The Trouble With Paradise (6 page)

She was island-ready.

He had a feeling she was also
man
-ready.

“Tough job you have here.” Putting a hand to his chest, she pushed him into the room, then followed, kicking the door closed behind them. “Not as tough as my job, mind you . . .”

“What is your job?”

“Me?” She strutted around the bed. “I’m a dancer in Vegas.”

“Dancer.”

Her eyes filled with good humor. “You’re wondering if that’s code for stripper.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“Standing there wondering.”

Maybe a little.
She had the walk. And certainly the talk. As she trapped him in the corner and rubbed that hard “dancer” body against his, he knew she also had the moves. Blindly, he reached behind him, opening a drawer, feeling for and grabbing a Band-Aid.

She stared at it, then sighed and took it. Instead of moving away, she shifted closer, so close that she could have checked him for a hernia by coughing herself. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I need anything else?” she murmured.

“You don’t look like it’s a doctor you need.”

She sighed. “My date stood me up. And you’re obviously not interested either”—she pushed her hair from her face—“I guess I’m feeling a little off, sorry. And alone.”

That he understood. “You’re not alone, there are three other guests booked for this cruise.”

“Yes, but I’m a woman who likes to have
personal
companionship.” She was still close, close enough to make sure all her good spots touched all of his. “Well, thanks for the Band-Aid—” She rubbed her body to his.
“Huh.”
Her gaze went to his. “Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, Doc, or are you just happy to see me?”

He
would
be seeing her, daily. Hourly. The boat simply wasn’t that big. He could take what she was offering, but there was that whole not mixing business and pleasure thing.

That wasn’t what had stopped him. Nope, that came from something else, something even more unsettling. If he gave up his own decree and went after a hookup on this trip—which he wouldn’t—it wouldn’t be Brandy he wanted, sexy as she was.

Nope, it’d be another woman entirely—the naive, completely unaware of her own sexuality Dorie.

Which cemented it, really. After two years out here, he’d finally lost it.

 

Dorie limped away from the doctor’s quarters, managed the climb up the spiral staircase to the deck level, and leaned against the hull to stare out at the sea. They’d left the island far behind. It was just a distant blur now, the curving golden sand lining the semicircular bay long gone. As far as the eye could see lay the azure ocean, dotted with whitecaps that sparkled in the slowly sinking sun. The sky, all long strips of pink and purple, was darkening now to blues.

Everyone she’d met so far had been stunning. And so sure of themselves. Baseball Cutie Andy, the pirate captain, the hot stuff chef . . . the gorgeous grumpy doctor. Yep, they all seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Especially Dr. Christian Montague with that accent, that relaxed and self-assured air as he’d wrapped her ankle, his steely eyes not missing a thing.

God, what she’d give for a fraction of that confidence.

Beneath her feet, the water seemed choppy, and though the rise and fall of the boat didn’t make her feel sick, she was extremely aware of how they sped over the water, as if they were flying. She stared at the whitecaps, unable to see into the depths of the water, but knowing all that separated her from the sea life—especially the sharks—was this boat.

Yeah, definitely not in Kansas anymore. Definitely out of her comfort zone as well, away from all things familiar. Behind her was a wall of snorkel equipment and other fun-in-the-sun toys, and a full-length mirror that she did not appreciate.

Her reflection was a mess.

Her sundress, which had started out with such promise, was now wrinkled and stained by the tea. The material sagged loose and soggy around her breasts, and yet clung persistently to her belly, emphasizing the fact that she’d neglected her sit-ups.

In summary, she looked like one big Fashion Don’t.
Terrific.

“Shh.”

She turned around, but saw no one.

“Did you hear that?” came the voice again.

Okay, who was talking? She turned around again. Still no one.

“Never mind, it’s nothing,” that no one said. “Listen, we have to settle this now.”

Dorie searched all around her, but could see nothing and no one but her own bedraggled reflection. “Hello?” she whispered. “Who’s there?”

“The deal was seventy-five/twenty-five.”

Someone answered this ghost’s statement, but so softly, Dorie couldn’t catch the words.

Then “
Fine,
fifty-fifty, but
you’re
taking care of the mess.”

Dorie gripped the railing. “Hello?”

The voices—low, probably male, but with the wind and the water hitting the sides of the boat, she couldn’t swear to it—went silent.

She strained her ears but could hear nothing. Real or Memorex? After all, she’d had that glass of champagne, and her brain had been scrambled by Cute Guy Overload Syndrome. Maybe she’d return to her room, change for the Meet and Greet, and ice her ankle. Maybe sip some more champagne. Turning back the way she’d come, she limped down the stairs.

“Shh, goddamnit.”

She hadn’t imagined that. She went still.
“Hello?”

Nothing.

Creeped out now, and just barely managing not to break her neck, she hurried, heading for . . . she didn’t know, except she needed to see another human being. She headed back to the last person she’d seen.

Grumpy Gorgeous Doctor.

Given that she’d clocked him in the head and spread iced tea all over him, he wouldn’t be happy to see her. Even without those things he wouldn’t be happy to see her, because she hadn’t made much of an impression.

No problem. He didn’t fit her qualifications either. Hell, she wasn’t even entirely sure he was human—which in no way explained why she was heading straight for him, bursting into his office without knocking.

He stood there, being swallowed whole by a tall, leggy, buxom blonde who even on a very good day for Dorie, which this was most definitely not, would have made her feel extremely inferior.

At her sudden entrance, both the beautiful hottie and the grumpy hottie looked up. The beautiful hottie had a canary-eating smile on her face. Dr. Christian Montague had lipstick all over his jaw.

So much for kicking her life into gear.

FOUR

 

Dorie stared at the couple for one beat before she managed to come to her senses. “I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”

The woman smiled. “No problem.”

Dorie whirled, hightailing it back down the hallway.

“Dorie, wait.”

That French accent made her name sound so exotic. She moved faster. Not easy with the twisted ankle and splinter in her tush.

“Damn it,” she heard him mutter, which only fueled her into moving faster. “Ow, ow, ow . . .” Painfully aware of him catching up, she grabbed her butt and limped as fast as she could. At least her tongue wasn’t swelling, but she could feel her ears flaming and her left eye began to twitch as she made it back to her room.
Alone.

The champagne was warm, which was a damn shame because if ever there was a need for a drink, it was right now. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. Everything was going to be fine.
Fun.

Or it would be, but first things first. The splinter had to go. She limped into the bathroom, where she searched the fathomless depths of her purse and pulled a pair of tweezers from her first-aid kit. Now all she had to do was reach the damn splinter, which wasn’t exactly in the most accessible place. She stripped out of her still wet sundress and undies, and then eyed the mirror over the pristine, sparkly sink.

Too high.

She had to climb on top of the closed toilet, twisting around, just barely managing to catch sight of her own pale behind.

Make that
two
splinters. With her handy-dandy tweezers she actually managed to get one. Holding it up in triumph, she did the pretzel twist again to reach the other, but no matter how she bent, she just . . . couldn’t . . . get to it—

She broke off trying at the knock on her stateroom door. She stared at herself in the mirror, naked except for her bra.

The knock came again.

“Uh . . . just a minute!” Hopping down, she limped to her bed and dug through her suitcase for a fresh pair of panties—

Another knock, this one more firm. “Dorie?”

Gorgeous Grumpy Doctor. Was Sailing Barbie with him? “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you.”

His French accent made him sound so formal, yet beguilingly intimate at the same time. “I’m a little busy.”
Where were her panties?

“Come on, open up.”

Okay, forget her underwear, she had no time for underwear. She snatched another skirt and shoved her legs into it. “Now’s really not a good time.” She found a matching tank top, pulled it on, and hopped to the door, opening it just as Christian was lifting his hand to knock again. “Hi,” she said, breathless.

“Salut.”
His gaze settled on her face, which she knew had to be beet red from the wild exertion. Not to mention the no-panty thing. He held a bag of ice in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Because you look like you have a fever.” He pushed his way into her room without waiting for an invitation, dropped the ice next to the champagne, then turned to face her.

She stood her ground in that small space, her skirt brushing her hips and legs . . . and various other parts that weren’t usually so intimately brushed against. “Perfectly fine.”

He arched a brow, silently reminding her of how she’d just burst in on him in his own office as if there’d been a fire on her tail, so how fine could she be.

“Okay, not so fine,” she admitted, letting out a long breath of air. “But I’ll handle it, thanks.”

He was quiet a moment, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see far more than she liked. “I was with a patient—”

“Yes, I could see that.”

“I think you misunderstood what you saw—”

She lifted a hand. “None of my business.”

“Clearly you needed something.”

She’d needed comfort. Now all she needed was underwear. “No. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

A silly mistake. So she’d overheard a strange conversation. A
really
strange conversation.
Big deal.

“Coup de grace, huh?”

“What?”

“I’ve irritated you to the final straw, and now you’re done talking.”

“Oh. Well . . .” Not irritated exactly.

He scrubbed a hand over his face so that she could hear the rasp of his day-old beard. Then he pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, which was several weeks past a badly needed haircut, and yet somehow the long dark waves looked right on him. Slightly scruffy.

Edgy.

Dangerous.

Thanks to his fingers, his hair stood up a little, but he either didn’t realize or didn’t care. She voted for option number two, and when he jammed on his hat again and looked at her with frustration brimming from that steely gaze, the oddest thing happened.

A frisson of heat coursed through her.

Where was this coming from? She didn’t know, but it was going to stop. He was clearly involved with Sailing Barbie. She gestured to her door.

With a long look that she couldn’t even begin to interpret, he moved—but not out. He came right toward her, stopping only when he was so close she could see his eyes had black flecks swimming in the flinty gray. So close she could smell his soap, or shampoo, or whatever it was that smelled woodsy and cedary and really quite amazing. Close enough so she could see that although his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were, a phenomenon that did something to her, something that definitely hadn’t happened when Andy had smiled at her, or any of the other men.

Not that she wanted to think about what
that
meant.

“One thing,” he said, lifting a hand to the wood above her head, then leaned in even closer. His long, lean, rangy form surrounded her now, his every exhale brushing the hair at her temple. He had a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, and her finger inexplicably itched to touch it.

He apparently itched to touch, too, because he stroked a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

“What?” she asked, sounding as if she’d just run a mile. Uphill, in the snow.

“The Meet and Greet is in the salon.” His gaze dropped over her body before meeting hers. “You might want to change one more time before you go.”