Private Dancer (12 page)

Bev moved in for a closer look. It
was
tails, big as life. She glanced down at the woven carpet. “Well, I meant to say that,” she said softly, looking up at him. “I meant to say tails.”

“Too bad you didn’t.” Laughing, he pulled both pillows and the blanket off the bed and handed them to her. “Here, you can have these, babe. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Maybe he
was
resistible, she decided, giving him the full benefit of her contemptuous glare. Yes, he definitely was. He was rude and crude. And he still didn’t have the manners God gave a donkey.

Bev would never have gotten an argument from Sam about the deplorable state of his manners, but she might have been surprised to know that his conscience was in fair working order. Fortunately, he’d always been able to ignore the small voice in his head when it stood in the way of getting something he wanted. But with her, he was having some trouble finding the off button. Must be because of Harve, he told himself.

He rolled to the side of the bunk and studied the figure curled up in the fetal position on the floor. Beverly Jean, he thought, contemplating her name, B.J., babe, Lace. She was the cuddly type, a woman who brought any number of pet names to mind. She was hot-blooded too, which never failed to surprise him. But her body heat wasn’t what concerned him at the moment. It was the anguished little sighs she made as she tossed and turned.

He wasn’t quite egotistical enough to think it was leftover passion. She was trying to get comfortable on the floor, and she was probably going to keep both of them up all night in the effort.

“Come on up here,” he said. “There’s room for both of us.”

“Oh, sure,” she bit back. “I’ll bet you’ll even let me choose whether I want to be on the top or the bottom, right?”

“Hey, who mentioned sex? I’m talking about getting some shut-eye, okay? Just sleep, nothing sweaty.”

“No thanks,” she said coolly, turning away from him. “I’m fine.”

He exhaled heavily, swung off the bed, and bent to scoop her up. She stiffened like a board when he touched her, making his task that much more difficult.

“Don’t you dare,” she said as he worked his hands beneath her rigid body. Pain ripped through his side as he lifted her and rose to his feet, all in one gut-wrenching motion. It took a brutal determination not to drop her as frayed nerves and straining muscles screamed at him.

“Lighten up,” he said, clenching his jaw. “I’m trying to do something nice. Don’t make me regret it.”

He deposited her on the bed and sank down beside her, his forehead filmed with perspiration. Something told him this wasn’t going to be the last time she would bring him pain.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m just great,” he said, flinching as she touched his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

The softness in her voice, the concern, seemed to make everything hurt more. “Lay down, dammit,” he growled, not meaning to be so surly. “Go to sleep.”

She moved away from him, pressing up against the wall. She was obviously apprehensive, but he didn’t have the energy to reassure her, or the desire. Try to be a Boy Scout, and this is what you get for your trouble, he told himself. If she hadn’t figured out yet that Sam Nichols was one nasty package, then maybe it was time she did. It was the way he’d grown up, the way he’d survived growing up. She’d get used to it, and if she didn’t ... well, that was her problem.

He stretched out on his back and stared at the ceiling, wishing like hell he were in his rathole of an apartment with a six-pack of beer, drinking himself to sleep.

She lay down finally, on her side, staring at him. “Sam, I know you’re hurting. I’ve got some aspirin in my bag.” She touched his arm lightly, tentatively, a sweet promise of something more. “Would that help? Sam?”

He could hear the apprehension in her voice, the catch of emotion. She was frightened of letting herself get too close to him. She knew as well as he did what happened when they got close. They went crazy. They blew the fuses and shorted out the circuits. But there was something else happening between them too, a strange new urgency ... a need to touch and discover, a need to make contact.

He could hear it in her voice. And he could feel it taking shape deep inside him, grabbing hold like a fist. He could feel it ... and it scared the holy hell out of him.

Her fingers hovered on his arm. “Sam?”

“Get some sleep,” he said abruptly. “You’ve got to bag a con man tomorrow.”

D
O THEY HAVE
chiropractors on cruise ships? It was the first question to filter through Bev’s slumberous thought processes as she woke up the next morning. Her muscles were stiff and achy from the cramped position she’d slept in. Her spine felt as though it would never unkink. She moaned softly and rolled to her side, contemplating the wrinkled sheets where Sam Nichols had slept next to her the previous night.

It was another moment or two before it dawned on her that she was alone in the cabin, that Sam had already gone out. Did that mean he was a morning person? she wondered, gingerly stretching her arms and legs. Another bad sign. She was a night person. It was probably the only bohemian aspect of her entire personality, and she couldn’t believe it was the one vice Sam didn’t have. If he was the type that rose with the birds, they were truly incompatible.

She propped herself up on one elbow and considered the possibility of actually sitting up. She didn’t want to rush her body into a vertical position, especially after the night she’d had. Sam’s jeans were draped over the chair at the foot of the bed, which meant he must be wearing the calypso gear again.

By the time she was on her feet and mulling what she was going to wear that day, she’d come to a couple of conclusions about Sam Nichols. His sexual prowess and his cynical sense of humor were obvious. He was also a profoundly private man. It was hard to imagine him as sensitive, or vulnerable in any way, but what else could account for the way he guarded his emotions and turned surly when someone got too close?

In his own way he’d been reaching out to her the night before, she realized. The offer to share the bed had been his way of extending himself. She could only guess at what it must have cost him to come out from behind his tough façade, even briefly. The roughneck with baby-blue eyes, she thought, smiling. Did he have a soft side? Was it his own tenderness he was protecting?

She felt a welling of sympathy. If she was right about him, he was sorely in need of someone to talk to, someone who cared enough to probe for the real Sam Nichols. But would he ever allow it?

She’d taken her shower, dressed, and was putting the finishing touches on her makeup before she realized she’d spent the entire morning thinking about her bunkmate. She would have to watch that kind of preoccupation. It could get dangerous, especially if she was wrong. What if the tender side of his nature was only wishful thinking on her part?

With one eye closed, she applied a liberally glued false eyelash, and a guilty smile appeared as she thought about Sam’s reaction to her sarong the night before. He hadn’t seemed too receptive to her sex-bomb look. In fact, he’d been downright insulting.

So let him stew, she told herself. The things Sam Nichols didn’t know about her would fill a book. He had no idea how long it had been since a man had looked at her with anything but polite disinterest in his eyes. Or how badly she needed to be appreciated for her femininity. Perhaps she hadn’t fully understood those things herself, until this trip.

She winked at herself in the mirror, testing the eyelash. “Lookin’ good,” she murmured. Moments later she whisked up her purse and left the cabin, a jaunty swing in her step. With her eyelashes attached and her pushup pads in place, she felt bold, a woman who knew her way around the promenade deck. If Sam Spade took exception, she would just have to remind him that the bait idea had been his.

Bev found the object of her search near the pool having brunch. Arthur Blankenship sat at a table by himself, absently buttering a croissant as he read silently and avidly from what appeared to be a popular novel. He was so engrossed he didn’t notice her strolling by him, even when she paused and glanced over his shoulder to get a look at what he was reading.

Haunted Summer
. Interesting choice, Bev thought. She hadn’t read the book but she was familiar with it from college, where she’d briefly majored in English before dropping out to marry Paul. The story, as she recalled, was a rather erotic account of the weekend that Lord Byron, Percy Shelley and his wife, Mary Shelley, had spent one summer at Diodati, Byron’s villa in Geneva, Switzerland.

Bev glanced around the deck to make sure she wasn’t noticed, and then she casually bumped the back of Arthur’s chair, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her as the dancing dervish of the night before. He didn’t even look up, so she nudged the chair again, harder.

Again, no response. Was he awake? Alive?

Perplexed, Bev stood back to rethink her strategy. The obvious solution was to tap him on the shoulder, and she was about to do that when he glanced up and saw her.

“Oh!” he gasped, lurching forward as he tried to stand up. The book caught the edge of his saucer and tipped over his coffee cup, which fortunately was nearly empty.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Sweeping the napkin off his lap, she blotted the spilled coffee. She was making a career out of serendipitous accidents. “I hope your book didn’t get wet.”

“N-no, I don’t th-think so.”

Bev picked the book up. “
Haunted Summer
?” she exclaimed. “Where did you ever find a copy? I’ve heard it’s marvelous.”

Arthur jerked his head up almost painfully, as though he’d been caught at something. “I b-beg your pardon?”

“Isn’t this the story about Shelley and Byron? I love Shelley’s work, don’t you? ‘And we sail on, away, afar, Without a course, without a star.’ That’s from
Prometheus Unbound.
Lyrical, isn’t it?”

“Why y-yes, it ... is.”

Bev hesitated, suddenly aware of her subject’s discomfiture. Arthur Blankenship, the alleged lady-killer, was blushing furiously. He even had a slight nervous hesitation in his speech. She was almost sorry she’d disturbed him. Beyond that, she had the craziest impulse to pat his hand and tell him that everything would be all right.

“Oh, this
is
wonderful,” she said, returning the book to him. “I know so few people who appreciate the romantic poets. I wonder if we might, well, I mean, if you’d ever like to discuss iambic pentameter or anything.”

He nodded and indicated the chair next to his. Bev sank down, immensely relieved that he was following her lead. “I don’t know if you’d consider loaning me the book when you’re finished,” she continued, aware of his brown eyes blinking behind the spectacles. They were enormous, and rather soulful. “I would guard it with my life.”

“Please,” he said, pushing the book toward her.

“Oh, thank you! Are you sure?” Bev had a tendency to talk when she was nervous, which she was at that moment. She launched into a monologue that quickly threatened to exhaust her modest knowledge of the romantic poets. Fortunately, Arthur made a gallant effort to save her as she began to run out of material. He was knowledgeable about both Shelley and Byron, their work and their legends, and the more he talked, the more he seemed to warm up to the subject. He actually smiled at her several times without blushing, and his speech was less halting.

“You know, you look a little like Mary Shelley,” he said, contemplating Bev’s features. “Of course, she didn’t have your extr-extraordinary gray eyes.”

“Why, thank you.” Bev was truly flattered. Though she couldn’t summon a mental image of Mary Shelley’s looks, she knew the woman was considered beautiful in her time.

“Would you like some- something?” Arthur asked, waving for service. “Coffee? A croissant?”

“Oh, no—” But it was too late. A waiter was already on his way over to them. And this particular waiter happened to be wearing a yellow calypso shirt and a familiar glower.

“Please bring this inordinately lovely creature whatever she’d like,” Arthur said without the slightest hesitation. He smiled up at Sam Nichols, seemingly undaunted by their waiter’s looming presence.

Bev was not undaunted. Sam didn’t look as though the night had improved his opinion of her tactics. His smoldering blue gaze moved over her, nearly setting fire to her eyelashes. She brought a hand to her breasts, covering herself protectively.

“What would the
inordinately
lovely creature like?” Sam asked, an eyebrow arching.

“Coffee,” Bev said quickly.

“No Caribbean Kickers today?”

“Just coffee.”

“Cream? Sugar?” Sam pretended to be jotting something on his tablet. “A bib for the lady’s chest?”

Bev shot him a warning glance.

Arthur pursed his lips, apparently contemplating Sam’s menu of questions. “I think we’d both like a bib, wouldn’t we?” He smiled at Bev. “Are they cruise souvenirs or something?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s a souvenir you want—”

“Just coffee.” Bev breathed an inner sigh of relief as Sam snapped his head in a military nod and left without any further discourse. However, it did strike her as odd that Arthur seemed to be so interested in Sam’s departure.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Strangely enough, he reminds me of someone too.”

Bev felt a moment of alarm. A con man and an ex-cop? It wasn’t impossible that he and Sam had crossed paths. “Really?” she said. “Who?”

Arthur pursed his lips contemplatively. “Byron, I think.”

“Lord Byron?” Bev tapped the novel. “This Byron?”

“Umm ... yes. Although the poet was much shorter, of course, and had a noticeable limp. But then, our friend has a limp too, doesn’t he?”

Arthur nodded in Sam’s direction, and Bev spun around to look. There was a slight catch in his stride, probably because of the shooting, Bev thought. Or maybe he really had hurt himself last night.

“Dark and melancholy, given to rages, Byron was,” Arthur went on conversationally. “You know, he was supposed to have had an affair with Mary Shelley. It’s all in the book.”