The Trouble With Paradise

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?