Countering His Claim Read online

  Hands low on his hips, looking more devastatingly gorgeous than any man had a right to be, Luke regarded her as she arrived. “Where’s our first stop on your magical mystery tour?”

  “We’re starting at the beginning. Belowdecks, in Galley Two.”

  “And here I’d expected another day of leisurely swimming.”

  She remembered his bare chest glistening with water droplets yesterday, and board shorts sitting firmly over a taut abdomen. Then she remembered how her body had reacted when he’d simply taken her hand in the water, and her blood began to heat.

  She swallowed and turned her gaze ahead. “Maybe some other time.”

  But not until she’d recovered from the memories of their first swim, at a minimum.

  “So is there a dress code for these tours?” he asked, rocking back on his heels.

  She cast a sweeping glance over his casual trousers and polo shirt. “What you’re wearing won’t be a problem for today.”

  “Do you say such sweet things to all the boys, or is it just me?” he asked, gray eyes twinkling.

  “Fishing for a compliment, Mr. Marlow?”

  “You know what?” he said and cocked his head to the side. “I’m perversely enjoying the novelty of not receiving them.”

  Chuckling, she shook her head. “Dear me, what a tough life you must lead to be jaded by a steady diet of compliments.”

  “Praise, sincerely given, isn’t a bad thing. When it’s simpering or calculated, and part of an agenda, it’s tiresome.”

  With his wealth, power and those sculpted cheekbones, she could imagine he received regular insincere compliments. She reached out and pushed open the double-hinged doors to the galley. “Then I’ll make a concerted effort to keep all simpering to a minimum.”

  “Your generosity knows no bounds,” he said dryly and walked through the open door.

  She threaded her way through the counters and staff until she found her quarry. “Hi, Roxie.”

  A middle-aged woman with round, rosy cheeks and faded red hair held high on her head in a bun turned and smiled widely. “Dr. Walsh. So lovely to see you.” She took Della’s hand in both of hers then leaned to look past her. “And this must be Mr. Marlow all grown up. I’d heard you were on board, but I didn’t think I’d get to see you again.”

  A faint line of concentration appeared between Luke’s brows as he offered Roxie his hand. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t expect that you’d remember, but when you were a little boy, you’d sometimes come down to the galley of the old Princess Cora and visit me.”

  Della crossed her fingers behind her back. Before she could make more headway with Luke, she needed something to sneak under his defenses. Hopefully Roxie would do it.

  Suddenly, the frown line disappeared and his eyes widened. “Mrs. Appleby?”

  Roxie beamed. “One and the same.”

  “You used to sneak me sultana cookies,” Luke said, his eyes alive with memories.

  “They were your favorite.” Her face dropped. “I’m so sorry about your uncle. He was a good man.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate you saying so,” he said, his features carefully schooled to neutral. He glanced around, then turned back to Roxie and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I don’t suppose you still bake those cookies?”

  Roxie grinned. “They haven’t been on the menu lately, but I baked a batch yesterday when I heard you were on board.” She lowered her lashes and a little extra color rose in her cheeks. “Just in case.”

  “I haven’t had a good sultana cookie since I was twelve.” Luke smiled the charming smile that probably got him whatever he wanted. “Don’t suppose that new batch is nearby?”

  “Let me get a paper bag.”

  As Roxie bustled away, Della bit down on a smile. She hadn’t won—not by any stretch of the imagination—but they’d just taken an important step in getting Luke to think of the Cora Mae as more than spreadsheets and figures, and she was well satisfied with that for now. She introduced Luke to one of the chefs who was still working on late breakfasts and they chatted about the kitchen’s capacity and appliances. When Roxie returned with a brown paper bag neatly folded over at the top, Luke turned the charm back on. “I appreciate this, Mrs. Appleby.”

  “You just let me know when you want more. I’ll bake a new batch whenever you need.”

  Della said goodbye to Roxie and led Luke out through the swinging doors.

  “I’ll treat you to a cookie,” he said, holding the bag aloft. “There has to be at least eight in here.”

  “Only if I can buy you a coffee to go with it.” She had to keep moving ahead—not lose the momentum Roxie had given her.

  “Deal,” he said.

  She took him to her favorite café, A Taste of Paris, on the shopping deck, where the French chef made pastries that melted in the mouth and coffee that tasted like heaven. She snagged a table on a paved area outside the café’s glass shopfront, a spot that would allow them to watch passengers splurge in the stores along the main shopping strip.

  “I’ll go in and order,” she said. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Black, double strength.”

  When she came back a few minutes later with the coffees and two empty plates, she found Luke sitting with his back to the glass wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, watching the world go by…the world of shipboard retail, at least. He opened the paper bag and offered it to her. “You knew about Roxie Appleby sneaking me cookies when I was a kid.”

  “Patrick told me.” In fact, Patrick had delighted in regaling her with stories of Luke’s school holiday escapades.

  Luke laughed, a gorgeous full-throated sound. “Here’s me thinking I’d been a juvenile master of espionage and indulging in some serious rule-breaking and the old devil knew all along.”

  She just smiled. She wasn’t going to tell him that Patrick had been pleased to see his too-serious nephew getting up to mischief.

  He took a sultana cookie from the bag and dropped it on his plate. “And you took me there deliberately, to attempt to establish an emotional connection between me and the staff.”

  She smiled angelically. “I wouldn’t be giving it my best shot if I’d let the opportunity slip by.”

  “It’s reassuring that I’m not in the hands of an amateur,” he said and bit into his cookie.

  “I also wanted you to put faces to the people who are depending on us. The people our decision will affect.” The same faces that haunted Della’s mind when she thought about the choice that lay before her.

  He sipped his coffee and watched her over the rim. “But Roxie would keep her job if the Cora Mae becomes a floating hotel,” he said as he set the cup back in its saucer. “Nothing need change there.”

  “Roxie might not want that job. She spent a few years on land after you knew her and had a family, and now she has a son working here on the bridge, a daughter in Sydney and another son in New Zealand with his wife and baby. I suspect she’d look for another ship doing a similar run if you anchor this one, so she could still see her children regularly.”

  He frowned as he finished his cookie and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “You’re not suggesting I should direct the future of my company based on where Roxie Appleby would prefer to work.”

  “No, of course not. I’m just helping you get to know the ship and her crew and the issues they face.” Baby steps. And this baby step was merely to raise a niggle of doubt in his mind about how perfect his plan was. Which led to the next baby step. “I’m on duty after lunch but we still have some time before that. We could go ice skating, try some golf, play a game of tennis—the whole ship is our oyster. Or, how do you feel about rock climbing?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I prefer golf.”

  “Mini golf, d
riving range or the putting green?” She ticked off the options on her fingers.

  He rubbed his jaw, considering. “Depends.”

  “I’ll tell you up front that I draw the line at being your caddy.”

  The edges of his sensual lips twitched. “Nice to see you’re willing to go the extra mile for your cause. But fortunately, you don’t need a caddy for any of those options.”

  “Then what does it depend on?” she asked warily. In the short time she’d known him, she’d learned to expect the unexpected with Luke Marlow.

  “Do you play?”

  “I’ve played mini golf. What about you?”

  “Never played a round of mini golf in my life,” he said, obviously holding back a wince. “But real golf—” his eyes flared with passion “—that’s a game I’ve indulged in.”

  Della smiled brightly. This was good news. She wanted him relaxed, enjoying himself—in the best possible mood while considering the Cora Mae’s future. “How about we try the driving range?”

  “Sure, why not?” he said and stood.

  She looked up at him, so tall and broad as he loomed over her, and her heart skipped a beat. Suddenly she could think of several reasons why not, chief among them that watching his powerful shoulders as he took a swing would likely mess with her focus on making her case for the Cora Mae.

  She drew in a breath, pushed back her chair and stood next to him. She’d just have to be extra vigilant. Besides, she didn’t have to watch him. She’d take a few swings herself—the activity might help her to keep her mind somewhere else.

  * * *

  Luke watched Della line up another shot in the driving range’s nets. The golf pro on duty had tracked their shots on the computer software and given them some statistics such as the ball’s speed and trajectory, plus a few tips for improvement. Then he’d moved on to another passenger in one of the three nets and left them alone to practice.

  The power in Luke’s shots wasn’t as good as usual, but he tried to ignore the twinge in his palm from the stitches and play on regardless.

  Della put her feet together beside the tee, then moved them shoulder-width apart as Luke had shown her when they’d arrived. Her back was straight, her knees a little bent, and her sweet rear end was angled slightly, ever-so-enticingly out. She drew the club back, then a loud thwack split the air and, with considerable effort, Luke dragged his gaze away to watch where the ball hit on the net’s target.

  “You sliced again,” he said as if he’d been watching the whole shot, not dividing his time between that and her rear end. “But not as badly.”

  “Do you say such sweet things to all the gals, or is it just me?” she said, recycling his words from earlier.

  “What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”

  “Smooth talker.” She pulled a face at him before bending to put another ball on the tee. “This is harder than mini golf.”

  He barely managed to hold back the laugh. “Just a bit,” he conceded. “Though you’re a natural. If I didn’t trust you, I mightn’t have believed this is your first time.”

  As the words left his mouth, Luke stiffened. Trust her? When had he come to trust her? His gut clenched tight. Looking back, something had changed yesterday at the Bay of Islands. Hearing her distress while telling him her story, something inside him had shifted.

  Trust gave her all sorts of power over his business future…maybe even over him. He wasn’t sure he liked that. In fact, he was damned sure he didn’t.

  And if he trusted her, then he could no longer believe she coerced Patrick to leave her half the ship. Although Patrick meaning to leave her half the ship made no sense at all.

  Della moved back to let him have a turn and he stood in front of the tee, gripped the club as well as he could with the stitches in his palm, moving his arms, feet and knees to slip into the correct posture. Then he remembered where his eyes had been while she’d taken her shot….

  Where were her eyes now? Would straitlaced Dr. Della do something as naughty as watch his butt while he swung? His pulse leaped but he took a breath and focused on the ball. Banter was one thing, and he might believe her story about Patrick now, but he wouldn’t let himself become entangled with someone he was in business negotiations with. No matter how her rear end looked when she swung a golf club.

  He lined up the shot, drew back the club and hit the ball with a satisfying thwack. He put another ball on the tee and stood back for her turn.

  “What time do you go on duty?” he asked.

  “Midday,” she said without looking up. “Are you attempting to distract me?”

  No, he thought, to distract myself. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

  “I’m just learning this game and already you’re being competitive?”

  He waited till she took the shot—another slice, but again, not too bad all things considered—before replying. “Competition is hardwired into my brain. Comes with having a Y chromosome.”

  She wrapped her fingers around the handle of her driving iron, her eyes calculating. “How about we make a wager then?”

  “On hitting into the nets?”

  “Too hard to score. On mini golf.” She flicked a glance at her watch. “The clinic closes at three, so plenty of time for a play-off afterward.”

  He’d never seen the course and he’d guess she’d played it many times. Her familiarity with the holes versus his putting skill might just produce an even contest. “What are the stakes?”

  “You win, we continue with the current plan of persuading each other about the Cora Mae’s future. I win, you leave the Cora Mae as a cruising ship.”

  He didn’t try to hold back the laugh this time. “Nice try, Dr. Walsh. Lucky for me folly wasn’t wired in with my competitive spirit. Let’s make the stakes more in keeping with the game being played, shall we? If you win, I’ll go rock climbing.”

  “Not challenging enough,” she said, tapping one slender finger on her club’s shaft. “I win, you spend a day at the ship’s day spa.”

  He winced. “Will that involve fluffy white towels and green slime plastered over my face?”

  Her lips twitched. “So I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve never been?” he asked, intrigued.

  She shrugged, seemingly unfazed by his question. “I’ve been told by trustworthy people that the services are first-rate.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “You win, I’ll go to the day spa. I win, you go.”

  Her eyes rounded. He’d surprised her. A potent coil of satisfaction twisted tight in his belly. “Deal?” he prompted.

  “Deal,” she said.

  He lined up the shot and swung, knowing he was far too pleased with himself over merely surprising Dr. Della.

  * * *

  At half past three, Della took the elevator to the top deck and strolled over to the mini-golf course. She’d changed into shorts and a white sleeveless wraparound top, running shoes and a baseball cap. She was here to win. Getting Luke to agree to some time being pampered had been on her agenda, but she’d known it would be a hard sell. If she won this match, problem solved. Luke would spend time at the day spa, relaxing, building positive memories of the ship to reinforce the rest of her strategy. She wanted him head over heels in love with the Cora Mae, so he’d want what was best for the ship, not his bottom line.

  She saw him ahead, leaning casually against the counter, silver-rimmed sunglasses covering his eyes, feet crossed at the ankles, the recipient of adoring looks from the girl running the activity desk.

  Della took a moment to appreciate his long lean form before Luke lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head as she approached. She glimpsed heat flare in his eyes for a split second before he smothered it. “Della, I was just telling Christina about our wager.”

  Christina’s blon
d ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “I think it sounds like heaps of fun. Good luck,” she gushed, eyes never leaving Luke.

  Della smiled wryly. Luke had an admirer. Though, she had to admit, if she—who’d sworn off men—was affected by Luke’s magnetic aura, then a less seasoned woman like Christina didn’t have much hope.

  They took their clubs and a scorecard and moved off to the start line, with more of Christina’s good luck wishes following them.

  “Apparently, you have your own personal cheer squad,” she said as she wrote their names at the top of the scorecard.

  “She’s a nice kid,” he said, and a little part of her—one she wasn’t proud of—warmed at his easy rebuff of the attentions from a pretty girl. She chanced a glance at him again to check, but his eyes were roaming the first hole. It was fairly straightforward—a green felt S, relatively flat.

  “I’d normally flip a coin to see who goes first,” he said, “but I think ladies should go before gentlemen.”

  “I suggested the match, which makes you my guest, so you go first.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Looks like we’ll need to flip, after all.” He dug into his pocket and drew out a shiny silver twenty-five cent coin. “Heads or tails?”

  “Tails.”

  With a flick of his thumb, the coin spun into the air, turning over and over, catching the sun on each rotation. Then he plucked it out of the air, planted it on the back of his hand and held it out for her to see. Heads.

  He stuffed the coin back in his pocket and rested the club across the ledge of his shoulders, behind his neck, with a wrist holding it in place at each end. “I’m ready to be dazzled by nine holes of your mini-golf brilliance.”

  “Right. So no pressure, then.” She dropped the ball onto the black X and lined up the shot. If she could bounce it off the first curve at the right angle, it should end up somewhere near the hole. She surveyed the angle of the S and found the spot on the little white barrier wall she’d need to hit.

  “You strike me as a person who thrives on pressure,” he said, but she ignored him as she aimed for the spot she’d found and swung. The ball touched close to where she’d aimed, bounced away and struck the side again farther down, then rolled along to within a couple of feet from the cup. A fairly straightforward putt.