Honeymoon for One (2 page)

“How the heck does anyone walk on these things?” Michelle mumbled, doing her best to strut down the hall. She knew full well her wobble looked more like a teenage boy in drag.

Once she'd made her decision to ditch her sensible side, she had realized there wouldn't be much swinging if she dressed like a small-town librarian. One of the flight attendants had suggested the best place to shop chic would be in South Miami Beach. Afraid she’d miss the ship's launch, she only had time to hit one store for her new wardrobe requirements. The perky little redhead at the boutique—who didn’t look old enough to know the difference between Hollywood chic and bad taste—had assured Michelle she looked like an A-list star.

Now, the skimpy leather-strapped sandals pinched her feet, and the stiletto heels felt like she was balancing on toothpicks. But in the name of all the women left at the altar, she wasn’t giving up. Finally, she conquered the distance from her stateroom to the ocean-view lounge. The round leather bar stools called to her like a siren’s song. At least tomorrow, no one would expect her to wear strappy heels on the beach.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

She slapped her cruise keycard on the counter and ignored the little angel on her shoulder pleading with her to order a diet cola. “Something exotic.”

For a moment she thought the man was going to ask for more ID. The way he stared at her, one brow slightly higher than the other, he either thought she was too young, crazy, or maybe the salesgirl really did have bad taste. “One BBC for the lady.”

BBC. That sounded much too much like British Broadcasting to be exotic. She glanced down at herself. Her bronze-colored backless sandal hung loosely from her foot. With her legs crossed, the short khaki skirt revealed a few more inches of thigh than she was comfortable with, but she resisted the urge to tug at the hem.

Let the real you show
, the girl at the store had said.
You’ve got great legs. The world should know it
. Except with the thin fabric of her off-the-shoulder top and the ship’s arctic air-conditioning puckering her nipples, she didn’t doubt she was showing the world a lot more than just a little leg.

“Here you go.” The bartender set the tall glass with a coconut slice and colorful umbrella in front of her. “Staying around for Name that Show?”

“For what?” Michelle’s eyes remained fixed on the thick shakelike concoction. Her fingers reached forward, slowly, almost trembling. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she scolded herself. It’s not poison.

“Name that TV Show. It’s a trivia game. One of the ship’s entertainment crew will be gathering with passengers over there by the grand piano.” He pointed to a far corner of the large room. “It’s fun. Good way to meet other passengers.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Holding the drink with both hands, she slid off the stool and took a fortifying sip before strutting, or wobbling, over to the other waiting passengers. “Hey, this is pretty good. What did you call it?”

“BBC. Baileys Banana Colada.”

Forty minutes and three more BBCs later, with the cruise line cap her team had won in hand, Michelle sashayed into the casino. Apparently, all she needed to take the wobble out of her walk was a little booze.

“I play the nickel machines.” Sarah, one of her trivia teammates, pointed to her husband. “Big spender here likes the craps table.”

“Absolutely.” The man leaned over and kissed his wife briefly on the lips, and hurried off to the gaming tables across the crowded room.

Michelle shifted her weight and ignored the tug of jealousy that crept up at the easy marital gesture. “Well, the nickel slot machines sound more my speed, but I think I’ll look around first.”

“Sure. I’ll probably still be here if you get bored.” A plastic cup of coins gripped in one hand, Sarah slid onto a nearby seat.

The bustling sounds of slot machines dinging, roulette wheels spinning, and people chatting and cheering made Michelle want to play, too. For a few minutes she stopped and watched Sarah’s husband at the craps table. People placed their chips on the felt table, and then one person would toss the dice. Chips moved back and forth, and every so often the table would burst out in a loud roar. Judging by the pile of chips at Sarah's husband's side, at least
he
knew what was going on.

When the waitress came by to take drink orders, Michelle hesitated. The sweet little angel on her shoulder was apoplectic over the four drinks she’d already had. But the little shopgirl whispering in her other ear convinced her the concoctions were nothing more than glorified banana milkshakes. So she ordered another. Fresh drink in hand, she took a long sip and strolled over to the roulette table.

This she could do. With ten dollars of splurge money in her pocket, she wanted to play. Until now, she’d never realized how much of her life had been spent on the sidelines. Other people traveled on vacation, but not her, she saved her vacation time for spring-cleaning. Weekends were spent doing laundry and buying groceries. Jeez, venturing to the movie theater was about the biggest deal she had going. Especially since she usually waited for the movies to come out on DVD. Cheaper that way.

But not now. For once, she would be part of the action. Setting down her half-empty drink, she handed the dealer her money and clutched at the ten round chips she received in return. What number to pick? The board behind the dealer showed all the recently winning numbers and colors. Nibbling on her lower lip, she studied the other players. A large older man stacked piles of chips on four or five different numbers. Next to him, a skinny brunette placed a short stack on black. The guy hanging over her shoulder picked twenty-one.

Everyone had placed their bets. The dealer spun the inner wheel in one direction and flicked the ball into play in the opposite direction. She was out of time. Had missed her chance. Then an arm reached out from behind her and set a short stack of chips on seventeen black. A deep voice rumbled, “Excuse me,” and she dropped a chip.

In a desperate measure to cover her clumsiness, she slid the chip over to black. Safe bet, red or black. That should make the angel and the shopgirl battling inside her happy.

“No more bets.”

She held her breath. Closed her eyes and then opened them in a flash. How stupid would she look standing at a roulette table with her eyes closed over a one-dollar bet?

“Black seventeen.”

Her stare flung over to the man who’d sat beside her. His voice so low and sexy that two little words had her fumbling awkwardly. And no wonder. Everything about him screamed deep and sexy. Jet-black hair, Mediterranean-blue eyes, and a caramel-colored tan offset by a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up midway on strong forearms. Oh, yeah, definitely a player. The guy probably spent all his spare time sailing or on a tennis court. At a club. A private club. With a perky blonde on each arm.

Michelle moved a few inches away, took a sip of her BBC and set her winning chip down on black, again. The sexy arm reached forward and placed more chips on seventeen. Why would someone bet the same number twice? Surely the odds of winning were greatly decreased? She couldn’t resist stealing a peek at him and almost fell over when she realized he’d been watching her. He winked. Their eyes had met, and he'd winked.

“No more bets.”

She stared at the spinning wheel. She was not going to look at him. She wasn’t.

“Black seventeen.”

Okay, maybe one more time. He winked again, only this time he smiled, too. A big broad smile that showed gorgeous white teeth. Probably caps. But damn her knees felt wobbly again.

Not wanting to gawk like an awkward teenager, she smiled and snapped her attention back to the wheel. Time for a little change. One chip—oh, what the heck—two chips on red.

The sexy arm set a stack of chips on red sixteen but didn’t move his hand away. Unable to resist, she stole a glance his way. His eyes watched her, almost as though he was waiting, but for what? She smiled thinly and turned her attention back to the wheel.

She had to stop looking at this man. His arm pulled away, and the dealer pushed the ball on the spinning wheel.

“No more bets.” The whirling wheel slowed, the ball bounced, then stopped. “Red sixteen.”

Mouth hanging open, her gaze flew to the stranger next to her. “How did you do that?” She hadn’t meant to speak, but the words just tumbled out.

“I didn’t. You did.”

“Me?”

The waitress stepped up to take more orders. Mr. Sexy ordered bourbon on the rocks. Michelle ordered another BBC. The little angel on her shoulder must have gone to sleep because she wasn’t warring with herself anymore. As a matter of fact...

“Maybe I’ll try something different. What’s that lady over there drinking?” Michelle pointed to the woman at the next roulette table holding a tall blue drink with skewered fruit perched on the rim.

“A Bahama Mama.”

“I’ll try that.”

Michelle wasn’t surprised to see the sexy stranger had returned his attention to the gaming table, but he hadn’t yet placed his next bet. With both hands, he held a short stack of chips, lifting and dropping them back in his hand like an old Slinky.

In her hand she held four chips. A whopping four dollars. She’d already decided not to play the original ten dollars and only play with her winnings. Now the decision. Black or red? Her mom’s birthday was November sixth. Both numbers black colors. She dropped a chip on black, and noticed Mr. Sexy on her left leaned forward and placed a bet on black twenty-four.

Sticking with black or red was a coward’s bet. She was here to live and let live. Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and placed a second chip on black eleven. “This is for you, Mama,” she whispered softly.

Much to her surprise, Mr. Sexy moved his bet from twenty-four to eleven. Surely he wasn’t following her lead? Oh, Lord, what if he was and she lost? Her chips were only a dollar, but this guy’s stack held the more expensive ones: ten...twenty...oh, God, fifty dollars bet on her little old black eleven. Panic gripped her heart, strangling her breath.

“No more bets.”

Her eyes squeezed closed. She didn’t care who noticed.
Oh, pretty please
.

The croupier called, “Black eleven.”

Her eyes sprang open, her jaw dropped, and her heart took off at a fast gallop. “We won?” Without thinking she whirled about and threw her arms around Mr. Sexy, then leaned back, squeaked, “We won!” and flung herself at him again.

“Yes, we did.” His arms circled her waist, and his deep voice rumbled through her like an earthquake aftershock. “Want to do it again?”

Ravel’s “Boléro” vibrated in Kirk's head. Every beat bounced off his bourbon-addled brain. Ignoring Ravel’s obnoxious tune still blaring from his cell phone, Kirk buried his ears between two pillows, and cursed both Ravel and the moron at the bar who thought buying tequila shots for the fading crowd in the all-night disco was a good idea. Then he cursed himself for drinking them.

“Oh, damn it. All right.” He threw the pillows across the small cabin and shuffled through his carry-on. “Hello!” Instantly, he regretted shouting into the phone. Someone had obviously used his head for an anvil. “Hello,” he repeated more quietly.

“Wanted to see how you were making out flying solo this year,” his friend Dave said.

“What time is it?” No matter how often he squeezed his eyes closed, then opened them, the numbers on his watch were still a blurry mess.

“Ten fifteen. I would have waited to call, but Deb sent me to get something from the cafeteria, and I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance.”

“Yeah, yeah. How’s Deb’s mom?”

“Not as bad as Deb had feared.”

Kirk crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over his head. “I told you. It’s just a broken hip. The way Deb carried on, you’d have thought it was a case of life or death.”

“I know. But I’m not married to you. I can afford to piss you off. Besides, it’s not like there aren’t a flock of babes standing in line to keep you from getting lonesome. So what flavor was it last night? Blonde, redhead? What?”

Kirk pulled the phone away from his ear. He didn’t remember Dave having such a loud voice. “Brunette.”
I think
.

“Is she there now?” Dave whispered.

“Now?” Moving the covers down from his face and squinting at the light seeping through the partially opened drapes, Kirk glanced at the still made twin bed across the room. “No.”

“Must be losing your touch.”

“My touch is fine. We were closing down the place when some character started buying everyone tequila shots. Apparently, the lady doesn’t hold her tequila well.” That’s right. She’d been feeling happy, but after the shots, neither one of them had been all that steady on their feet. “I deposited her safely in her room somewhere around five this morning.”

“She must have really been sauced for you to go home alone.”

“We both were. So if you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep until the sun goes down.”

“No parasailing? I’m shocked.”

“Shit!” Kirk sprang from bed, and the floor shifted beneath him.

“What?”

He reached for his head, hoping to stop it from rolling off his shoulders. “I told...uh....um...what’s-her-name we’d go parasailing. At least I think we agreed.”

“You think? How much tequila did you drink?”

“Enough.”

“Maybe she won’t remember.”

“Maybe, but if she does, I don’t want to be a no-show. Tell Deb I’m glad her mom’s okay, and that she owes me for letting you skip out on our annual trip.”

“I’ll let you tell her the last part. Have fun. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“If I do that, I might as well have stayed home.” Kirk laughed, the throbbing in his head eased to a gentler pounding. What he needed was a long shower and a Bloody Mary. Not necessarily in that order. Then he had to figure out where he’d agreed to meet...what’s-her-name. “Talk to you when I get back.”

“Great, man, and thanks again for understanding.”

“No problem.” Kirk tossed the phone onto the empty bed and rummaged through his bag for swim trunks. If he remembered correctly, and that was a very big
if
, he was supposed to meet... “What the hell is her name? Mary, Maddie, Megan, Mmmmiiichelle!” Right. Michelle. She’d seemed unsure about meeting him for breakfast and had finally agreed to meet him on the debarking deck around eleven. If he hurried he might even have time to grab something to eat.

He hadn’t quite figured her out. One minute she’d be dancing her heart out, hips swaying with moves that would make a pole dancer proud, and then she would turn all shy and demure, blushing like a virgin. Whatever the deal, he’d bet a week’s salary she was a volcano ready to erupt, and he damn sure planned to be there for the fireworks.

***

Ten fifty-five. Five more minutes and if he didn’t show, Michelle would go back to bed where she belonged. Clutching her beach bag to her chest, she railed herself for leaving the luggage with her old clothes at the airport’s baggage storage facility. Right now, she would give anything to have the boring, bland navy blue bathing suit back. This bikini barely hid what God gave her, and the cover-up had more holes than cover.

Ten fifty-six. What had she been thinking anyhow, agreeing to parasail? “Oh, sure I plan to parasail. Why come to the islands if you don’t enjoy water sports?”

Water sports
. Flying through the air attached to a moving boat by a string wasn’t sporting, it was insanity. She should never have switched to the Bahama Mamas. She glanced at her wrist again. Ten fifty-seven.

Parasailing
. Steven Williams, this is all your fault. If you hadn’t run off with my best friend, I’d be back in my cabin in bed where I belong!

“Good morning.”

That voice. Deep and low and sexy, the sound turned every ounce of her to molten
moosh
. “Morning. I, uh... I’m, uh, ready if you are.”

“You bet. Never miss a chance to be out over the water, just me and the wind.”

“You do this often then?” Keeping the beach bag in front of her like a shield, she handed the attendant by the open doorway her cabin card, and hoped Mr. Sexy couldn’t hear her knees knocking. “I mean, come to the Caribbean?”

“I travel a lot with my job. Between assignments I like to take time to get away and have some real fun. Unwind."

Oh, yeah, she nodded mutely. Sure she knew. The last time she’d gone anywhere was for her Gramma Betty’s funeral in Boca Raton. Not exactly fun in the sun.

Not knowing what to say, she looked over the rail of the little boat taking them to shore. On the deck of the ship last night, she’d stood in awe of the low-hanging moon, shining a golden path across the shimmering black blanket of water. Now, looking at the water below in the light of day, she clamped her teeth together, not wanting to babble like the neophyte tourist she was. So many deep and glorious shades of blue, turquoise, and she supposed, this was the color God had in mind for aquamarine. She wanted to crawl over the side and swipe her hand through the crisp, clean water. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“The water? Sure.”

She stole a glance in his direction. “No wonder you like to come here to play.”

Watching a colorful blue-and-green parasail off in the distance, Kirk lowered his eyes to meet hers and smiled. “Work hard, play hard. Only way to stay sane.”

***

What was it about this woman? Wisps of brown hair blew across her face. Delicate long fingers gripped the gear around her waist, occasionally breaking free to slip the delinquent strands of hair behind her ear. She still wore her swimsuit cover-up under the harness. When the attendant had suggested she would be more comfortable without it, she’d clutched at the front and politely declined.

Kirk stepped into the harness, watching her fidget beside him from the corner of his eye. Her smile was big and bright, but her eyes held sheer terror. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

“Not exactly.”

Just what he thought
.
“You’re gonna love it. There’s nothing like it, flying in the air, free as a bird.”

Her face momentarily blanched, and then he could almost see sheer will take over. Fearful eyes grew bright with enthusiasm, white-knuckled fingers loosened their hold on her harness, and the stiff broad smile now roared with laughter. “That’s me. Free as a bird.”

And she had been, for the rest of the day.

After parasailing, they’d stumbled off the speedboat giddy with laughter and high on adrenaline. She’d flung her cover off with the flair of a burlesque queen and handed him a bottle of lotion. “Would you mind? I can’t reach.”

Would he mind? Hell, he’d been waiting since last night to get his hands on her. Slathering lotion across her silky skin was only the beginning of what he had in mind.

From there she was an unstoppable whirlwind. First, the paddleboats. Too tame. Then the kayaks. They’d spun around in circles a few times, doubled over with laughter before they got the hang of rowing in unison. After a short break to refuel, she was off windsurfing. By the time they caught the last tender back to the ship, he was ready to drop. The woman flat wore him out.

Tilting her head to catch the sun, Michelle closed her eyes and took a deep breath as though trying to soak up every ounce of warmth possible. “I had a great time. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Back at ya.” Kirk took advantage and looked. Really looked. Smooth and curvaceous. Not in a balloonsized centerfold sort of way, but in that
the best things in life come in small packages
sort of way. Her bikini left little to the imagination, and his imagination already had the skimpy strings untied and his hands caressing the delicate weight of her breasts. He hoped she’d reapplied the sunblock often enough. It would be a damn shame if his plans to turn his daydreams into reality had to take a backseat to second-degree sunburn.

The tender came to a stop, bobbing gently next to the ship. He stepped aside, letting Michelle lead the way. His gaze fixed on the sway of her hips. Tonight would definitely be the stuff dreams were made of.