The Trouble With Paradise (12 page)

What did that mean?
She turned to face him. “I’m not having a fling.”

“No? It’s what he’s looking for. It’s what you’re looking for. Man-made orgasms.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, ears flaming. “Brandy said that.”

He laughed softly, and the sound scraped low in her belly.
Bad body.
“Really? So you didn’t divide up the men on this cruise, thinking we could give you those man-made orgasms?”

No. Okay, yes.
But she wouldn’t ask if he knew how to give her one, not when the answer was all over his face. It always was, all damn day long as he moved with an ease and confidence that baffled her because she’d never had either. “You’re not exactly in a position to make fun of summer flings.”

His brow arched in silent question as the boat lurched.

“Brandy?” She clutched at him for balance, not too busy in conversation to notice how good his hands felt on her hips or how hard his chest felt beneath her fingers. “I saw you kissing her yesterday.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, in your office . . .” She trailed off when he just looked at her. “Okay, I didn’t actually
see
a kiss. Not exactly.”

“If you want to know what you
did
see, why don’t you ask me?”

She opened her mouth to do just that, while he waited with a smug expression that made her shake her head. “Never mind.”

That little smile still curving his lips, he shrugged. Fine with him.

Good. Great. Fine by him.
God, he smelled amazing. Why was she still holding on to him? And why did she not want to let go? She closed her eyes but that just made the sensations stronger, and the situation even more intimate. “How about me? Do you want to know anything about me?”

“None of my business. I’m going to leave now.”

“Right.”

But neither of them moved. Christian let out a slow exhale near her ear and her entire body shuddered. In response, a sound escaped him, a low, rough one that seemed to awaken every single erogenous zone she owned.

Instead, her body seemed to disconnect from her brain without permission, allowing her hands to slide up his chest. Beneath her fingers, he was corded with muscle, muscle that quivered at her touch. “You should know,” she said a little shakily. “I’m not looking to be
anyone’s
fling.”

Catching her wandering hands in his, he arched a brow. “You sure about that?”

She snatched her hands free. “Yes.”

“Might want to inform Andy.”

“I don’t need to explain anything to him.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re quite as insightful as you think, not when it comes to men.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying”—again he exhaled—“be careful.”

Concern?
Was that concern from the man she wasn’t yet entirely convinced was even human?

Another wave rolled beneath them, making the boat shudder and groan and creak, and she again clutched at him.

“Helluva storm. Denny’s navigating the waves at an angle to prevent slamming into the back side of the next wave, but he’s missing a few.”

His hands were back on her, his head bent low to hers. She pressed her jaw to his, taking comfort in his nearness. “Are we going to be okay?”

“Time will tell.”

Brutal honesty. She had a feeling he’d always be that way, no matter what, which might be refreshing—if they were on land.

As if fate wanted to drive home the point, the boat tipped hard to the left, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

“Need to breathe here.”

“I could use some bedside manners right about now.”

When he didn’t respond to that, she tipped her head back and looked into his eyes, which were tense, even for him.

“Dorie—”

“Oh, God.” Had she just admired his brutal honesty? Because she could see that brutal honesty in his gaze, and suddenly she wanted a lie. “The boat’s going to break apart, isn’t it, and we’re all going to die.” Her throat closed at the thought, her eyes burned, and when she spoke, her voice broke. “I’m too young to die, Christian. Way too young.”

“Hey.
Hey,
” he murmured, and stroked a hand down her back. “I’ve been in worse storms, and I’m still breathing.”

The boat rocked to the right now, but Christian had his legs spread for balance, and still holding her as he was, they didn’t go anywhere.

And there, surrounded by the hell of her reality, she felt . . . safe.

Maybe the shock of that had her feeling other things as well, such as the way her breasts were smashed against his chest, or how the button fly of his jeans pressed into her belly—

Again the boat shifted hard, groaning and creaking under the strain. His arms tightened on her, and she turned her face into his shoulder. The motion arched her spine, just a little, and tore another of those low, rough sounds from his throat.

Needing to see his face, she looked up.

His gaze slid to hers, though he didn’t say a word, or move so much as a muscle.

“I did not consume enough alcohol for this,” she whispered, lifting a hand to her head, which was spinning. “Or maybe the opposite is true.”

“You only had two.”

He’s been watching?
“I’m a real lightweight,” she admitted. “A cheap date.”

“Dorie.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re not supposed to tell me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could take advantage, that’s why.” He glanced at her bed. “Big advantage.”

Her erogenous zones went on high alert. “Are you that kind of man?”
Did she want him to be?

He closed his eyes briefly. “You need to go to sleep.”

Yes.
Yes, she did. “I’m scared, Christian.”

“Don’t.” He scrunched his eyes shut. “Don’t tell me that either. Don’t tell me anything. Hopefully this’ll all be over by morning, and everything will be back to normal.”

“Which would be you being distant.”

He stared down at her for a long beat, and she became incredibly, intimately aware of their position, and how she’d glued herself to him. But he wasn’t an innocent bystander. His hand was low on her spine, low enough that his fingers were within reach of her splinter.

Not commando tonight . . .

He didn’t say a word but she knew he was thinking it, and she realized there was something pressing into her belly, and it wasn’t just the buttons on Christian’s Levi’s. She licked her dry lips. “Um, are you—”

“Yes.” His voice was a low, rough whisper. “How’s that for distance?”

Because she was weak, oh so weak, she arched against him. Nearly every bone in her body melted at the feel of him, at the sound that escaped him, one that might have been part laugh, part groan. She felt his fingers spread wide on her bottom, as if trying to touch as much of her as he could. “Bed.” He sounded strained. “You need to go to bed.”

Yes, she knew.
Bed.
But if she went to sleep right now, and if the worst happened and the boat broke apart before dawn and they all drowned tonight in their sleep, she was going to die knowing she hadn’t yet accomplished her goal for the trip. Heck, her goal for the rest of her life.

Live life to its fullest.

She glanced out her porthole, where the black night and blacker storm had whipped the sea into a frothy, frenzied, terrifyingly lethal state.

Dying was a possibility, no matter what he said. Pretty damn final, too. No more chances to do what she’d always figured she had time to do. At the thought, regrets filled her, nearly choked her, but she ruthlessly bit them back. She was going to live to tell this tale, and starting right this very minute, she’d allow no more regrets, no more stalling.

As Brandy’s mom had said—think big, live big, and love big.
Now.
Because
now
was all she might have. In light of that, she was going to do something she’d never done before. “Christian?”

He looked at her warily.

For the first time in her life she made the first move, reaching up, fisting her fingers into his hair, tugging his mouth to hers.

He allowed it, until they were only a fraction of an inch apart, and then he went very, very still.

Holding back.

Huh.
She sort of thought he’d take over from here, which would be helpful since she really didn’t know too much about seducing a man.

He didn’t move.

So she opened her eyes and stared into his stormy ones. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

“No.”

Turning her back, she hugged herself. “I’m good now. You can leave.”

“Dorie—”

“All right.”

She waited. She heard him open the door, and then shut it, and she smacked her own forehead.
“Idiot.”

“You, or me?”

She froze. He hadn’t left. Of course not. Because apparently she hadn’t yet made a big enough fool of herself. “Me,” she said, not opening her eyes. “I’m definitely the idiot.”

“There’s something you should know, Dorie.”

She cracked one eye, thinking if she squinted, it’d somehow be less embarrassing.

“I don’t mix business and pleasure.” He said this softly, with genuine regret in his eyes. And this time when he opened the door, he really left.

NINE

 

The next morning Dorie opened her eyes and became immediately aware of two things. One, the daylight barely peeking into her porthole looked gray and dingy, nothing like the brilliant sunshine she’d experienced until yesterday evening.

And two, the boat was still pitching like a roller coaster ride gone bad. She sat up in bed and felt extremely grateful not to be experiencing seasickness, though vertigo was another thing entirely. Taking a shower was an exercise in stamina, but she managed, then dressed—wearing panties today, too, thank you very much. No more commando, even if the material rubbed the splinter. No matter how much it irritated her, it’d just have to stay put until she came up with a solution that didn’t involve requiring outside assistance to remove it.

Because the only outside assistance she could think of came in the form of a man who’d rejected her kiss, and that was just a bit too humiliating to contemplate.

Well, she hadn’t been thinking, that had been her problem. She’d have to correct that immediately. Note to self: THINK at all times.

She could do it.

She just wouldn’t look at him again. Not for the entire trip.

But Andy, sweet, kind, sexy-as-hell, Texas Andy . . . him she could look at all she wanted, she promised herself. Because she’d bet that he wouldn’t have rejected her kiss!

She grabbed her purse and opened her door. The hallway was empty, but walking it with the boat rocking wildly was no picnic. She made it to the stairs and got halfway up before she heard something from below her, a sort of muted hushed whisper.

The hair on the back of her neck rose as the sense of déja vu hit her.
Enough with the mysterious conversation!
“Hello?” she called out, turning to try to see behind her, though unfortunately she couldn’t see past her own tush.

While she was twisted, the boat jerked, and she hit the wall.
Ouch.
She began climbing again. She felt off balance, inside and out, which is probably why, when the boat lurched, she lost her grip on the railing entirely, flying straight backward—

Into a hard wall.

A hard wall that went “oomph.”

Then that hard wall gave, and she was sailing down the way she’d come—

Landing in a pile of limbs, half of which did not belong to her.

Since that single oath was muttered in an unmistakable French accent, with both irritation and resignation, she knew exactly who it was before she even opened her eyes.

The bane of her existence, of course.

The boat pitched again, and together they went sliding across the floor. Dorie gripped her purse with one hand and him with the other, and watched the hull wall come directly at her. She closed her eyes and winced in anticipation, just as Christian tucked her beneath him.

She still hit, but not the wall.

Nope, Christian did that for her, and then she hit him.

Hard enough to produce stars in the daylight.

Flat on her back, she opened her eyes and groaned.

Christian leaned over her. “You okay?”

“I think so.” For such a long, lean, hard body, he was quite the cushion. “Thanks.”

He frowned and held her down when she would have sat up. “Make sure.”

She must have hit her head or something, because the way he was bent over her, eyes narrowed, mouth tight, jaw bunched, he looked concerned.