Spooning Daisy (9 page)

“I’ve, uh, always been curious. Are these beds bolted down?” He quickly lifted the bed skirt and discovered a solid pedestal supporting the mattress. “I guess this bed won’t be going anywhere.”

Daisy held out the sandwich and a couple of napkins.

“A pedestal bed is very practical,” he said, taking his lunch. “You don’t have to clean under it and you can’t lose things there.”

Daisy stuck a straw through the plastic lid on a cup and handed the drink to Max. Then she sat on the small stool belonging to the vanity and unwrapped the paper from her sandwich. “You lose a lot of stuff under your bed, do you?”

“Just the occasional woman.”

“Maybe they’re hiding from you.”

“Where would
you
hide some—”

“Lettuce!” Daisy squealed, lifting the top slice of bread and peeling off the green leaf. She turned to Max. “Are you going to eat your lettuce?”

Her smile was like a kid’s at Christmas, and Max was totally unnerved. He could find no evidence of either a baby or a dog, and yet there was Gerber and Mighty Dog. And now this lettuce thing. Could Daisy get any weirder?

Wondering what Daisy planned for lettuce
she
wasn’t going to eat, Max opened his sandwich and peeled off his leaf.

Daisy took both pieces and went into the bathroom.

Max stared at the closed door. What the hell was Daisy doing?

As she shook the water from her lettuce, Daisy caught her reflection in the small mirror. And oh, how she wished she hadn’t. She and tears had never gotten along; even happy tears turned her face into a puffy, splotchy mess sure to cause nightmares among young children. She wasn’t even going to start a discourse on her hair.

She set torn pieces of lettuce in the shower stall with Elizabeth, then, reluctantly facing her reflection, eased a brush through her rambunctious curls.

Sometimes she did have gorgeous hair, as Charity often said. And her green eyes could be spectacular when they weren’t squeezed between pregnant eyelids. As long as nothing upset it, her complexion had a creamy radiance like Belleek Irish porcelain. She was a bonny lass, her grandfather had always told her, although she rarely agreed.

So why the hell didn’t Max tell her how bad she looked? Why that question suddenly popped up and where it came from, Daisy wasn’t sure, but it was there now, and it got her thinking.

Max had only a few bites left of his sandwich when Daisy exited the bathroom looking . . . not quite the same as when she entered. Her hair had been smoothed, the shine on her nose had been powdered, and her lips glossed. Even her eyes, while still suffering from the effects of Daisy’s tear-fest, looked calmer and less dire. Could that be why she wanted the lettuce? He’d heard of cucumbers for the eyes, but maybe in a pinch . . .

Even so, that didn’t explain either the chicken pâté or the pureed peas. Neither did it explain why Daisy suddenly cared about her appearance, when he was surely the last person she wanted to impress. To Daisy, Max must seem as ruthless and heartless as Caligula.

A half smile lifted his lips. He had a passion for history, especially ancient. He absolutely believed that
those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.
But he’d never actually dated a woman who shared his interest, let alone one who knew about the infamous Roman emperor. Not that he liked his women dumb—although why Tina was with Daisy’s ex, Max couldn’t fathom. But even more unfathomable was Daisy and Jason. What had she seen in that guy?

“What?” Daisy growled, feeling Max’s eyes on her.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“This cabin is small. I have to look somewhere.”

“Well, look over there.” Daisy waved in the direction of the bed.

Max tried, but the dog food creeped him out. “I’m . . . gonna go.”

Daisy stopped mid-chew and swallowed hard. “You are?”

He eased off the sofa. “You sound disappointed.”

“Surprised. I didn’t think getting rid of you would be this easy.”

Yep
, Daisy Moon was a whole ’nother species of woman. And he’d bet the farm she knew exactly who Caligula was. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“No such thing as a free lunch, eh, decent guy?”

Max stayed his course, but he smiled. “If you can tell me who Caligula is, I’ll buy you dinner.”

“Are you kidding? What’s the catch?”

“Just tell me who he is and dinner is yours.”

Max Kendall rubbed her like a cheese grater, but she had no money, no food, and if she worked it right, she could probably stretch dinner into a doggy-bag breakfast. “First of all, he’s not an
is
, he’s a
was
.” Her tone suspicious, Daisy continued. “His real name was Gaius. Caligula is a nickname that comes from the word for the boots worn by Roman soldiers. It means
little boot;
his mom dressed him in those when he was a kid and the name stuck. He was a real terror; some think insane. He ruled only four years before he was assassinated at twenty-eight. But he really loved his horse.”

“And?”

“That’s what I know.” Thanks to the President’s Scholars history course she took in college and the term paper she had written. But she never imagined it would be useful information. She almost felt lucky, but the last time she felt like this, she lost her money, car, and credit cards.

“
And
,” Max prompted again, “I remind you of him.”

Taken aback, she paused. “Maybe around the eyes.”

Max wasn’t sure whether he felt surprise . . . or relief. “I’ll meet you in the dining room at six.” He squeezed past Daisy at the vanity, wincing as the blood pounded into his bound leg.

“You will shave and shower, won’t you?”

“Unfortunately, Ms. Moon, the chaise lounges in the solarium do not come with a private bath. And the on-board public showers are too hard to manage with my knee.”

“Bummer.”

“Yeah, well, I’m dining with you, so we pretty much cancel each other out.”

His hand was on the doorknob when Daisy said, “You’re more the Machiavelli type.”

He looked over his shoulder. The gleam in her eyes harbored something he couldn’t quite discern. But he should probably be cautious.

“If you can tell me who he is, I’ll let you use my shower.”

He turned. “Niccolò Machiavelli was a sixteenth century Italian politician who believed that all is fair in love and war, including cunning, duplicity, and bad faith.”

“Not quite. Machiavelli believed that results counted, and nothing else.”

“Like I said, all’s fair.”

“
In politics.
”

“Politics is about power. Same for love and war.”

She looked at him curiously. “War, maybe. But do you really believe love is about power?”

“I believe . . . I’ll take the Fifth.”

Chapter Ten

“O
kay, Elizabeth, you stay in here—” As if she could go anywhere. With Elizabeth safe in her carrier, Daisy set it inside the compact closet. “—And later I might have some lettuce or maybe even a tomato. Yum-yum. Now eat your dinner.”

Beside the carrier was a plastic bowl filled with ice where Daisy had nestled the opened can of dog food and the jar of baby food. Not exactly a refrigerator, but it worked well enough. She closed the accordion door, leaving a gap for light, then made herself as comfortable on the bed as possible—knees up, magazine open against her thighs—but without messing up her hair, clothes, makeup, or bedspread. Which meant she wasn’t comfortable at all. With any of this. But she was desperate. Comfortable, no. Desperate, yes. And desperation makes a person do . . .

She jumped at the knocking on her door, took a calming breath, and vowed to be pleasant. “Come in.”

The door cracked open. “Ms. Moon?”

Daisy bounced off the bed.

“It’s Purser Smith.”

Daisy grabbed the knob and pulled. “Did they find my Lexus?”

“I’m sorry, no. I brought you meal vouchers,” the grandmotherly purser said. “I meant to bring them earlier, but a pregnant passenger went into labor and the day got away from me.”

Daisy took the slips of paper and studied the top one.

“You can use these in the cafeteria or dining room,” she said. “Just present one when you’re ready to pay. We’ll pick up the tab.”

“That’s very kind,” Daisy said. “Thank you.”

“We can’t let you starve now, can we? I bet you haven’t eaten all day.”

Daisy shrugged and tried to look pitiful. Being the recipient of sympathy was not a bad thing.

“Why don’t you have dinner? If you need anything at all, come by the office.” She started to leave, then didn’t. “You haven’t seen Mr. Kendall, have you?”

Daisy snorted. “That would be unlikely.”

“I suppose so.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I’ve been looking for him, that’s all. The couple with the new baby are leaving the ferry tomorrow in Ketchikan and their cabin will be available. No worries. Mr. Kendall will probably come by the office sometime. Enjoy your dinner, Ms. Moon.”

Daisy again thanked Purser Smith and shut the cabin door.

“This is a pickle.” Should she tell Max about the available cabin? How about the vouchers?

Why was she debating this? Her meal vouchers were none of his business. And it was none of
her
business that Purser Smith was searching for Max. But Daisy feared she might have a less than laudable motive for keeping silent.

Startled by knocks on her door, she dropped her gaze to the vouchers in her hand as if they were a smoking gun and she stood over a body. Three more knocks got her moving; she stuffed the vouchers inside her purse, hopped on the bed, and assumed her former position.

“Come in.”

The door eased open, tentatively at first, and there was Max, duffel bag in hand, as if he were coming for a long visit.

“You know where the shower is.” Daisy sounded nonchalant, but the butterflies in her stomach took wing as Max gave her a quick once-over. She snuggled into her bulky Kelly-green fisherman’s sweater, which perfectly matched her eyes, and tried to ignore her discomfort. “Don’t make a mess, okay?”

“It will be hard, but I’ll try to contain my barnyard inclinations.”

“Your beard,” Daisy explained in a huff. “Shavings get all over the sink. There’s nothing more annoying than cleaning up after a grown man.”

“Really?
Nothing?
” He maneuvered his bulky bag and his bulky leg through the limited space and stopped at the slender bathroom door. He gave Daisy a pointed look, his blue eyes both intense and playful. “I can think of so many things more annoying.”

Daisy shot him her own look. “Obviously you’ve never had to clean up after anyone.”

“Well, you’re right, Daisy—”

Her eyes softened at Max’s unexpected acquiescence.

“—That’s what women are for.”

“Ah, well, that explains it.”

He hesitated, knowing he shouldn’t ask. “Explains what?”

“That ridge across your brow.”

“Clever.” Max sighed. “I might be a Neanderthal, but at least I haven’t romanced you out of your money and your car.” He shoved his bag into the bathroom with more gusto than necessary. “You might want to keep your perspective . . . since you’ve lost everything else.” Then he stuffed himself inside with his bag, fighting to close the door behind him.

Daisy slumped into her pillows. She’d sworn she’d be pleasant. What was it about Max Kendall that brought out her defensive guns? She always seemed to be shooting first and never asking questions.

“The man is suing me,” she said aloud so that her words would register. “Damn, why didn’t I throw that back at him?”

How could she possibly let her guard down with his lawsuit threatening her like Poe’s pendulum? And it didn’t help that Max had slept with Tina. It was ridiculous, of course, to hold that against him, but it was obvious Max liked Tina and Tina liked Max and neither liked her. As much as Daisy didn’t want to care, it had really galled her that Tina was allowed to see Max in the hospital while she’d been given the bum’s rush.

It wasn’t fair; she was a good person—her china insanity notwithstanding—and it wasn’t her fault Max clobbered his head and banged his knee. It’s not like she’d walked away unscathed. Besides, she had tried to get him out of Mama Mia’s, but he had been too cheap—

Enough, already.
Nothing would change that night by going over and over and over it. Tina was as much to blame as Daisy, but obviously Max couldn’t sue an old lover and he couldn’t sue an old lover’s fiancé, so Daisy had been selected as the scapegoat. Just like in her breakup.

“You’re no fun anymore,” she could hear Jason saying. “You’re too critical, too compulsive, too controlling, too rigid, too picky, too
clean
, too tired for sex, and too scared to fly.”

Of course
she was all that. She had a 4-star restaurant to run. Interestingly, Jason never complained about that. While she was making him money, he was spending it on someone else. She knew about Tina’s three-carat rock, had seen it
that night
. Ten years with Daisy and Jason hadn’t offered her so much as a diamond chip!

Again and again and again, she had tried to enjoy flying in Jason’s Cessna, but five thousand feet above the ground in a small plane that bounced with every ripple of air was not where Daisy cared to die. She’d taken flying lessons, figuring that if she were in control, she might do better. But Daisy couldn’t control turbulence and she couldn’t control fear. So finally, after seven years, she gave up. Did Jason at least give her credit for trying? Not one crumb.

The more their relationship faltered, the more she threw herself into the restaurant, and the less she cared about Jason’s complaints. For better or for worse, she was who she was. And look where it had gotten her.

A duffel bag pushed through the partially open bathroom door. Clutching the handles was a fist attached to a very buff naked arm—with five tattooed stars, each the size of a quarter, trailing down from the muscled shoulder, ending above the elbow. Then Max’s head appeared with his naked chest.