“Oh, I’m not Houston,” he said. “I’m Bobby.”
“Well, yes. I was just making a joke-You know what? Never mind,” she said at his blank expression. “Look, I’m sort of injured.” She felt so stupid for adding her problems to his clearly already bad day. “I twisted my ankle, and then got a-” No. She was not going to tell him about the splinter. Her bottom could just fester and fall off before she’d tell a single soul. “I just need-”
“The ship’s doctor?”
She blinked. “Do you have one?”
“Christian’s part of the sailing crew, but also an MD.” He eyed her ankle over his tray. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.” To prove it, she took a step, but her ankle gave out entirely and she fell right into him.
And his tray.
The iced tea fell over, and dumped down her front, soaking into her pristine white sundress. Oh, yes, right on track to having fun.
Bobby, his Astros cap askew now, eyed the front of her dress, which was drenched through. “Shit on a stick!”
“I’m so sorry.” She pulled her dress away from her skin, because wow, the tea was iced.
“Shit,” he said again, and handed her the small linen napkin draped over his forearm.
She dabbed at the damage, but it was like plugging Niagra Falls with a tampon. Worse, she realized she had a sort of wet T-shirt effect going. “Next time I’ll wait until you’ve got something warm,” she tried to joke.
“This is bad.” Bobby was trying to look away, but his eyes were drawn to her breasts like magnets. “Oh, God.” He covered his eyes. “I’m going to get fired. Again.”
“No, it’s my fault, not yours-”
“It’s never the guest’s fault,” he said miserably, as if he’d had this phrase repeated to him more than a few times. “Fuck!” Then he put a hand over his mouth.
“What?”
“And I’m not supposed to swear in front of you either. Oh, God, I’m toast. Burnt toast.”
“No, you’re not. Look, we’ll just forget about the tea, okay?”
His expression went to sheer disbelief. “You’re not going to tell on me?”
“Of course not. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He let out a long breath, then nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. “That’s good. That’s great.” Bending, he began to clean up the glasses on the ground.
“Um… Bobby?”
He glanced back.
“Maybe I could get some ice? For my ankle?”
“The doctor.” He slapped his forehead. “You need the doctor.” He reached for her, but eyeing her wet dress, he pulled his hands back, shoving them in his pockets. “Uh…”
“I can walk-” Trying to prove it, she took a step and stumbled. Looking like he might prefer facing the guillotine, he bent to scoop her up in his arms, but he was thin, lanky, and she was… not. He staggered back with her and hit the wall behind them, where both of them crashed to the floor in a tangle.
Leaping up, he shoved his hands into his hair. “Listen, just kill me,” he begged. “Do it quick. Before Denny does.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not hurt.” She stood, then couldn’t control her grimace at the fire in her ankle. “Well, I’m not more hurt. Just give me your hand.”
Looking miserable, he moved to her side, acting as her crutch, helping her down the hall, both of them dripping iced tea. “Doctor’s quarters,” he said, and opened the last door. “Wait here.”
Then he hightailed it out of there so fast her head spun.
She hopped inside. The room was small but high-tech, with all sorts of medical equipment on shelves against the far wall. There was a patient bed, a sink, and a cart with more supplies.
Dorie eyed a set of tweezers and her bottom actually twitched. Still dripping iced tea, she picked up a medical journal from the counter and was reading about the latest bird flu theories when the door opened.
To her vast disappointment, it was Tall, Dark, and French Attitude, still looking… well, tall, dark, and attitude-ridden.
“Bonjour,” he said, those pale eyes cool. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting for the doctor.”
He looked at her, and not at her tea-soaked body either, but straight into her eyes, as if he could read her without her saying a word, and wasn’t exactly thrilled at what he saw.
“So…” She tried a smile. “Is he coming?”
He sighed, somehow sounding very French without saying a word. “He’s here.”
THREE
Still Kicking Life into Gear Day
(aka Life Kicking Dorie Day).
You’re the doctor?”
At the question from his dripping wet patient, Dr. Christian Montague sighed from the depths of his irritated soul and strode across the small room to the sink. This was his second patient before they’d even set sail. The first, his so-called “emergency,” the one that had gotten him on board a half hour early, had suffered from-stop the presses-a paper cut. She’d turned out to need nothing more than a Band-Aid, though her eyes had wanted something else.
Him.
He was used to that. It had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with the fact that he worked on a boat that catered to the extremely wealthy, which often equaled spoiled. He was a single man, a doctor to boot, surrounded by exotic, lush landscape that inspired certain emotions, one of them being lust.
But Christian didn’t mix business and pleasure. Ever.
At least this bedraggled patient wasn’t coming on to him. She seemed to be in honest distress. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous as Brandy had been. She wasn’t smooth, suave, or sophisticated as their guests often were.
Instead, she stood there, her dress stained and wet and dripping on his floor, wearing a tote on her shoulder that was nearly as large as she was, looking uncertain, with her wide chocolate eyes broadcasting her naivety.
Didn’t she know what that doe-eyed, innocent expression did to most men? Turned them into assholes, that’s what. The transparency of her drenched dress didn’t help. She was a walking please-take-advantage-of-me waiting to happen.
He couldn’t have said why this annoyed him, it just did.
Because you don’t want to be here.
Oh yes, there was that. He flipped on the tap at the sink and scrubbed his hands. “I’m Dr. Christian Montague,” he said, and yanked out a paper towel, turning to face her as he dried off.
“Dorie Anderson.”
Okay, he could say why she annoyed him. It was those devastatingly dark eyes that gave away her every thought. He wanted to tell her to close them, before he took advantage of what she didn’t even realize she was offering. “What can I do for you?”
“Uh…” Her wavy, somewhat wild flyaway brown hair was half out of its clip, and she lifted a hand to shove it away from her eyes, her fingers shaking.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Hurt?”
When she didn’t answer, he attempted to curtail his irritation. “What seems to be the problem here, Ms. Anderson?”
He knew what his problem was. This room was small. Make that tiny, postage stamp tiny. They were within two feet of each other without even trying.
“Dorie,” she whispered. “You can call me Dorie.”
She smelled like lemon. Lemon iced tea to be exact. Not a scent he’d have considered a turn-on by any means, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her, or breathing her in. The woman barely came to his shoulder. She was drenched. And there were those eyes, those drown-in-me, heal-me, I’m-so-sweet-I’ll-kill-you-slowly eyes…