All Night Long. Melissa MacNeal
policy.”
Lola’s mouth snapped shut. Fletch left hours ago! All this time she’d assumed he was parked at a poker table in the ship’s casino! She’d spent the afternoon anointing herself for the biggest night of his life, while he’d been galavanting around with some floozy from Aruba! Was probably naked in her jacuzzi by now, laughing his ass off about the clueless, bossy broad who thought she’d have him roped and branded by tomorrow.
Flummoxed, she strode to the open doors to scan the pier area, where the last stragglers were hurrying up the gangplank.
Like he’d really be there, she chided herself. You should’ve known he’d never change! You should’ve taken a clue from all those times he walked out before. But no, you had to wheedle and coax and spread your legs to keep him coming back for—
“Pardon me, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I don’t think so!” she spat, wheeling around to face the crewman who’d dared to interrupt her inner rant.
Lola’s jaw dropped. Golden-brown eyes drank her in. Sun-kissed, sandy hair framed a slender Mediterranean face. A wicked little mustache curled around lush—very kissable—lips that curved in a polite smile.
Then she realized her arms were crossed so hard she was hanging out the front of her robe. “I—sorry—”
He bowed slightly, graciously maintaining eye contact while she tucked herself in. “Rio Benito DeSilva, Chief of Security, at your service, Miss—”
You can service me any time, honey.
“—Wright,” he crooned. “I understand we’re about to leave a passenger behind, and that you’re concerned about your husband’s—
Not any more, he’s not.
“—weakness in this heat.”
“So it’s not just me?” Lola breathed. “It really is hot in here?”
Rio clenched his teeth to keep from chuckling. In an ivory silk wrap that left little to his imagination, with her wavy red hair drifting in disarray around her heart-shaped face, Lola Wright looked like she’d jumped out of one man’s bed in search of another. Never mind those crimson nipples.
He hoped his instincts were right, about Miss Wright being brassy on the outside but far too…naive to be involved in Mr. Fletcher’s situation. He couldn’t discuss it right now; didn’t want to upset her more than she already was, or speak before he had the facts. Rio felt the overwhelming urge to tuck this lovely woman into a hug and protect her from the cruel truth, but he mentally stepped away.
“While we must maintain our schedule,” he continued quietly, gazing into eyes as deep and green as a primeval forest, “we will do everything possible to contact Mr. Fletcher and instruct him on how to meet us at the next port of call. This probably seems terribly inconvenient—”
The ship lurched, pulling away from the pier. Lola gasped, shifting to keep her balance—or was it because DeSilva had grasped her shoulders to steady her? She couldn’t decide if his mustache belonged on Don Quixote or Zorro, but she wanted to keep him talking so that low, Spanish accent would caress her ear again. So she could watch his lips move.
“—but I assure you that the staff of the Aphrodite will do all in our power to put your vacation back on track,” he continued. He glanced at the crewmen securing the exits, and at the passengers in the hallway impatiently awaiting the glass elevators.
“This way, please,” he said, gesturing around the corner, toward double doors painted the same beige as the walls. “If you can describe Mr. Fletcher for me—if his cruise documents are in your stateroom—this will expedite finding him onshore. And it will prevent the local authorities from detaining him, if he’s fallen ill and doesn’t have his passport with him.”
Cruise documents? Passport? It would serve Dennis right if the cops hauled him in! But then, his soul mate wouldn’t have required a photo I.D., would she?
The doors slid open, and Lola stepped into a staff elevator, which was very plain, compared to those glitzy glass ones for the passengers. She hugged the back wall, feeling the cool stainless steel through her silk robe. When she shivered, her nipples seemed determined to show off, just when she needed to behave herself. She’d been in such a hurry to get back at Dennis, and now this robe she’d thrown on in the heat of the moment had probably made her the talk of the boys in white.
Her escort pushed the 7 button. He smiled like he was trying not to notice what she wasn’t wearing, even though the fit of his zipper hinted otherwise.
This ride might become extremely…intimate, if Mr. DeSilva took two steps toward her. His eyes were soft and sympathetic, like a golden retriever’s, and with his hair feathered back from his suntanned face, rakishly brushing the top of his collar, he looked like anything but a security agent.
But if he was escorting her to her room, to see Dennis’s cruise docs…Lord, were they even there? DeSilva had probably heard her sob story from the Filipino at the monitor, so the little lie she’d set into motion to get Fletch’s departure time would unravel pretty fast if she didn’t—
“Are you all right, Miss Wright?”
“Please—call me Lola,” she blurted, suddenly undone by this man’s debonair kindness. Cop or not, he seemed sincerely concerned about her predicament. “I—I’m just upset. Thank you for asking.”
“Understandably so. You’re quite welcome.”
You’re quite welcome. How long since she’d heard that phrase? These days people said “no problem!”—as though her thanking them was one.
When the elevator stopped on the Promenade level, she walked ahead of him nervously, SeaKey in hand. Lola felt like a little girl being herded to the office for lying to the teacher. Or for not wearing panties to school. The nuns would’ve fainted—or gotten out the paddle—at that sin!
“I’ll wait right here. Take your time,” DeSilva said as she slid the key card into the lock.
“Ah. So it was only my fantasy that you’d come into my room,” she quipped, and then her cheeks flared with embarrassment. “I’m so—that was inexcusably rude, to—”
Rio sucked in his breath. Here in the dimmed lights of the corridor, with her ivory face flushed and her robe clinging to curves that called out to his hands, it was a fantasy he certainly shared. He looked through her open door to rein in his runaway thoughts, and then grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Wait! Someone’s been in here, rifling through your room! You’d better stay right here while I check for an intruder.”
Pulse pounding—from the thought of intruders, and from the heat of his skin through her robe—Lola grabbed the door jamb as Rio stepped into her stateroom.
“Anybody here?” he demanded, throwing open the bathroom door. He was bristling with business now—not a burly man, but not one she’d want to get crossways with, either. Rio DeSilva’s angles looked sharp enough to slice like a saber.
As she peeked in after him, Lola let out a long sigh. With Fletch’s undershirts and socks strewn everywhere, the place did look ransacked. And when DeSilva leaned down to pick up a crumpled piece of paper, she knew she had to come clean.
Lola stepped inside. Leaned against the door to close it. “I have a confession,” she breathed.
Rio’s heart skipped a couple of beats. He felt like anything but a priest. Lola’s robe had fallen open again, enough to tease him with her pale pink cleavage…round and firm and sweet. His tongue flicked the roof of his mouth, wondering how those painted points would feel—and taste.
He cleared his throat. This was an adult cruise, yes—the fantasy Captain Skandalis alluded to in his welcome spiel—but he was strictly forbidden to be in a passenger’s room while she was in it, too.
“Yes? I’m listening,”