Give Me More. P.J. Mellor
She lunged toward him, eliciting a startled whimper from the man. “Please. I’ll take anything.” She sneezed and focused her teary eyes on him. “Please. The dust is killing me.”
His lips disappeared into a tight line. He stood a bit taller. “I’ll speak to the cruise director, but I doubt he can do anything.”
He hurried out and closed the door with a snap before she could think of an argument.
“Great,” she murmured, swiping at a particularly obnoxious split-leaf elephant ear that had been whacking her head in the air-conditioned breeze. “Just how I wanted to spend my first day at sea.”
She’d just dragged out her portable air cleaner and located a plug—no easy feat, given the decor—when a knock echoed in the little jungle.
She crawled out from under yet another fake palm and got to her feet, brushing the dust bunnies from her white slacks as she walked toward the door. It no longer mattered that her door did not have a peephole. Jack the Ripper could be on the other side and if he offered her a clean room, she’d gladly follow him anywhere.
Her pile of dust-gray cleaning rags caught her attention. Keeping up appearances was a necessity. In a swooping motion, she bent to scoop them up as she walked by. Her bare foot hit a wet spot on the edge of the grotto. Her mind registered the cool, slick feel of the porcelain “beach” a nanosecond before she slid with a scream and a splash into the churning water.
The woman’s scream from behind the locked door made Drew’s blood run cold. Even the ridiculous jungle sounds couldn’t drown out her distress. It was bad enough to be assigned to the honeymoon cruises for his final season. He’d be damned if one of his last cruises would lose a bride.
Hands shaking, he fumbled with his set of master keys before he found the right one and got the door unlocked.
He saw her immediately.
She sat chest deep in the grotto, little islands of what looked like dirty washcloths floating around her. One small hand covered her left eye and forehead.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” He pocketed his keys and moved to the edge of the water.
She didn’t blink. “My eye hurts,” she said, the husky quality of her voice slipping down his spine like a seductive fingernail. Great. Finally his libido kicks in, and it’s with a newlywed woman.
“What happened?” He scanned the room for her husband, ready to personally throw the bastard from the ship. Men who abused women were lower than a snake’s armpits, as far as he was concerned.
“I slipped and fell into the water.”
Sure, you did. He reached out a hand to help her stand on what he knew to be a less than skid-free tub bottom. “I’ve got you. Just take small steps, and then I’ll help you over the rim. Do you need to see a doctor?”
She shook her head, her short curls sticking to her skull. Wet, her hair looked almost translucent, so he’d bet she was a blonde.
The silk shirt sticking to her like a second skin most likely was yellow. He tried to avert his eyes from the scrap-of-nothing bra revealed by the wet fabric but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from the tempting sight. Lordy, it was enough to make a grown man weep.
Once-white pants clung to world-class legs, leaving little to the imagination. Why were all the good ones married?
Her hand felt tiny within his grasp. He resisted the urge to pull her close. Barely. Damn, what was wrong with him? Maybe he’d been out to sea too long. He was definitely drowning in the clear turquoise of her bloodshot eyes. Why did women stay with bastards who made them cry?
Wow. Maggie looked up—way up—into the blue eyes of easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Now, this is more like it. Tan, with golden-brown hair and mile-wide shoulders, dressed in a white uniform shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked good enough to eat.
Dang. She realized she was holding his hand like some starstruck teenager. She dropped it and took a step back.
Unfortunately she was a bit too close to the edge of the grotto.
Arms flailing as she fell backward, she grabbed for the first thing her hands came in contact with…his shirt.
With a huge splash, they landed chest to chest, heads banging together. Maggie tasted blood at the same time she realized she was held underwater by the weight of the man. Shoving him aside, she broke the surface and gasped for air, trudging toward the water’s edge.
“Did you have to land on me?” Sputtering and coughing, she turned on him.
He lay facedown in the water.
“Shit!” She plowed against the force of the jets and grasped the back of his uniform collar to haul him above the surface of the water.
Her arm around his chest, she dragged him to the edge of the whirlpool, grunting with effort.
Good thing she was a lifeguard.
Beneath her palm, his heart beat a strong rhythm. He was breathing. Breathing was good.
“Let’s get you out of these nasty wet clothes,” she whispered, flicking open one gold button after another. She’d sworn to be more aggressive on her cruise, and fate had dropped the hunk in her arms. True, he was unconscious, but that wouldn’t last for long. Who was she to buck fate? Unfortunately the man’s forehead was rapidly growing a nasty goose egg. Before her eyes, it darkened to a deep cherry red right before the skin split from the immediate swelling.
Having her way with him would obviously have to wait.
With a grunt, she rolled him to his side and thumped his back.
He coughed a few times and wheezed as he struggled to sit up.
Shoot. Mouth-to-mouth would not be needed.
“Are you okay?” His voice was croaky. He cleared his throat and looked at her through sinfully thick, blond-tipped lashes. The once-over from his baby blues had her sitting back on her heels in an effort not to squirm.
He traced the tender skin next to her eye where she’d bumped her head in the first fall, leaving a trail of fire.
Forcing back a wince, she reached out to touch the now huge bump on his forehead. It was hot.
His breath hissed. He leaned back a bit. “Ow.” He probed the bump. “I really whacked my head.” He glanced up. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” More than a whisper seemed inappropriate, for some reason.
He broke whatever connection they had and stood, helping her to her feet. “Thanks for dragging me out of the water.”
He scanned the room. “Where’s your husband, Mrs. Hamilton?”
“Ah, it’s Miss. Or Ms.” Her skin burned with his scrutiny. “I mean, I’m not married.”
“Excuse me?” She couldn’t have said what he thought he’d just heard. He wasn’t that lucky.
“I said I’m not married.” She frowned and brushed at her wet, see-through pant leg before meeting his gaze. “Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”
“What purpose would that be?” Somehow his shirt was unbuttoned, so he began working the sharp buttons through the wet fabric. No need to get excited, despite her claim. Newlyweds often forgot they were married at first. Probably a tough acclimation.
“The purpose of the cruise, of course.”
The woman sounded annoyed and looked a little agitated. Maybe it was best to humor her. “I suppose different people take cruises for different reasons.” Although why a single person would take a honeymoon cruise was beyond him.
He gave her another once-over. She sure was a looker, he’d give her that.
She