The Trouble With Paradise

“It’s fine,” she insisted, and hobbled to the door. “Really. Thank you. Thank you so much. Just let me know how much I owe you-”

“Nothing. My services are on the house.”

“Oh.” Her eyes were doing that thing again, that killing him slowly thing. “Well that’s incredibly kind of you.”

Kind? No. Necessary? Unfortunately.

One year.

He had one year left of being nothing more than a glorified indentured servant on this gig, and then he was free to live his life how he wanted. He’d be free to go home to his native France if he chose, to ER work, back to everything he’d left behind. No more nomadic lifestyle, no more bandaging paper cuts and twisted ankles.

He could get back to real medicine.

“Well.” Dorie flashed a small smile. “Thanks again.” Then she backed right into the door. Jumping, she blushed again, fumbled with the handle, and then quickly left.

Christian moved after her, sticking his head out the door to see if anyone else was waiting for him.

And ended up watching her walk away.

Actually, she was limping away, yet not all of the limp was from her ankle. She had one hand on her ass.

A very nice ass, most definitely, but hurting. He shook his head. Women, he thought, just as another one passed Dorie and sauntered right toward him.

“Well, hello,” she purred.

Brandy Bradelyne, paper cut victim.

She lifted her Band-Aid-less finger. “I could use another fix, Doc.”

Most men would not have objected. She was built like a supermodel and looked like one, too, with her artfully messed golden hair and lean, willowy, tanned limbs exposed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and an even tinier red halter top.

She was island-ready.

He had a feeling she was also man-ready.

“Tough job you have here.” Putting a hand to his chest, she pushed him into the room, then followed, kicking the door closed behind them. “Not as tough as my job, mind you…”

“What is your job?”

“Me?” She strutted around the bed. “I’m a dancer in Vegas.”

“Dancer.”

Her eyes filled with good humor. “You’re wondering if that’s code for stripper.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“Standing there wondering.”

Maybe a little. She had the walk. And certainly the talk. As she trapped him in the corner and rubbed that hard “dancer” body against his, he knew she also had the moves. Blindly, he reached behind him, opening a drawer, feeling for and grabbing a Band-Aid.

She stared at it, then sighed and took it. Instead of moving away, she shifted closer, so close that she could have checked him for a hernia by coughing herself. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I need anything else?” she murmured.

“You don’t look like it’s a doctor you need.”

She sighed. “My date stood me up. And you’re obviously not interested either”-she pushed her hair from her face-“I guess I’m feeling a little off, sorry. And alone.”

That he understood. “You’re not alone, there are three other guests booked for this cruise.”

“Yes, but I’m a woman who likes to have personal companionship.” She was still close, close enough to make sure all her good spots touched all of his. “Well, thanks for the Band-Aid-” She rubbed her body to his. “Huh.” Her gaze went to his. “Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, Doc, or are you just happy to see me?”

He would be seeing her, daily. Hourly. The boat simply wasn’t that big. He could take what she was offering, but there was that whole not mixing business and pleasure thing.

That wasn’t what had stopped him. Nope, that came from something else, something even more unsettling. If he gave up his own decree and went after a hookup on this trip-which he wouldn’t-it wouldn’t be Brandy he wanted, sexy as she was.

Nope, it’d be another woman entirely-the naive, completely unaware of her own sexuality Dorie.

Which cemented it, really. After two years out here, he’d finally lost it.

Dorie limped away from the doctor’s quarters, managed the climb up the spiral staircase to the deck level, and leaned against the hull to stare out at the sea. They’d left the island far behind. It was just a distant blur now, the curving golden sand lining the semicircular bay long gone. As far as the eye could see lay the azure ocean, dotted with whitecaps that sparkled in the slowly sinking sun. The sky, all long strips of pink and purple, was darkening now to blues.

Stunning.

Everyone she’d met so far had been stunning. And so sure of themselves. Baseball Cutie Andy, the pirate captain, the hot stuff chef… the gorgeous grumpy doctor. Yep, they all seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Especially Dr. Christian Montague with that accent, that relaxed and self-assured air as he’d wrapped her ankle, his steely eyes not missing a thing.

God, what she’d give for a fraction of that confidence.

Beneath her feet, the water seemed choppy, and though the rise and fall of the boat didn’t make her feel sick, she was extremely aware of how they sped over the water, as if they were flying. She stared at the whitecaps, unable to see into the depths of the water, but knowing all that separated her from the sea life-especially the sharks-was this boat.

Yeah, definitely not in Kansas anymore. Definitely out of her comfort zone as well, away from all things familiar. Behind her was a wall of snorkel equipment and other fun-in-the-sun toys, and a full-length mirror that she did not appreciate.

Her reflection was a mess.

Her sundress, which had started out with such promise, was now wrinkled and stained by the tea. The material sagged loose and soggy around her breasts, and yet clung persistently to her belly, emphasizing the fact that she’d neglected her sit-ups.

In summary, she looked like one big Fashion Don’t. Terrific.

“Shh.”

She turned around, but saw no one.

“Did you hear that?” came the voice again.

Okay, who was talking? She turned around again. Still no one.

“Never mind, it’s nothing,” that no one said. “Listen, we have to settle this now.”

Dorie searched all around her, but could see nothing and no one but her own bedraggled reflection. “Hello?” she whispered. “Who’s there?”

“The deal was seventy-five/twenty-five.”

Someone answered this ghost’s statement, but so softly, Dorie couldn’t catch the words.

Then “Fine, fifty-fifty, but you’re taking care of the mess.”

Dorie gripped the railing. “Hello?”

The voices-low, probably male, but with the wind and the water hitting the sides of the boat, she couldn’t swear to it-went silent.

She strained her ears but could hear nothing. Real or Memorex? After all, she’d had that glass of champagne, and her brain had been scrambled by Cute Guy Overload Syndrome. Maybe she’d return to her room, change for the Meet and Greet, and ice her ankle. Maybe sip some more champagne. Turning back the way she’d come, she limped down the stairs.

“Shh, goddamnit.”