded between the arched buildings of the tiny village at the water’s edge.
Alton could see why Johnny Depp and his pirate crew had filmed many a scene in this island paradise.
Although at the moment, he couldn’t stop staring at Lindsay’s back as she disappeared in the distance. She looked so competent in her trim captain’s uniform. Like someone who could handle anything, someone who would never let you down.
He wore his chef whites for his work above deck, and he was there to serve the guests with Raoul, who kept dipping the vegetables into the beurre blanc sauce.
Alton had to slap the steward’s hands, “Didn’t you learn any manners growing up in Moscow?”
That comment won Alton a glare and a near snarl. “I’m not Russian.”
Lunch went better than he expected with the Bonnie Blue safe in the bay and a cool breeze sweeping down from the mountains. Since the eyes absorb the look of food first, the garnish of strawberries and kiwis gave a professional ambiance to the meal.
Both Becca and Moj agreed Lindsay’s Midwest sandwiches were perfect after a rough morning at sea. The beurre blanc also elicited high praise. Moj nearly took a spoon to the sauce.
Fiona ate her quinoa mixture and smiled, and yet, Alton could see she didn’t feel well. It wasn’t just the rough sea. Something else was going on. She was pensive and barely spoke as Becca chattered on and on. Although Alton and the rest of the world didn’t take seriously Fiona’s highly publicized health concerns, he couldn’t help but wonder.
Fiona’s strange behavior aside, lunch was a success. The sea had calmed and their journey on to Bequia was easy.
As they got closer to that night’s anchorage, Alton felt well enough to prepare dinner, though he would miss out on their approach into the harbor.
When he came up to the top deck to grill the sea bass, he took in the rising green-smothered mountains, the stretch of sand, the deep blue of the waters, and the forest of masts of other yachts at anchor.
He whipped up another Nantes-inspired sauce and prepared vegetables and hummus for Fiona. She seemed to be in better spirits and wouldn’t stop praising the vegetables. They became the centerpiece of the meal, thanks to the marinade of Chinese spices, rice vinegar and Austrian kourbis oil.
Saffron rice infused with various Japanese seaweeds provided the carbs. Raoul sneaked a spoon from his pocket and grabbed a mound of rice.
Alton slid over to Lindsay who had returned with mounds of lilies the color of ripe tangerines. “Maybe our boy is Chinese,” he said. “He sure likes the rice.”
Lindsay stood smiling and surveying the deck. “I haven’t heard any complaints. Not about lunch, not about the sailing, and not about dinner. Looks like we pulled it off.”
“Yeah, thanks to you,” he said, and grinned, remembering their flirting over the intercom while they cooked.
Lights winked on along the Bequia shore as the sun set behind the island, casting the sky, the sea, in a red glow fading to a deep maroon.
“We make a pretty good team,” Lindsay said, and touched his arm.
He knew what Lindsay was thinking, but he couldn’t go there. Even if Lindsay was willing, it
was time to man up, do what was right, and take a break from women.
He stepped away. “I have dishes to do.”
“Do you want me to make Raoul wash them?” She looked at him, eyes expectant, cheeks coloring, a smile on her lips. “I’m still pissed about him ignoring my order to come help you. We had words. He’ll do what I say.”
Alton knew that was the truth. He was tempted. He could almost taste her lips. Feel her body under his hands. Smell her hair.
Alton couldn’t help but think, Yeah, let Raoul do the dishes, and I can do whatever she wants me to do.
Instead, he replied, “No, he’d pitch a fit and break stuff just to be an asshole. And it’s my kitchen. If someone is going to bust up the place, it’s going to be me.”
He slid away, feeling like he was walking away from the best night of his life.
* * *
Monday Night, Admiralty Bay Anchorage, Bequia
After Lindsay and Tommy finished lowering the anchor at Bequia’s Admiralty Bay, she lingered awhile at the helm, revving the engine hard to make sure the anchor hook held on the bottom.
Then she picked two points ashore to monitor for a few minutes to make sure they didn’t drift. Tommy wandered off, leaving her to the painstaking routine.
Later, she followed her first mate up to the bow, shaking her head, disappointed, still frustrated from flirting with Alton.
She’d given him the perfect out. Raoul could slave over dishes. Alton could slave over her. But he had gone off, preferring soapsuds.
The rest of the passengers were down in the saloon, listening to hip-hop that thumped up under her feet. The piece had a good beat, but then Moj, who worked only with the best, probably produced the artist.
Tommy sat on the bow, feet dangling over the edge. He gazed out at the water, the night, the sea, the island beneath the star-filled sky.
Lindsay approached but didn’t say anything for a long time.
Tommy finally sighed. “Out with it. You’re all hot and bothered about something.”
Leave it to Tommy. He could read her like a bad romance.
Lindsay lost it. “He really must like guys. I mean, I shouldn’t care, but we flirted today, and I thought maybe he was into me, maybe, but no, he’s not. Which means either I’m getting to be too much of a bitch to date normal guys anymore, or I’m getting too old, or he’s gay.” She stopped for a breath and then added, “Let’s go with that last option because the other two are way too depressing.”
Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1) Page 9