With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) (7 page)

“Sorry,” Yasmin says, flushing. “I swear I’m not actually clumsy.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I mutter that beneath my breath, because she really has been a quick study today. She’s even wearing tennis shoes. But stormy seas make me grouchy.

Yasmin must have heard me, because her head comes up and her dark eyes flash.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just be careful, please,” I say, dialing back my tone. “If you can.”

“If I
can
?” Now Yasmin looks even more pissed off.
 

“That came out wrong,” I say. The ship lurches again, and I grit my teeth against the urge to hurl into the nearest trash bin. I should smooth things over with Yasmin, but we’ve only got a couple minutes before passengers start flowing into the dining room, and if we’re not ready for them we’ll lose the chance for photos. “Set up that light, okay?”
 

“Fine,” Yasmin snaps.
 

As fast as we can, we set up two bright standing lights, pointing them at the canvas background that’s set up against the wall and draped on the floor. The image is of a dark but starry night and a crescent moon, and passengers say they love how elegant they look in the photos.

We turn on the lights just as a couple comes down the hallway. They’re in their sixties and dressed like they’re attending an inauguration ball, the man in a tuxedo and the woman sporting a beaded gold gown. Both of them are frowning.
 

“The weather has been awful. Just awful!” says the wife. “Nothing at all like the cruise we took last fall.”
 

“If it’s like this the entire trip,” her husband adds, “I’m demanding a refund.”
 

“Well, of course, dear.
Of course
.”
 

Great. Coaxing unhappy passengers to smile is tough in weather like this, but before I can summon the energy to try, Yasmin steps forward with a smile and compliments the woman on her gown.

“I love that beading,” she says. “You look wonderful. Can I get you two over here for a moment?”

The woman, smiling now, swans over with her husband. Yasmin poses them in front of the canvas so I can take a few shots, and once the couple heads into the dining room I check their photos. I sigh when I notice a big wrinkle at the couple’s feet. They might not notice it when they buy their photo, but I do.

“Can you fix that wrinkle?” I ask Yasmin as I fiddle with my tripod.
 

She steps onto the canvas to tweak the way it drapes onto the floor, then staggers as the port side of the ship dips and the starboard side rises in a sickening swell. The floor tilts several degrees, and in the dining room I hear dishes crash to the floor. There’s a scream, and someone yells.

Yasmin’s right underneath one of our standing lights, and it teeters dangerously over her head. It’s going to fall on her, I realize, and that’s when instinct takes over. I leap across the canvas, grab her by her shoulders, and put myself between her and the light. Then we’re falling, everything is falling.
 

We crash to the ground, and another scream rings in my ears as the framework crashes down on top of us.

Chapter 7

Yasmin

I land hard on the canvas, the breath knocked out of me. My head spins, and I’m barely able to process what has happened before West and the cameras topple over me in a giant crash.

Nausea weaves through my stomach, but it ebbs once the ship halts its tilt and eases back the other way. In another few seconds, we’re back to normal. Sweet Jesus, that was scary. What happened?

Blinking away my dizziness, I realize that West is laying on top of me, our legs tangled, our chests pressed together, so close that I feel his breath on my cheek.
 

“West?” I whisper. Is he unconscious?
 

He groans, and I sigh in relief.
 

“You okay?” I ask.
 

He doesn’t answer right away. Over in the dining room, I can hear the waiters asking each other and the few passengers if they’re all right. West twists to wrestle the standing light, which has come unplugged from the wall, so it’s not across us. I try to sit up, but West shakes his head.
 

“Don’t move just yet. Are you hurt?” His eyes search my face. He pushes himself up onto his elbows so I can breathe, but our faces remain only inches apart.
 

“I don’t think so,” I say shakily. “How about you?”
 

He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he brushes the hair from my face and runs his fingers over the back of my head.
 

“What are you doing?” I say.
 

“Shh.” His own blue eyes look a little dazed. And worried. He’s almost a different person right now, with concern pulling the edges of his mouth down. His fingers are gentle. The West I thought I’d figured out would be telling me to brush myself off and get back to work. But this West has curled his hand around my cheek, every bit of his attention focused on me.
 

Finally, he nods. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion.”
 

That’s when I realize that West has seriously saved my butt. Those lights are super heavy, and I don’t want to think about what might’ve happened if one of them had hit me on my head.

“Thank you,” I say.
 

“For what?”

“You know, catching my fall.”
 

“It was nothing,” he says, meeting my gaze. Our bodies are still pushed against each other, and his warmth radiates into me more with every second. His muscled arms bracket my torso, making me feel safe. Alive. I’m not sure I want him to move. Realizing that one hand is clutching his shirt, I make my fingers relax. Of their own accord, they flatten on his chest, reveling in the feel of him.

Something hot and bright flares to life in West’s blue eyes, almost like he knows what I’m thinking. His body tenses against mine—and then he mumbles something and pushes himself into a sitting position.
 

“What happened with the ship?” I ask, sitting up too and feeling embarrassed about my reaction to the guy who hooked up with my roommate last night. Are he and Camelia a thing now? Or does he sleep with lots of shipmates?

Either way, it’s so not my concern, I remind myself, and focus on the ship and the alarming lurch that started this whole thing. Could it have been the storm? But the
Radiant Star
is
so big that I’d figured it would be immune to anything but a hurricane.

“Not sure. I should find out.”
 

We stand up, leaning on each other, and an announcement comes on over the speakers. The captain, in a thick Italian accent, explains that the ship’s motion was the result of a rogue wave, and that anyone injured or seasick should report to the ship’s clinic immediately.

“Rogue wave?” I say. “Is that even a thing?”

“It happens. First time for me, though.” West studies me again and starts running his hands over my arms. “Hold on. Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”
 

“What?” I say. His touch is distracting.

“You’re bleeding,” West says.
 

I look down to see blood on my shirt. West lifts the hem to look at my waist, but there’s no injury.

I realize West has a gash on the outside of his left bicep, and that’s where the blood is coming from. “I’m not hurt. You’re the one who’s bleeding.”

West twists his head to look at his arm and mutters a curse. “Great.” It’s not serious, though, and he returns to studying me. “You sure you’re okay?”

It’s strange that he’s fretting over me, especially with how gruffly he’s treated me since I got here. “Yeah. Maybe bruised a little.”

“Sorry about that.”

He turns before I can tell him not to apologize; after all, he was protecting me. Shielding me from the light that nearly fell on my head, which might have—

“West, your back!” I exclaim, seeing the bright red splotch on his shirt just below his right shoulder blade. He groans a little.
 

“Yeah, it hurts.”

“It’s bleeding! We have to get you to a doctor.”

West reaches around with his left hand to feel the wound. He winces, but shakes his head.

“No. I’m fine, it’s only a scratch.”

“A
scratch
? You haven’t even looked at it yet,” I argue. “You might need stitches.”

“The ship’s clinic is going to be overwhelmed right now. It would take hours. We’ve got to get all this set up again.” He gestures to the fallen lights. “I hope nothing broke. We really need to be able to take pictures tonight.”

I can only stare at him, my jaw slack. “You’re bleeding from two places, and you’re worried about some stupid passenger pictures?”

“A big chunk of our revenue comes from Formal Night photos,” West says. I cross my arms, and he shrugs. “Fine, I’ll grab a first-aid kit.” He ducks into an office off the hallway, returning to plunk a white box at my feet. “I’ll put a Band-Aid on it, and we’ll get back to work.”

A Band-Aid? The stain on West’s shirt is still spreading, and he wants to slap on a Band-Aid and call it good? He’s being ridiculous.

“Quit trying to be macho,” I say, though I’m not sure what else to do. He’s my boss—I can’t
make
him go to the clinic.

“I’m not being macho. We have to get these photos, or our sales numbers will suck.” He crouches to rummage in the box, then pauses with one hand steadying himself against the wall. A pained look crosses his face.
 

I drop to my knees and put a hand on his good shoulder.

“West, are you okay?”

His lips tighten. “Just a little seasick.”

Seasick and injured and stubborn. No wonder he was in such a bad mood earlier. Suddenly, I’m reminded of all of the times when Sofia claimed she felt better than she really was, and I decide to take charge. Boss or not, West needs my help.

“Come sit somewhere while I patch you up,” I say.

“I’m fine.”

“I think passengers might be a little weirded out by you bleeding everywhere as you’re taking their picture,” I say.
 

West frowns, as if he hadn’t considered that, then sighs.
 

“All right. But we need to be quick.”

I grab the first-aid kit and steer West to a plush micro-suede chair in an alcove. He sits on the wide arm, his feet resting on the seat, so that I can reach his back and arm. “Hold on a sec,” I say, and dash to the bathroom for a stack of paper towels, some of which I dampen at the sink.

When I return, I help West take off his company polo and undershirt. The gash on his back is a bloody mess, and it’s only my long experience with Sofia—reacting to unpleasant sights, like a stomach tube, only made her more anxious, so I learned to keep calm—that keeps me from sucking in a dismayed breath.

I feel around the wound. “Take a deep breath,” I tell West, and he does, his back and shoulders rising. “Does that hurt?” I ask, wondering if it is possible to have punctured a lung or something.

West shakes his head. “Nothing’s broken.”

“You should get a doctor to look at it to make sure.”

“Yasmin, we’re losing time,” West says, his voice clipped. Pushing my lips together, I grab the damp paper towels.

The gouge in his back turns out to look worse than it is, and I gently clean it, disinfect it—West hisses softly, but doesn’t jerk away—and press paper towels to his skin until the bleeding stops. When it does, I tape gauze over the injury.
 

“There you go,” I say, running my fingers lightly around the wound to make sure everything’s dry. His skin is warm, and with only a square patch of white to mar his back, I finally notice how distracting his torso is. Muscled and tan, his broad shoulders taper nicely to a trim waist. I swallow hard, hit with the desire to see the rest of him too. The way Camelia did last night. I frown, then shake my head. No way am I jealous.

 
“You finished?” West says irritably, and tries to get off the chair.

“Wait, I have to do your arm.” Before he can protest, I move to block him, and he resettles with an impatient grumble. The wound on left bicep has stopped bleeding by now, but the blood is dry, and I have to rub at it with wet paper towels to clean it.

I grip his arm near the elbow to keep him still, and though I keep my focus on the injury, my hand is noticing the hard muscle under my fingertips. My gaze flicks to his chest of its own volition.

Don’t
, I tell myself. I don’t want any distractions during my contract on board, especially not a guy who cares more about sales figures than people. And it’s not like he’s impressed with me either:
Diva. Ship life is going to eat you alive.
 

“What do you think?” West asks. I glance up and see him watching me. My cheeks heat. Oh no, did he catch me checking him out? But then I realize he must be talking about his arm.

“It looks okay,” I say, “but you should really get a doctor to look at it.”

West shakes his head. “No time. If we lose money on this cruise …”

“Is that really more important than your health?”

“Than a couple bruises and a scratch or two? Yes.”

I snort. “It’s just money.”

“Spoken, I’m guessing, by a girl who’s never wanted for it.” West’s voice has gone dry, and I glance up with a frown.

“My family’s not super-rich or anything.” Especially not after all of Sofia’s medical bills. Health insurance only goes so far.

“But you haven’t been super-poor either.”

“And you have?” I retort. West’s face tightens, and I pause. I don’t know much about him at all, I realize. Maybe he
was
poor, and I should shut my mouth.

“Are you done yet?” West asks impatiently. Passengers are starting to trickle through the hallway, chattering excitedly about the rogue wave as they head to the dining room.

“One sec.” I keep my eyes off West’s pecs and on his hurt bicep, and soon I’ve cleaned and bound it in gauze.

“Thanks,” West says, and stands to face me. He studies me, then raises his hand to cup my cheek. His thumb brushes my face, and then his expression clears. “Just a smudge, not a bruise.”