The Trouble With Paradise

TWO

Day One-Kicking Life into Gear Day.

Or Finding a Cabana Boy Day.

Pick one. Hell, pick both.

Dorie had done it. She’d packed a suitcase-okay, two-and flown for a day and a half, first to Australia (ohmigod, Australia!) then onward to Fiji, specifically Viti Levu, and the international airport there.

She got off the plane and into a bright green taxi without windows. On the console sat a humongous parrot, singing along in falsetto to Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life after Love,” the warm, salty breeze ruffling its feathers. Dorie joined in, and at the harbor, got out and stood on the dock, grinning from ear to ear at the beauty around her. Let the adventure begin!

More of that light wind rolled over her, rustling the stiff fronds of coconut palms edging the streets and beach. There were people everywhere, in all colors and sizes, speaking a myriad of gorgeous-sounding languages with delightful accents.

She’d wondered if she’d fit in, and she had to say, she did. She was wearing one of her own designs, a white sundress, with brand-new heeled sandals-her cruise splurge-which gave her more height and confidence than practicality. But she figured the confidence was more important at this point.

At anchor on the bay sat a dozen gleaming sailboats, their hulls slashes of white on a backdrop of startling blue so bright it almost looked like a painting.

I’m in the South Pacific…

So hard to believe, and she took a moment to soak up the ambiance. That, and the fact that this whole Kicking Life into Gear thing felt good, really good. Following the directions she’d been sent, she walked to a slip at the north end of the docks, where she stared up at a very large sailboat. A very large sailboat that looked like something right out of one of the history books she’d done her best not to read while in school; tall, proud, and… sinkable.

Gulp.

The Sun Song.

She knew from the info that Peter had sent her that the sailing yacht had been made in France, was eighty-two feet long, and was a ketch, whatever that meant. The exterior was made out of welded aluminum alloy, which sounded good and well and extremely water worthy, but it was nice to see the safety raft strapped to the side in case of emergency.

Although come to think of it, she didn’t know if she wanted to think emergency in the same sentence with the words sailboat vacation…

Nope, no negative thinking. She’d gotten the week off, and to do so she’d only had to promise Mr. Stryowski she’d work Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Easter-for the rest of her life. But it was done, and she would enjoy herself. After all, it was her new mission statement.

That, and to not think of Mr. Stryowski, or her slowly wasting away life… not once.

The plank to get on board was flat and wide enough, assuming she was very careful, and she planned to be very, very careful. There were chain handholds on either side, protecting her from the long fall to the water below, but her age-old fear of heights gripped her hard, making nerves flutter in her tummy.

Or maybe it was the king-size candy bar she’d consumed on the plane over here. As she stood there, frozen by her own shortcomings, she contemplated the plank, and how long it seemed. From above, what seemed like miles of white sails seemed so pristine against the azure blue sky.

“Helluva lot of sheets up there, huh?”

At the southern drawl, Dorie turned in surprise and got an even bigger one. A man stood next to her. Correction, a magnificent Adonis of a man.

He was dressed in clothes he definitely hadn’t bought at Shop-Mart. Nope, she recognized those pants and shirt as Hugo Boss, and the fashionista in her sighed. There was nothing more attractive than a man who knew how to dress.

Not even a Nordstrom’s sale.

His pants were khaki, his shirt a stark white linen, artfully shoved up at the elbows. His luggage-a gorgeous leather saddlebag-hung off one seriously broad shoulder. So broad that he nearly blocked out the sun. He had sun-kissed blond hair and stunning warm hazel eyes, topping about six feet of solid hard body, the kind one got from a most earnest commitment to the gym.

Unlike her own, not-so-earnest commitment.

Turning his head, he looked at her. “A real beauty, don’t you think?” he asked in that Texas accent.

She tried to respond, but her tongue was swelling. Good to know she was still a socially challenged idiot. Any second now she’d start drooling-an unfortunate side effect of the swollen tongue.

“Hello?”

Heat zoomed up her face to the tips of her ears, undoubtedly lighting her up like a Christmas tree. Perfect. She bit her tongue and managed two words. “A beauty.”

He smiled, and the sheer wattage nearly knocked her to her knees, but she did her best to return the smile. Given her nerves, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing the moment he’d started talking to her, she probably only bared her teeth. Smooth. She was so smooth.

He pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, covering up those decadent eyes. “You going on board, too?”

“Yes.” Assuming she managed to cross the plank.

“Excellent.” He held out a big, strong hand. “Andy Hutchinson.”

“Dorie Anderson.” His hand, warm and callous, swallowed hers whole. She was so distracted by his hotness factor, she almost missed the fact that he was looking at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Baseball,” he drawled, and did the big wattage smile thing again.

She really needed to get on board and away from him so she could commence breathing before brain damage occurred, but she was nothing if not polite. “Baseball?”

“You’re wondering where you know me from. I play for the Astros. First base.”

She thought maybe he paused there for adoration, but he was wasting his time, because all she knew about baseball was that the players looked cute in their tight uniform pants.

Besides, she already adored him.

From far above, up on the ship, voices rang out, and then laughter. Baseball Cutie looked up, clearly eager to board. “You ready?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He gestured for her to go first.

“Uh…” Once again, she eyed the plank, then let out a nervous laugh. “You know what? I’ll just…” She took a step back to make room for him. “Meet you up there-”

Only she never got to finish that statement because she tripped over her luggage, still on the ground behind her, and went ass over kettle right there on the dock, hitting hard enough to rattle her teeth.

Sprawled flat on her back with her legs draped over her own two suitcases, she stared up at the brilliant blue sky with the solitary white puffy cloud shaped like a pair of lips grinning down at her, and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

“Jesus. You okay?”

Was she? Well, that depended on his definition of okay. She moved to sit up, but froze at the unmistakable sharp prick of a splinter-in her butt. As she contemplated this unwelcome turn of events, Andy’s gorgeous face appeared, that easy smile now twisted into a worried grimace as he leaned in close. “Dorie? Talk to me, darlin’.”

Well, if he kept calling her darlin’ in that slow, southern boy speak, she’d be juuuust fine. “I’m good.”

“You sure? Because that was a doozy.”

Yeah, she knew. She’d been there.

“I mean, I haven’t seen such a good landing since we beat the Yankees at home last season.”

Terrific. She was more entertaining than a nationally televised baseball game. As she dwelled on this, a breeze hit and her vision became momentarily hampered by… oh yes, perfect… her own gauzy white sundress. This was because the hem of it flew over her head.

Which meant she was showing parts of herself to Baseball Cutie that shouldn’t ever be shown before a fifth date.

Okay, maybe a third. Not that she’d been on a third date lately…

Horror and embarrassment warred for first place. Slapping down her dress, she sat up and tried not to look directly at him, as if that could possibly help the fact that he’d just gotten an up-front and personal look at her Victoria’s Secrets.

How long had she known him? A minute, tops? This was a record, even for her, making a fool of herself in less than sixty seconds. But he was gentlemanly enough not to mention it, though his eyes sparkled. He simply offered her a hand and another of those brain-cell-destroying smiles.

Okay, so he was cute and sweet and kind. Three out of the four characteristics on her list. Too bad she was such a blathering idiot. She let him pull her to her feet, only to go very still. Forget the splinter in her tush, she’d hurt her ankle.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” She’d never admit otherwise. Nope, after the show she’d just given him, she’d rather die.

“You know, Dorie, it’s going to be fun getting to know you better,” he murmured in that slow honey of a voice.

Sure. But would he still want to get to know her better if she’d had on her granny laundry-day panties?

“Dorie?”

Oh, boy. Now she had to look at him. Trying not to wince, she tilted her head up, but apparently there was a God, because someone from on board called down to him, waving wildly, holding up a drink.

Andy waved back and shot the guy a thumbs-up. “That’s Bobby,” he explained. “The crew hand.”

Dorie waited for Bobby to come down and help them board, but he didn’t. “A friend?”

“Ex-friend, actually. He owes me big bucks and can’t pay up, so here I am, taking it out in trade. Not a bad deal, huh?”

“Not at all.”

Andy nodded, clearly already on board in his own head. She’d lost him. Not a new feeling for her, and thankfully her tongue began to revert to its normal thickness.

“So, you’re okay?”

“Oh me? Great. I’m great.” She attempted another smile and hoped she pulled it off. “You just go ahead.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

He moved to the plank with his smooth, elegant gait and her heart gave one last little sigh. All men were definitely not created equal.

When Andy didn’t fall into the brink, she let out a shaky breath. Now all she had to do was figure out how to do the same with her healthy fear of heights, her two heavy suitcases, a sprained ankle, and a splinter in her butt. She grabbed her luggage, and with a combination limp/hopping motion, staggered closer to the plank, attempting to walk on the toes of her right foot to keep the majority of her weight off the ankle, all while not looking down-

“Excusez-moi,” a man said from behind her, crowding up close, trying to get around her, probably since she was moving at the pace of a geriatric snail.

Don’t look. Just keep going.

“If I could please just get around you.”

“Yes,” she said to the French accent, carefully not eyeing anything but her goal-the end of the plank. “I know. Just a minute-”

“I have an onboard emergency, so if you don’t mind…”

Actually, she did mind. She understood he was in a hurry, she really did, but there was the ocean, just waiting to swallow her up. Holding her breath, she did her best to turn to allow more room for him to pass her, expecting… well, she didn’t know what she expected. Given his impatient tone, Mr. Stryowski, maybe, complete with a hooked nose and beady eyes and a tight mouth. Maybe a pitted face, and thinning hair. Definitely he’d have a paunch belly.

Not. Anywhere. Close.

Long and leanly sinewy, he was built like an athlete, with golden skin that suggested he spent a good amount of his days outside. He had dark waves of hair that curled up around the edges of a baseball hat and around the collar of his black polo shirt, which was untucked over a pair of Levi’s that were clearly beloved old friends with his lower body.

No pitted face, no hooked nose in sight.

No paunch either.

But if Andy-the-Baseball-Cutie had been all smiles and flirting, this guy was his polar opposite-tall, dark, mysterious, and brooding, which was good. Dark, mysterious, and brooding were so not her thing. Nope, her tongue wouldn’t swell here.

Not that he seemed to care. He didn’t so much as look at her, still attempting to get between the chain handrail and her body. In fact, he couldn’t get past her fast enough, and though he sucked in a breath, they still brushed together, his warm, hard chest and arm sliding against her much softer form, and at the contact, she sucked in a breath. She didn’t really know why, it just happened, but at the sound she made, a sort of involuntary breathy gasp, he looked at her, finally meeting her gaze with those killer stormy gray eyes.

For some inane reason, she thought about her list: cute, sweet, loyal, and kind. This guy wasn’t cute. More like bad boy edgy, dangerous. Certainly not sweet or kind. A relief-because it meant she got to keep her wits about her. Good thing, too, because she needed every single one of them.

“Do you need help with your luggage?”

Huh. She might have to revise her assessment on the kind thing. “As a matter of fact-”

“Wait here. I’ll get help for you.” He moved onto the boat ahead of her, his stride easy but purposeful, not once looking back.

Dorie let out a long breath, surprised to find herself a little pissy. And intimidated. “He’s not so different from you,” she reminded herself.

Well, except for the confidence.

Oh, and the penis.

That warm, salty breeze nudged at her. Letting go of one of her suitcases in order to shove the hair from her eyes, she reached back for the suitcase again, but it wasn’t there.

Because it was now rolling backward on its own, down the plank, slipping right beneath the chain handrail, snagging by its handle so that it hung off the side of the plank, only slightly better than splashing into the water. “Hello?” she yelled up at the ship. “Help?”

Two men appeared out of the woodwork. “Hi,” she said, feeling ridiculously inept-not an unusual feeling for her.

One of the men took hold of her arm. He wore a billowy white shirt and loose navy pants low on his hips, with his long, silvery blond hair pulled back by a strand of leather. He looked like a pirate. A really good-looking pirate.

Was everyone on this boat gorgeous?

He smiled, his eyes revealing a good amount of trouble-the kind that drew women like flies.

Uh-oh.And there went her tongue, swelling away.

“I’m Denny McDonald, the captain.” He jerked his chin toward the other guy, the one rescuing her suitcase. “And this is Ethan Erle. Our burger flipper.”

“Chef,” Ethan corrected mildly, also incredibly good-looking, wearing the same navy pants Denny was, with an apron over the top. Cute as he was, he looked as if he was still in school.

Middle school. His youth was probably the only thing keeping Dorie’s tongue from further engorgement.

“I’m a chef,” Ethan said again, looking at Denny over Dorie’s head. “Unless maybe you’d like to be called an oar specialist, Captain?”

Denny merely arched a brow. “Oar specialist?”

Ethan smiled. Seriously, he looked twelve. “Chef?” she repeated.

He laughed, his baby face crinkling in good humor. “I’m older than you think.”

“Thirteen?”

“Twenty-five,” he corrected, still smiling. “Old enough to be experienced. I can promise you, just one of my meals will make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Okay, now that sounded promising. “Well, food is one of my favorite things.”

“Do you cook?”

“I can toast a Pop-Tart.”

He laughed. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

“You have your ticket?” Denny asked.

“In my purse.” She patted the purse slung around one shoulder, which as always, carried just about everything she could ever need.

Except good sense. That she seemed in short supply of.

“Purse?” Ethan eyed it. “That thing is the size of a suitcase.”

“No, those are my suitcases,” she said, taking a few limping steps toward the luggage, including the one hanging off the plank.

Denny was frowning down at her ankle. “What’s up with the limp?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

He didn’t push, but he did rescue her luggage, then guided her on board, where she looked around in awe.

The Sun Song was impressive, with the sail poles high and proud in the sky above.

“Enjoy,” Denny said, and left Dorie with Ethan, who gave her a tour of the ship from bow to stern. It dazzled her. The interior, polished teak and accented with bright, welcoming colors and fresh flowers and gorgeous prints, was surprisingly spacious and luxurious.

Despite her pain, a frisson of excitement coursed through her. She was really doing this, really sailing off into the sunset and the South Pacific, among over three hundred islands made of coral and dormant volcanoes covered in rain forests.

They walked (Ethan walked, she limped) through the large galley, a place stuffed to the gills with all kinds of mouthwatering food piled high on trays. “Oh my God.” She nearly moaned. “You did all this?”

Clearly very proud of himself, he nodded. “For the Meet and Greet. It’s in twenty minutes.”

The adjoining salon was more gleaming teak and held a bar, a gorgeous dining booth, an entertainment center, and a spiral staircase leading up to a lookout deck above. Everything dripped elegance and sophistication, and for the next week, she got to belong in this world.

Belowdecks, her state room was as glorious as the rest of the ship, done in beautiful wood and brightly colored accents, clearly made for comfort and privacy. Ethan left her with a complimentary bottle of champagne, and she toasted herself. “To no more tripping, falling, or stumbling,” she said to her reflection in the mirror over her dresser. “To confidence. To having fun.” She finished off her glass and then, just a little bit overwhelmed, went to sit down on her bed.

Bad idea.

Sitting down reminded her that she had a splinter in a very vulnerable place. Leaping up in response reminded her of her other problem, her ankle, which had gone from some discomfort to unmistakable throbbing, accompanied by a lovely mottled blue bruise-not her color if she said so herself. She needed ice. Grabbing her purse, she hobbled to her stateroom door, thinking to find Ethan again.

In the hallway, she ran into a different crew member, as extremely good-looking as the rest of them. He was the same guy she’d seen waving to Andy while on the dock. In his early twenties, he wore the same navy cargo pants and white shirt as Denny and Ethan, and oddly enough, a grumpy frown that rivaled Mr. Stryowski’s. Along with that frown, he wore an Astros baseball cap backward on his head and carried a tray of what looked to be iced tea, along with a small stack of glasses, and was sending off enough waves of irritation to make her wonder what could possibly be so bad about working on a boat in the South Pacific. Try Shop-Mart, buddy. “Houston,” she said. “We have a problem.”

“Oh, I’m not Houston,” he said. “I’m Bobby.”

“Well, yes. I was just making a joke-You know what? Never mind,” she said at his blank expression. “Look, I’m sort of injured.” She felt so stupid for adding her problems to his clearly already bad day. “I twisted my ankle, and then got a-” No. She was not going to tell him about the splinter. Her bottom could just fester and fall off before she’d tell a single soul. “I just need-”

“The ship’s doctor?”

She blinked. “Do you have one?”

“Christian’s part of the sailing crew, but also an MD.” He eyed her ankle over his tray. “Can you walk?”

“Yes.” To prove it, she took a step, but her ankle gave out entirely and she fell right into him.

And his tray.

The iced tea fell over, and dumped down her front, soaking into her pristine white sundress. Oh, yes, right on track to having fun.

Bobby, his Astros cap askew now, eyed the front of her dress, which was drenched through. “Shit on a stick!”

“I’m so sorry.” She pulled her dress away from her skin, because wow, the tea was iced.

“Shit,” he said again, and handed her the small linen napkin draped over his forearm.

She dabbed at the damage, but it was like plugging Niagra Falls with a tampon. Worse, she realized she had a sort of wet T-shirt effect going. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve got something warm,” she tried to joke.

“This is bad.” Bobby was trying to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her breasts like magnets. “Oh, God.” He covered his eyes. “I’m going to get fired. Again.”

“No, it’s my fault, not yours-”

“It’s never the guest’s fault,” he said miserably, as if he’d had this phrase repeated to him more than a few times. “Fuck!” Then he put a hand over his mouth.

“What?”

“And I’m not supposed to swear in front of you either. Oh, God, I’m toast. Burnt toast.”

“No, you’re not. Look, we’ll just forget about the tea, okay?”

His expression went to sheer disbelief. “You’re not going to tell on me?”

“Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He let out a long breath, then nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. “That’s good. That’s great.” Bending, he began to clean up the glasses on the ground.

“Um… Bobby?”

He glanced back.

“Maybe I could get some ice? For my ankle?”

“The doctor.” He slapped his forehead. “You need the doctor.” He reached for her, but eyeing her wet dress, he pulled his hands back, shoving them in his pockets. “Uh…”

“I can walk-” Trying to prove it, she took a step and stumbled. Looking like he might prefer facing the guillotine, he bent to scoop her up in his arms, but he was thin, lanky, and she was… not. He staggered back with her and hit the wall behind them, where both of them crashed to the floor in a tangle.

Leaping up, he shoved his hands into his hair. “Listen, just kill me,” he begged. “Do it quick. Before Denny does.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not hurt.” She stood, then couldn’t control her grimace at the fire in her ankle. “Well, I’m not more hurt. Just give me your hand.”

Looking miserable, he moved to her side, acting as her crutch, helping her down the hall, both of them dripping iced tea. “Doctor’s quarters,” he said, and opened the last door. “Wait here.”

Then he hightailed it out of there so fast her head spun.

She hopped inside. The room was small but high-tech, with all sorts of medical equipment on shelves against the far wall. There was a patient bed, a sink, and a cart with more supplies.

Dorie eyed a set of tweezers and her bottom actually twitched. Still dripping iced tea, she picked up a medical journal from the counter and was reading about the latest bird flu theories when the door opened.

To her vast disappointment, it was Tall, Dark, and French Attitude, still looking… well, tall, dark, and attitude-ridden.

“Bonjour,” he said, those pale eyes cool. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for the doctor.”

He looked at her, and not at her tea-soaked body either, but straight into her eyes, as if he could read her without her saying a word, and wasn’t exactly thrilled at what he saw.

“So…” She tried a smile. “Is he coming?”

He sighed, somehow sounding very French without saying a word. “He’s here.”