Queen For A Night (4 page)

An odd sense of rightness settled over her by degrees, as if here on the boat was exactly where she was meant to be at this moment. She would be perfectly satisfied, she thought, to cruise like this for hours, maybe even forever. To sail the oceans of the world like some modern Flying Dutchman, never putting into land, seemed a fine thing.

A smile lifted a corner of her mouth as she thought of what Ross McDougall would say if she mentioned it to him. If he was like most men, he would take it for granted his company was what attracted her.

He would be wrong.

Or would he? A large part of her content came from the confidence she felt in his ability to keep
L’escapade
afloat and on course. Yes, no matter what the storm gods had in store for them.

Turning a little on the sofa, she kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up under her long skirt. From that position of comfort, she stole a side glance at the man at the wheel. There was easy competence in every move he made. There should be, of course; his father and grandfather before him had been boatmen. Still, he could have been portly and armored with the arrogance money brings. He could also have brought a pilot on board to stay behind the wheel while he lounged at his leisure.

That wasn't the way of Ross McDougall. He preferred to take the controls himself, preferred his own way of doing things. He liked, as he had suggested, the solitude of taking his boat out alone at night.

He looked like a man who could handle the job, and had the crinkles at the corners of his eyes from facing sun-glare over bright water to prove it. The muscles that stretched and shifted under his well-worn T-shirt and jeans had been developed by work rather than countless repetitions on some mind-numbing machine.

There was precision in the way he trimmed the vessel to the wind and currents, and latent strength in the hold of his relaxed hands. And the idle thought drifted into her mind of what it might feel like to be touched and held with the same precise strength.

Good grief. She closed her eyes as she waited for the warm languor stirred by that thought to subside. X-rated fantasies were seldom a problem for her. It must be a side effect of hearing Uncle Tony had suggested Ross call her. Though why her instead of Murielle was a question.

Tony’s daughter had been on the verge of marriage at least twice that Caroline knew of, but something always happened to end the engagements. Her cousin claimed it was the fault of her would-be grooms; one had refused to wear a lavender cummerbund with this tuxedo, and the other insisted a honeymoon on the white sand beaches of Florida was better than the French Riviera. She had yet to find a man who could live with her demands or compulsion to always have her way.

It was strange Murielle had never gone after Ross McDougall. If wealth in a husband was the main criteria, then he was a perfect choice. Certainly there was no doubt of Uncle Tony's approval.

Even as that idea slid through her mind, it seemed to Caroline there was something about Murielle and Ross, some whisper in the family about why they weren’t too friendly. She couldn't quite grasp the details just now, but thought it might have had something to do with
L’escapade
.

“Nodding off? Before you go too far, you might want a bite to eat. There should be something in the refrigerator.”

It seemed like a timely suggestion.

Descending to the galley, Caroline moved to the small porthole above the sink and pulled it open. The fresh, salt-scented air helped to clear her head as she breathed it in deep. With an air of efficiency, then, she turned to see what she could find to make a meal.

Someone, Ross's housekeeper, most likely, had stocked the refrigerator with gumbo and the potato salad that was a traditional side dish for it. Included, too, was a plastic bag filled with cooked rice, a loaf of French bread and a bottle of Chardonnay.

The gumbo was in true Cajun style, which meant it had a little of everything in it. It featured chicken, smoked pork and smoked turkey, Andouille sausage, oysters and shrimp. These were flavored with onion and garlic, green pepper, celery, shallots and spices, and simmered in a roux that had been browned as dark as roasted coffee beans. The smell rising from it was indescribably rich, almost a meal by itself.

While she waited for the gumbo to reach the right temperature, Caroline made garlic butter and slathered it on the loaf of French bread before heating it in the oven. She also popped the cooked rice into the small, built-in microwave. She looked for wine glasses, gumbo bowls, a bread basket and a tray, and was not too surprised when she found them; it seemed nothing that might add to comfort and convenience was missing from the galley.

Carrying her load carefully up the carpeted steps to the upper cabin, she set the feast out on the side table. Placing Ross's bowl and wine glass, silverware and napkin where he could reach them, she returned to her seat.

“All this is wonderful,” she said as she dipped her spoon into the thick mixture in her bowl, “but what would you have done about heating it if I hadn't been here?”

“Waited until after the delivery was made,” he said in laconic practicality. “I’m not too much on using the auto-pilot.”

“And how long would that have been? I mean, how far out is this rig? I know you said we would be back by midnight, but that covers a lot of time.”

“We’re still a couple of hours away, give or take. Does it matter?”

“I don’t suppose.”

“You have time for a long nap.” His smile was crooked, but definitely present.

“I'm really not sleepy, so may need other ways to pass the time,” she said, then could not control the flush that swept, unwanted, into her face.

Ross wrenched his gaze away from the rose tint shading Caroline's cheekbones. He would give a lot to know exactly what had caused it. Yes, and if it was the same thought that made the back of his neck feel sun-scalded. Speculating was not likely to help keep
L’escapade
on course, however.

He wished, suddenly, that the woman behind him was on board for different reasons. He would much prefer if what she wanted of him was more personal, less inconvenient. And wasn’t that a shocker?

Ross didn't care for Mardi Gras; at least he didn't care for what it had become in recent years. It had once been a pleasant few weeks of relaxation and merriment between Christmas and Easter, a time when people who worked hard the rest of the year breathed easy and remembered how to smile. They got up fancy-dress parties with music and dancing, or else gussied up horses and wagons with colored paper and paint and paraded around town. Everybody had a little too much to drink. They flirted, they acted a little dumb, a little crazy, and then it was over.

Other than in New Orleans where things were different anyway, there was no big social occasion, no rituals and protocol. Nobody, back in the good old days, had tried to crowd a thousand people into a single room with eardrum-bursting music. There was no frenzy over cheap plastic beads and other kitschy stuff thrown from parade floats, no tractors and monster trucks that could, and sometimes did, crush the spectators.

He didn't know why he kept up his krewe membership. Habit, probably, though he thought sometimes it might be sheer cowardice. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Tony, not to mention to his mother and grandmother, why he had let it lapse. He said every year he was going to back away from it. Somehow, he never did.

The last thing he wanted was to get actively involved. As for being king, he would rather swim from here to the Yucatan.

And yet, there had been an instant back there, when Caroline Saucier had looked at him with her big, doe-like eyes, that he’d felt the weight of a crown on his head.

What in holy hades had made him invite her aboard the boat? Ordinarily, he liked his privacy, liked being out in the gulf with nothing but miles of water on all sides. A sudden need for company, female company, was not his way. He liked women just fine, but it had been his experience that they didn't mix well with salt water. He kept his relationships on dry land.

But he’d looked up and seen Caroline Saucier, and it became plain impossible to leave her behind on the dock. So far, it was fine. She was easy to be with, didn’t complain, chatter about nothing or ask dumb questions. She knew boats and being out on the water. There was a deep pleasure he didn't care to examine in having her close by, sharing a meal and occasional comment.

There earlier, when he had felt the soft yet firm brush of her breast against him, had caught the scent of roses wafting from her hair, he’d almost reached for her. If she had been just a tad less skittish, if she had so much as started to smile, he might have done it.

Her wariness stopped him cold. There were things that Tony had told him about the way her ex-husband treated her that made him sick to his stomach, especially now that he had seen her again. The last thing he wanted was to be associated in her mind with the kind of man who came on too strong.

What was he doing, thinking about approaches of any kind? Caroline Saucier wanted only one thing from him. He could be king to her queen, or he could be gone. There was, he strongly suspected, no other choice.

The squalls out in the gulf were picking up force; he could feel the extra surge from them through the metal and fiberglass under his feet. He had expected it; that was the whole point of this fast run. Without the new wire line unit he had lashed on deck, the guys on the platform out in the gulf couldn't shut down the rig when the weather got too rough to work.

With any luck at all, he should make the platform and be back home again without any major problem. If not, well,
L’escapade
was tight and seaworthy, a good boat. The two of them had taken worse risks together and made it.

They just hadn’t done it with a woman on board.

He glanced over his shoulder at Caroline where she sat eating gumbo with delicate efficiency. There was nothing wrong with her sea legs if she could face food while adjusting to the roll that had been added to the boat's regular rise and fall. She probably didn't even realize she was swaying at the hips with a motion as gentle and provocative as some sea plant undulating in the water.

Sea hips instead of sea legs. Now there was an idea—though not one that it was too smart to linger over, given his instant reaction to it.

The pictures he had seen of Caroline over the years hadn’t done her justice. She really was a lovely woman in a natural and borderline-fragile fashion. She was the kind that required a second look, then maybe a third at closer range.

His late wife had looked a little like her. He’d known that, but figured it was an accident. Now he wasn’t so sure.

From where he stood, he could see the luster of Caroline’s skin, and also its clarity that allowed color to seep through now and then—it was almost worth irritating her just to watch that. Her hair shone with health, and had a hint of curl on the ends; it certainly wasn’t the gelled mop most women considered stylish. The dress she wore was soft and uncluttered, and most definitely feminine. He’d be willing to bet she looked just as good in jeans, though, maybe better.

Still, it was her eyes that got to him. They were huge, and so dark the iris almost blended into the pupil. Eyes to drown in, if the truth were known. The intense color gave her such a look of dewy sexiness that it was all he could do not to stop the boat, throw out an anchor, and brave the waters.

Crazy. He was crazy to even think about it.

It was also impossible to slow their progress at this point in the trip. The last thing he needed was to stop it dead still.

He should never have let her set foot on his boat.

What was he going to do about her request? He couldn't just ignore it, especially since it was really from Tony. King of the Krewe de Plaisir Toujours, a Mardi Gras king. There were men who enjoyed wearing the elaborate costume and taking on grand gestures, also the buffoonery and alcohol-fueled
joie de vivre
. He wasn't one of them.

His wife had never understood why he didn't mix with the krewe crowd more often. She’d loved anything black-tie and old money. She’d especially enjoyed the feeling that she was moving among what she called the
crème de la crème
of Lake Charles, even if she did have to live way down on the gulf at Bacardville.

People in Lake Charles didn't have that kind of pretension. They were like the Texas-rich in a way—not surprising, maybe, since the state line was so close. They enjoyed their money for the good life it could give them rather than its snob appeal. The plantations in their backgrounds were not icons but familiar home places or fond curiosities. They were downright and above-board. They flaunted their diamonds and liked their dresses and their boots shiny. Their kind of class might not be high-toned in the style of Boston or New York, but it had heart.

They were his people, and there were none better on earth, none he would prefer to be around. But not in a horde of them and not at Mardi Gras. One-on-one was his style. Letting go in a crowd was fine for some, but he preferred a more private revel.