Way Too Deep (Love Overboard Book 1)

by Andrea K. Stein

  “What happened?” she asked again. Of course Alton would start the story with the menu.

  He put his hands over his face. “They were drinking Budweiser, which according to my German friends, is not really beer. Ryan had like three, but it was enough. He was driving the boat. He was drunk.”

  He peeked at her between his fingers. “Okay, the rest of it. Ryan crashed the boat. He hit a huge piece of driftwood, the trunk of a cottonwood, and we all went into the water. The boat was completely destroyed, so we swam to the tree, but it wouldn’t say afloat with all of us hanging on.

  “We had to take turns treading water. We held on all night, not knowing whether or not the tree would sink down into all that cold, black water. When the search and rescue crew got to us, we were all in bad shape, hypothermic. My girlfriend, Julie, she was in the hospital for days, but I didn’t have the guts to visit her. She pulled through, but never forgave me. Hell, I never forgave me for running away. I just couldn’t handle it.”

  “You were young,” Lindsay said gently.

  “Young and stupid.” A shudder went through him. “So yeah, that’s my story. Me and boats don’t mix.”

  “Neither does drinking and boating,” Lindsay said quietly. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  Alton shrugged.

  Lindsay pulled him close. Tightly. And made him a promise. “I’m going to fix this. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll convince them.”

  “No, don’t,” Alton said. “My career is over, but you, this is your chance. Don’t ruin your future by trying to save me.”

  “I’m not sure my future will mean much if I have to let you down. What’s the point of saving my career while someone I care about loses his?” Lindsay gave Alton a hug and then bounced to her feet and headed back out of the galley.

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday Morning, En Route to Grenada

  Alton woke up and tried to lever his way out of his flip-top bunk only to fall back onto his pillow with a moan. He couldn’t even remember how he got back to his cabin.

  He remembered telling Lindsay his sad story about the disaster by the lake, then, nothing.

  He lay there motionless for a moment going over the previous day’s events, trying to figure out when someone could have gained access to the galley to add the fugu fish to his soup. Other than Becca.

  Then he remembered—the morning interlude with Lindsay when she brought him the raw steak for his eye. He smacked the side of his head. Alton, the Kitchen God, let his dick lead him into career Armageddon again. While he and Lindsay were locked together, anyone could have done the deed. The Russian, Manning, anyone.

  Whenever Alton had bottomed out over the years of clawing his way to the top, he’d always figured out a Plan B. This time he had no Plan B. When he got back to civilization, he’d probably have trouble getting a job at Taco Bell.

  A sharp series of raps on the cabin door interrupted his spiral of doom.

  Really? He had to get out of the flip-top bunk and answer the door? No, wasn’t happening. Instead he called out, “Come in.” He tried to put as much surly venom in the two words as possible. Maybe they’d go away.

  Dizziness and misery made him clap his hands over his eyes. Then the damned boat started moving again, that surfing motion coupled with the nauseous leaning away from the wind.

  “Alton, are you okay?” Fiona stepped into the room and shut the door.

  “Not really.” Alton pulled himself up, checking first to make sure he was safely covered. Oh yeah. Slept in his now scruffy chef whites. He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. What the hell time was it? “I’m sure you don’t want me cooking again. There’s stuff in the coolers. You and the others can help yourselves to breakfast.”

  “If you aren’t cooking, I’m stuck with raw vegetables and quinoa I’ll have to cook. Only for me.” She stood uncertainly in the door, and then asked, “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Alton moved and drew the bedding close to him, clearing a place for Fiona to sit.

  They sat in silence for a minute, and then Alton had to say something. “I didn’t poison the soup. I swear to God. I know you all don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

  “I trust you,” Fiona said. “I mean, the care and worry you put into cooking, well, it wouldn’t make sense for you to try to kill us. And you took such good care of me, when I know, preparing food for someone like me can be a chore.”

  “Someone like you?” Alton asked.

  Fiona nodded. “Vegan. Gluten-free. But everything you made was so good and healthy. If you were some kind of psychopath, why would you go to all that trouble? You understand food.”

  Alton had to smile. “How so?”

  “You understand that food isn’t just pleasurable. It’s fuel for our bodies. It’s love from the earth.” Fiona colored and looked away. “I can’t believe I just said that. It sounds so hippy-dippy.”

  He patted her arm. “No, I get it. All the food we eat, well, you eat, is part of the world where we live. Probably not Lindsay’s potato chips, but everything else, you’re right, love from the earth. Absolutely.” Alton wasn’t sure where this was headed. He hoped like hell Fiona wasn’t about to make a pass at him.

  Fiona turned to him. “I’ve been feeling good since Bequia. Some of it is the special treatment, even though I was a little out of it at first. But more and more, I think it’s the food you cooked. It wasn’t just good, it was more than that. It was spiritually nourishing. I can feel it.” Fiona took Alton’s hand in hers. “And I wanted to thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Alton squeezed her hand, giving her a clear sign she needed to let go and that he wasn’t interested. Or was he misreading the signs?

  “And,” Fiona tacked on, “I wanted to let you know. I’m not going to tell anyone about what happened last night. And if you’re willing, I’d love for you to come cook for Moj and me. I talked with him. He’s on board. So to speak.”

  Alton took in a deep breath. “I have a question. You and Moj - you’re so different. How does that work?”

  “Moj needs to have someone to take care of. It’s hardwired into his genes.” She gave him an “everyone-knows-that” smile.

  Alton decompressed a little. Now he had a Plan B. Cook for Fiona and Moj, and as long as no one messed with his food, he’d have clear sailing. God, another nautical term.

  But was that what he wanted? Suddenly, leaving Lindsay felt like a cell on death row, kissing up to moody, fickle celebrities. Alone. Was that what he really wanted?

  He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stay with Lindsay on the Bonnie Blue. She needed the rest of the cruise to go smoothly. The last thing she needed was any kind of ammunition Becca could use to gun her down. He had to leave.

  “What do you think?” Fiona asked.

  Before Alton could answer, the door bashed open. Becca stood in the hallway. The look of fury on her face was new, but the wine glass tilted from her hand was way too familiar.

  “What the hell, Fi?” Becca screeched the question.

  Fiona leapt up. “I was just talking to Alton.”

  “No, you weren’t.” Becca blazed angrily. “You were coming on to him. This is the second time we’ve found you messing around behind Moj’s back. I knew you couldn’t stay faithful to him. I knew it.”

  “You take that back,” Fiona said, her voice shrill.

  Becca’s hands curled into claws. Another cat fight darkened the horizon.

  Alton jumped up too, but he fell back down, woozy from his hangover.

  Becca wheeled on him. “Ooh, big, bad Alton Maura, you are so done. You say no to me, but then get all cozy with my best friend? I hope you know how to swim because I’m going to throw your carcass into the Caribbean. You are off this cruise.”

  * * *

  “You’d better come up here,” Lindsay called down to Tommy on the intercom.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “I’ll explain when you get on deck.” Lindsay pressed
her lips tight together and tried to curb the anger raging through her.

  Becca wasn’t so subtle. She let her fury stink up the deck. “Damned celebrity boy chef. Thinks he can get away with murder and then tries to fuck my best friend. Well, the buck stops here. I’ll show him.” Her perpetual wine glass tipped a little to the side and chardonnay sloshed to the deck next to the helm.

  Moj stood with arms crossed on his chest, shaking his head. Not at Fiona, who clung to him with a tear-stained face, but at Becca. It was obvious he trusted his wife and wasn’t buying into Becca’s accusations.

  Manning regarded them all with eyes as cold as the North Sea in December, only he had a slight smile on his face as well. Cold and bemused, a combination that made Lindsay sigh at him.

  Alton was below, packing. When Lindsay checked in on him, he looked like a man condemned to walk the plank, just as downtrodden, just as pale.

  “Mrs. Carrothers, what would you like me to do?” Lindsay kept her voice even and professional.

  “Let’s keelhaul the SOB. Not that I know what that means, but I’d like to see him in pain. Keelhauling sounds painful.”

  “I don’t think that’s been legal since the 1700s,” Lindsay said, and pulled her cap down lower over her eyes.

  “He has to get off this boat. Not enough room for both of us.” Becca sat down hard on a cushioned bench to Lindsay’s side, kind of like a balloon with all the air expelled. The glass tilted out of her hand and clattered to the deck.

  Just then Tommy huffed up to the helm at about the same time Alton appeared, dragging his Hartmann luggage behind him. This time, though, the polished Gucci loafers were nowhere to be seen. He wore one of Tommy’s castoff shirts, grubby chef white bottoms, and humongous tire-tread sandals.

  Lindsay deliberately diverted her attention from the bedraggled Kitchen God and turned the wheel over to Tommy. They were at the point of threading their way through the reefs near Petite St. Vincent on their way west to the Caribbean Sea to head south for Grenada.

  “I guess this is it, captain,” Alton said. “It’s been fun. Now, do I have to ask permission to leave, or do you dismiss me?”

  Lindsay couldn’t believe this was the same man who had bared his soul to her the night before. She sensed something huge must have happened between then and now.

  “Mr. Maura,” she said, and tipped her cap back on her forehead. “I’m not ready to put you off the boat. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m not a sailor. I’ll never be a sailor. You should just put me off the boat now. Maybe you have one of those little rubber rafts? That’s plenty. Wouldn’t want to be a burden.”

  Lindsay turned toward Becca. “Mrs. Carrothers, it’s only a half-day sail to Grenada. Why don’t we wait until then to make sure Mr. Maura has a safe place to disembark?”

  “A half day?” she said with a snort. “He could kill us all in that time.”

  “If he poisoned the soup that is,” Manning said. “We have no evidence against him, only a very convenient suspicion.”

  Lindsay looked toward Tommy, and he motioned for her to come back to the wheel.

  “Take this,” he said. “I’m gonna end this squabble once and for all.”

  He ambled toward Becca and Alton and gave each a long look. “We’re not puttin’ Alton off where it’ll take him weeks to get back home. Carriacou is on the way just south of here. It’s a pretty good-sized island. Should be a water taxi service there. It’ll be expensive, but the captain and I will help out.”

  “Count us in,” Moj said.

  “I can help as well.” CeCe had just climbed the companionway to the top deck, perky in a string bikini that left nothing to the imagination. Her smooth, golden skin glowed the same tone all over. “You want I should go along with you and make sure you find a place to stay?”

  Both Alton and Lindsay echoed “No” at the same time. Manning stayed quiet, merely watching.

  Tommy nodded with a gruff “All right, that’s settled. Now everyone relax. We’ll get to Carriacou in less than an hour. Captain Fisher, I’ll take the helm when we get there, if you want to take Alt in to the island.”

  Lindsay breathed out a sigh. But she still worried about Becca. The troubled trophy wife sat ominously quiet on the bench, her fists clenched so tight, her knuckles were the color of the sand. Her glances of hatred bounced off both Alton and her husband’s Swedish masseuse goddess.

  Raoul drifted close by. Like a storm cloud. She’d love to know his story and whether or not he was behind the poisoning. More and more, Lindsay considered him the most likely suspect, which meant they were all still in danger.

  Except for Alton. He would be safe on land. The thought of losing him strangled Lindsay. Was the ocean worth losing Alton?

  No, she needed them both. But right at that moment she was damned if she could figure out how.

  * * *

  Thursday Morning, En Route to Carriacou

  Alton watched Lindsay drive the tender through the sparkling water, remembering how she’d looked the night of the rave back on St. Lucia. Felt like a long time ago.

  They approached the island of Carriacou, which wasn’t exactly an island paradise, but more of a scrubby desert transplanted to a rocky island in the middle of nowhere. Dirt, bushes, and few trees. You’d be hard-pressed to find a postcard for the place. She suddenly cut the engine. Without the breeze of buzzing over the water, the air was stifling.

  She started to say something, but then closed her eyes and fired up the motor again.

  “What were you going to say?” He shouted the question over the noise of the engine.

  She shook her head. Didn’t say anything, but he watched her wipe her cheeks under her sunglasses. Some no-name pair.

  Alton was too numb to spill tears under his Cartier shades.

  She drove the boat up to a rickety pier extending from a deserted beach and then turned to him. “Hillsborough is the best bet for a water taxi. You see that trail?” She pointed at a strip of brown slicing through the green. “That will take you there.”

  She cleated off the tender’s lines and then started heaving his Hartmanns out onto the beach.

  “Lindsay,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry things turned out like this.”

  She dropped the last of the luggage into a pile. Alton couldn’t tell if the moisture on her face was tears or sweat.

  He couldn’t read her eyes behind the dark sunglasses. Her voice was all business. “I’m just glad Becca didn’t call the Grenadine police. She talked about that. So you’re free to go. I’ll finish up this job and go on to the next one. It’s fine.”

  Alton climbed out of the boat and joined her on the ragged wood pier. He took her hand and gently removed the sunglasses.

  Fresh tears spilled down.

  Then she got mad. “Don’t. Okay? Just don’t. It’s over. It was a fun little fling, but we’re both adults. No need to get all weepy.”

  “But you are all weepy,” Alton said. And then he drew her close. She remained wooden for a minute before pushing him away.

  “I’ve had flings before,” he said. “This wasn’t a fling. It meant more. You meant more. Come back to the launch with me. Or tender. Whatever the hell you call it.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t do boats, and I can’t do land. So, Alton, we just need to go our separate ways, okay?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, we probably should, but not yet.” Before she could say no, he picked her up and stepped across the lines to the tender.

  “Stop. Put me down. Leave me alone,” she said, pushing at his chest. She wriggled away and jumped down.

  “Nope. Can’t do that.” He toed aside the emergency paddles and opened the lifejacket box. Grabbing an armful of the bright orange, foam-filled jackets, he began laying them in the bottom of the tender. Alton sank to his knees and extended his hands toward her. “One last time?”

  “No, we shouldn’t.” />
  “Look at all the time we wasted, hiding our feelings, trying to save our careers. Didn’t do a damned bit of good.”

  She swiped at her tears and fell forward into his arms. “We’d better make this really good, ‘cause it’s definitely the last time.”

  Rolling back with him onto the orange mass of lifejackets, she pulled his face to hers and covered his mouth. When she danced her tongue inside, he rolled her over and took charge.

  He couldn’t wait to pull off her shirt but pushed beneath the soft knit fabric and ripped away her bra. Her nipples were already budded, begging for his touch. He sank lower and feasted, pulling one breast into his mouth.

  She moaned and wrapped her legs around him, buried her hands in his hair. He pushed down the elastic-waist of his trusty chef whites and entered her in one smooth push. She was already slick and ready for him in spite of all her arguments.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thursday, Late Morning, Carriacou

  Lindsay clenched around Alton’s cock and moved slowly, deliberately. This moment would have to last a long time. Their love was doomed, but for now at least they were together.

  He leaned close to her ear and after a kiss, whispered, “I’m going to make love to you until you can’t stand. Mermaids will have to come to your rescue.”

  When she brought her knees higher to accommodate all of him, he stopped breathing for a moment. She smiled and made him breathe again with another kiss. They claimed each other’s mouths as if building a tunnel to sustain life.

  She put everything she had into this one last time. There would be hell to pay later when she went back to the little ship of horrors, so the pleasure had to equal the pain to come.

  She lost track of time until suddenly, Alton let out a bellow, pushed into her, and then rolled onto his side. “Uncle,” he said. “If I had a white flag, I’d wave it.”