The Trouble With Paradise (13 page)

And hella sexy with it.

Definitely, she’d hit her head. She lifted a hand to it but it didn’t hurt.
So far so good.
She rolled to her back and winced at the splinter in her butt.

“What is it?” Without waiting for her to answer, he began running his hands down her limbs. Arms first, all the way to her fingers. She was so shocked she just stared up at him as he shifted his attention to her legs, his warm, firm hands checking her ankles, calves, knees—“Hey!” Finding her senses, she slapped at his hands.

“Checking for broken bones.”

“You’re copping a feel!”

“If I were ‘copping a feel’ as you say, I’d have my hands somewhere else entirely.” He leaned back on his heels. “Good news. You’re fine.”

“I know!”

“Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you want me to look at your ass.”

“You hurt it that first day, and you’re still hurt.”

“I said I was fine!”

“I’m a doctor.”

She got to her feet, hands on her bottom. “I’m not showing you my splinter!”

His brow shot up so high it all but vanished into his dark, wavy hair. “Splinter?”

She looked away. “It’s nothing.”

He pulled her around, and this time he wasn’t thinking about smiling. “It needs to come out.”

“Uh-huh. And when it does, naturally, you’ll be the first to know.”

He stared at her, apparently—and correctly—gauging her determination and stubbornness as nonnegotiable. “Okay, but when you get infected—”

“It won’t.”

“It
will
.”

He was deadly serious, and she swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine. I
am
fine.” Staring up at him, she realized that while she was fine, he was not. His mouth was bleeding, and before she could stop herself, or remember last night’s humiliation, she put a finger to his lip. “I hurt you when I fell on you.”

He lifted a hand to his mouth, looked at his bloody fingers. “It’s nothing.”

“So we’re a fine pair then, aren’t we? You need some ice.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“Hey, I’m the aunt of two very agile, slippery, weasely nephews under the age of five. I know my first aid.”

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” He nodded. “You’re so eager to be up and about, you’re hired.”

Hired.
To doctor him up? An incredibly inappropriate vision of doing just that came to her, of slowly stripping him down to skin to play doctor—

“Translation?”

“We’re not out of the woods yet. This storm isn’t just a stubborn bitch, it’s a hurricane. Winds at ninety miles an hour, and the waves are topping at thirty-five feet. People are
mal de mer
. Seasick.”

So he didn’t mean play doctor with him.
Damn.
“How did this happen?”

“The low pressure system hit a jet stream and just like science, here we are.”

She crossed her arms. “You have such a way of making me feel better.”

“No time for coddling. Wear your life vest if you come above deck.”

“Why?”

“No one goes up there without one until further notice. Let’s get going. You’ll need some supplies.” He pulled her down the hall and into his quarters. “The others are on their deathbeds. Just ask them, they’ll be happy to tell you. I think Brandy’s probably the sickest, so check on her first. Keep rotating through the rooms.”

“Where will you be?”

“Helping Denny.”

Outside. Vulnerable to the elements. In danger.
“Why can’t we go back?”

“To Fiji?”

“Yes.”

Something crossed his face at that, a shadow, a grimace, whatever, but it caused a terrible foreboding to seize her, from the inside out. She took a step toward him and gripped his shirt. “Christian? Talk to me.”

He looked at her hand fisted on him. “There are some technical difficulties.”

“Skip the cryptic. I hate cryptic.”

“We were hit by lightning last night.”

She gasped. “My God.”

“Several times. And then there are the thirty-five footers. Some of our equipment’s been damaged.”

“Damaged,” she repeated carefully.

“Actually, gone.”

“Explain, please.”

He seemed to weigh his next words carefully, but gave her the truth she’d asked for. “The blast of lightning bent the steel deck of the compass room, wrecked the compass, and swept some of the equipment onto the main deck where it was washed overboard.”

She just gaped at him, trying to understand.

“The oiler’s door on the starboard side was smashed in by a rogue wave, and some of the windows on that same side have been blown in as well. Is that enough?”

“There’s more?”

“We’re taking on water, and without functioning sails, we’re not in control of our direction. We’re off course, way off course. How about now? Enough now?”

She swallowed hard. “Are we drowning today then? Because if we are, I should schedule in my panic attack.”

“There is good news.”

“I’d like that please.”

He slid open a supply closet. “The storm is losing strength.”

She stared at his broad shoulders, shoulders that took on so much. “So are we drowning today or not?”

“Well, it’s not on my agenda, no.”

“Even without the storm, if we’re damaged beyond control . . .”

He turned back, acknowledging that with a slight bow of his head.

She drew a shaky breath and gave up on trying to get promises. There were none to be had, and she didn’t want false ones anyway. “Okay. Let’s—”

The boat jerked, nearly sending her flying against a wall, but Christian reached out, snagged her by the shirt, and hauled her to his side, saving her from more bruises and who knew what else. When she could stand on her own, he grabbed a bag and handed it to her, filling it with things she might need from his shelves: ice packs, Band-Aids, aspirin . . .

She watched him work quickly and efficiently, and when he caught her staring at him, he stopped. “What?”

She dug into the supplies he’d just given her for gauze, and then shifted close, dabbing at his lip.

He hissed out a breath.

“Baby,” she murmured.

His gaze slid to hers, surprised. “
Baby?
As in infant?”

“That’s right. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

“Trust me, I can take anything you’ve got.”

Oh boy, if that didn’t start her engines. “Sorry, but you relinquished that right last night.”

“My loss.”

Did he really feel that way? The boat rocked, and she reached out to balance herself against him, her hand settling on his chest as if it belonged there. She found her fingers sort of stroking over him, and stared at the motion.

But beneath his T-shirt, he was warm, solid. Her fingers glided over his pec, a nipple. It pebbled, and she did it again.

“Playing with fire, Dorie?” he asked softly.

Lifting her head, she stared at him. Her heart had sped up. He could pretend he was unaffected, but she felt his heart do the same, thumping with increasing velocity beneath her hand. She opened her mouth to say so but he put his fingers over her lips, making them tingle, making every part of her tingle.

“Stick with Andy.”

She shook her head. “What?”

“You heard me. And you know why.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

Turning away, he took a few more things from the shelves, and dropped them into a backpack for himself. “You need to make sure they’re drinking plenty of liquids—”

The boat pitched again and she put out her hand to brace herself against the wall.

He simply spread his legs and remained steady. “They’ll need you to remind them to keep drinking. If anyone turns nonresponsive, come find me.”

She studied his broad shoulders, and the invisible weight there. He either didn’t want her, or didn’t want to want her. She voted for option number two. “You must get tired of this.”

“Being a doctor?”

“Babysitting passengers. Storms. Not having your own space.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Most people assume my job is the best job on the planet. Sailing for a living. Taking care of the occasional seasickness. Or splinter.”

She ignored that because he was most definitely
not
taking care of her splinter. “I would think that this job might be a bit . . . claustrophobic for you.”

He turned away, but not before she saw the truth in his gaze.

Why did he do it? Why did he stay? “Did you mean it when you said I should be with Andy?”

“I mean everything I say. Always.”

TEN

Christian made it up to the deck, then leaned against the hull, eyes closed, body tight. His body had been tight ever since he’d first laid eyes on Dorie, but he could get over that.

What he couldn’t get over was the way she’d gotten inside him. Just looking at her, with those wide, expressive eyes, all that untamable hair, that sweet expression, which said she might be a little naive but was willing to try anything . . .

He wasn’t used to such conflicting emotions. There hadn’t been many in his life he’d let get to him. His mother, yes. She’d been the center of his universe, but he’d lost her so young he could scarcely even remember being held by her. After that he’d been sent from his native France to live with his father, who’d been a traveling medic, a man not much for warmth and affection. Later there’d been women, even a few Christian had found himself attached to, but no one who’d made him want things.

Until now.
He wasn’t sure what it was about Dorie, or what he wanted exactly. She had a way of opening him up and laying him bare, even while being so damned annoying he wanted to wrap his fingers around her neck and squeeze.

No, that was a big, fat lie. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, and his body.

And his tongue.

Even more unsettling, he wanted more, more than he’d wanted in a long time. She’d made him feel this way with a single glance of those soulful eyes, the ones that always gave her away; gave away her insecurity, her vulnerability, her sweet, loving nature.

Her attraction to him.

An attraction he’d all but told her to give to Andy instead. Definitely that was for the best. The two of them would enjoy their vacation, and then go on their merry way.

And Christian would still have one long year left in his own personal hell . . .

He could hear someone swearing—Denny. The winds and rain had lessened slightly. One thing in their favor. Now if they could survive the seas, limp into the next port, and get the passengers safe on land . . .

“Goddamn piece of shit scuppers, fuck me if they won’t goddamn work.” More from Denny, who was slapping at his instruments—those that were left. “Hell, fuck, shit—”

“You kiss your
maman
with that mouth?”

Denny didn’t laugh, or make some smart-ass comment in return, which had Christian taking another good long look at him. They’d worked together a long time now, and though there was an ease, a familiarity, there was not a kinship. They were too different for that, but it didn’t take close kinship to see Denny was overly pale, and not pissed off as Christian had first thought, but something far worse.

“Shitty day, mate,” Denny said without looking at him. “I’m running warps and using the drogue. But the waves are traveling faster than the boat, breaking over our stern. Pushing us sideways. We’re going to broach.”

“Let’s loop lines on the port primary winch—”

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Denny shoved his wet hair out of his face. “We’re out of gear. We have to switch to passive techniques, no other choice.”

Passive techniques meant giving up and hoping for the best. Christian had never been good at passive. Never. Spending his younger years traveling Africa, South America, wherever his father had been needed, they’d gone, all the while gathering life skills. Those years had been exhilarating, adventurous, and educational as well as exhausting, but had left him with a certain sense of invincibility.

Yet he didn’t feel so invincible now.

Another wave hit them hard. The deck became a grave-yard as things washed overboard.

“See?” Denny yelled over the mountainous seas slamming into them like a battering ram. “Screwed.”

“The storm’s weakening.” In fact, he could see the edge of it on the far horizon, just beyond the swirling gray massive clouds.

Blue skies.

“Hope it’s not too late.”

It wasn’t like Denny to be such a defeatist, and Christian took another good look at him, noting the deep gash above his left eyebrow. “What happened?”