Countering His Claim Page 8

  Only then did she look up at him. “Trying to distract me again, Mr. Marlow?”

  “It’s a pretty high-stakes game, Dr. Walsh. Nice shot, by the way.”

  She walked the S then hit the ball into the hole before stepping over the ankle-high wall so Luke could take his shot. He hit the spot she’d been aiming for, but it still didn’t give him a hole in one. Just left him a little closer to the cup than she’d been. He tapped it in and strolled over. “We appear to be even.”

  “It’s only been one hole,” she pointed out as she recorded his score on the card.

  The next hole, the windmill, put him one stroke ahead. They were back to even after the third, a hilly U.

  “You don’t play like a man who’s never been on a mini-golf course before.”

  “What can I say? It’s a ball game, I’m a man.”

  “A match made in heaven,” she teased and sneaked a glance at him. No doubt that he had an athlete’s body—strong shoulders, muscled chest tapering to narrow hips, biceps and forearms that flexed as he lined up his club—but even so, mini golf was its own basket of skills.

  “Yep.” He grinned. “You know, I feel obliged to point out that this course would be just as accessible to guests if the Cora Mae were permanently anchored.”

  “Ah, but it’s more about doing something fun on the deck of a moving vessel—the exhilaration of feeling the ship sail through the water while you’re playing sports is something that can’t be replicated on a floating hotel.”

  Luke glanced at the ocean, rubbing his chin as he considered. “I’ll take your word for it.” He took his shot, then looked back up at her. “Have you played the course often?”

  “Occasionally, when there aren’t many passengers wanting to play. It’s a shame it’s such a clear, calm day. My specialty is playing when the going is rough.” In truth, even then the ship barely rocked at all, but it was enough to affect a shot.

  “A stroke of luck for me,” he said with a lazy smile. Though she was starting to wonder if it was simple luck, or if Luke’s entire life was charmed—even the weather cooperated.

  With six holes down, Luke was ahead by two strokes. “When you go to the day spa,” he asked with an innocent air, “will you have a manicure, as well? Or a pedicure? I like the idea of your toenails in a red gloss polish.”

  She waited until he was about to swing. “Got a foot fetish?”

  He laughed and hit badly, the ball bouncing from a little wall of cobbled rock almost back to where it had started.

  “Oh, what a shame.”

  “Mmm.” He glanced down at her sandals. “Definitely red…or perhaps a flaming scarlet.”

  “You’re only two strokes ahead, Mr. Marlow,” she said moving to set up her ball. “Try not to get carried away.”

  After she won that hole, she was only behind by one. She picked up another stroke on the eighth by again using his trick and distracting him before he hit, leaving them tied going into the last hole. Della bit down on her lip as she recorded the scores. If she could just get Luke to consent to all the delights of a day spa—warm oil massage, hot rocks, sauna—he might relax enough to be in a better frame of mind for her to sway him to keep the Cora Mae a cruising ship. All she had to do was to get him there, and to do that she needed to win this game. With the score even, it came down to the ninth hole. She squared her shoulders and laid her ball on the black cross.

  * * *

  Luke watched Della place her ball and size up the path to the cup. She wanted to win, that much was obvious, but he’d planned how the game would end before either of them had taken their first swing. He might not have played mini golf before, but he knew one end of a putter from the other, and he’d played more games of billiards than he’d had homemade dinners. Same principles to both games—it was all about angles and momentum.

  Making the game’s outcome seem natural, that was the tricky part.

  Luckily he’d won the coin toss and would play the ninth after Della. It was a complex path that led over a steep slope, under a footbridge, around a fountain and to the cup. In many ways it reminded him of his relationship with Della herself—overly complicated and too many distractions preventing him from keeping his eyes on the prize.

  Della managed it in four strokes. Luke thought he could do it in three. Four if he made a mistake—an actual mistake, or a deliberate one. He glanced up at Della and murmured, “Wish me luck.”

  “Sure,” she said sweetly. “Here’s to you winning a day at the spa.”

  “I appreciate the support,” he said, then took his first shot. It passed over the hill, under the overpass to hit the side of the fountain before rolling to a stop. He was on track to win the hole. Win the round. Which was not on the agenda.

  Della wanted him to spend a day at the spa, and he was willing to do it. He’d been serious about keeping an open mind regarding the Cora Mae, and was willing to go along with all the plans Della had to convince him to keep her cruising. Just as he hoped she was doing the same about the ship’s transformation into a floating hotel.

  But if he had to be trapped in the den of sweet smelling horror that he’d heard passed for day spas, then it was only fair that she had to go, too. Plus, he was curious that she lived here and hadn’t paid a visit to the place where women were pampered. His eyes skimmed her delectable form. Unless… Perhaps this was about the scar he’d seen while they were swimming? She’d been so quick to cover it up and stop him from seeing any more of it—did Della have body image issues? He frowned as he walked around the outside of the ninth hole to reach his ball.

  “Awkward spot,” she said.

  “Not too bad.” As he lined up the shot, his skin warmed and he knew Della had moved closer. She was going to try and distract him. And he was going to let her. How long had it been since this doctor had spent any time being spoiled? Indulging herself? Too long, he suspected. Time to rectify that. He restrained the smile that threatened.

  He swung the putter back and, on the downswing, Della said, “How are your stitches?”

  He botched the shot and the ball ended up a little farther behind where he’d started. “Your concern for my health is touching,” he drawled, eyeing his ball with a mocking expression. “And useful.”

  “Surely, you don’t think I tried to put you off, Mr. Marlow. Why, that would be despicable. No—” she assumed an angelic expression “—I’m simply honoring my commitment to a patient and to the Hippocratic Oath.”

  He took a step back and lined up his next shot.

  “So your hand isn’t bothering you with the grip on the club?” she asked, moving around into his field of vision.

  “It’s a little tender, but nothing to worry about. I’m doing most of the work with my other hand.” It wasn’t like he had to put any force into these swings, so this was easier than hitting in the nets earlier. He made the shot and thankfully it hit the place he was aiming for, making it around the fountain on the rebound.

  He couldn’t win. But he could tie.

  His last shot got the ball in the cup. “What’s the score, doc?”

  “We tied,” she said, frowning. Clearly this outcome wasn’t a welcome turn of events.

  He grinned. “So, I guess we’ll both be off to the spa.”

  Perhaps the grin was a step too far. Hand on hip, she scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. “Why do I get the feeling you planned it this way?”

  He rested the club behind his neck, along his shoulders. “You have a suspicious mind?” he said helpfully.

  “You said you hadn’t played mini golf before.”

  “I haven’t, but I play a lot of billiards. The principles are the same.”

  Shaking her head, she flashed him a resigned smile. “I’ve been scammed.”

  “Maybe, but if the day spa is as good as you say, then we’re
both winners.”

  She laughed, and as she did, her nose crinkled up. His heart stilled in his chest and the rest of the world seemed to recede. Dark hair danced around her face in the light breeze, and there was humor in her bottomless brown eyes. Nothing short of the world ending could have stopped him from laughing with her. Until he realized what he’d done.

  He’d started to relax.

  For the first time in far too long, he felt like he was actually taking a holiday. Despite the grief of losing the uncle he’d loved, and the mountains of work he’d managed while Della had been on shift. Despite his deep-seated aversion to relaxing around anyone but his billiards buddies because it inherently involved letting down his guard.

  Despite knowing Della was someone he was locked in a high-stakes business negotiation with, someone who tugged at him so much, he knew he needed to be extra careful around her. And possibly most seriously, despite vowing that he’d never again be blinded by a woman to the detriment of all else. He silently cursed himself.

  Tension flowed into his muscles, bracing his shoulders, then pouring through the rest of his body, tightening and clenching until he felt…more like his normal self. That was a disturbing thought. He filed it away for later consideration. He took down the club from his shoulders—a stupid, cocky pose—and rested it on the ground, the grip of his good hand tightening till he felt his knuckles straining.

  Right now he had other, more important matters to concentrate on. He set his jaw and met Della’s eyes again, this time being sure to keep his expression more suited to a business acquaintance. “So what’s on the agenda tonight?”

  Her eyebrows quirked, obviously noticing the change in his demeanor. The happy twinkle vanished from her eyes and he knew it was in response to his suddenly chilly tone. It made him realize just how much she’d relaxed with him.

  She took a small step back and nodded with a respectful detachment. Perversely, he already missed the secret delight of the casual air that had sprung up between them. And didn’t that just show how important it was that he’d caught his slip in time?

  “I think you deserve a night off,” she said with that damned polite smile she’d used when he first met her.

  A reprieve. Time to get his mind in order. Just what he needed. So why did he want to push?

  “Why waste the night?” he said before he could stop himself.

  She bit down on her lip, then her shoulders squared. “I have some paperwork to do this afternoon, so I’ll be grabbing something quick for dinner. But I can see you after that. Meet me at the main staircase in the foyer at seven.”

  He nodded. Before then he would get his head thinking clearly again. Because, starting tonight, they were changing tack—he was going to convince Della Walsh to allow him to turn the Cora Mae into a floating hotel. No more messing around.

  This was business.

  Six

  While Della waited at the stairs for Luke that evening, she fingered the scalloped neck of her top. It was new, more daring than anything she’d worn for the past few years. The moment she’d seen the gleaming sequined mint-green garment in one of the ship’s boutiques, she’d had to have it. Given her refusal to wear anything but relatively plain clothing since her husband’s death, she’d found her obsession with the top disquieting. Could it be a sign that she was changing? She glanced at the fabric with the tiny gleaming discs, habit making her check that her scars were well covered.

  She looked up to see Luke strolling into the lobby and all thoughts flew out of her mind. The same magnetic charge that had struck her the moment she’d first seen him on the deck hit her again—it held her gaze steady on him, enticing her to draw closer. She ran her palms down her skirt and tried to hold on to her composure. His hair was damp and freshly combed; his sky-blue dress shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and chest. A need to feel that strength under her hands was so strong it threatened to pull her under.

  “Good evening, Della,” he said, granting her a lazy smile. “You look amazing.”

  “Hello, Luke,” she said brightly, hoping to cover how her pulse thrummed. “Thank you. Is there anything in particular you’d like to do tonight? See one of the live shows, perhaps? Try the wine bar?”

  He sank his hands into his pockets. “I assume this ship has a dance floor?”

  “There are three venues,” she said, relieved to be able to fall into tour guide mode. “If you like a modern atmosphere, there’s a nightclub on Deck Five. And there’s a retro disco on Deck Nine. Or if you prefer a waltz, the Blue Moon is on Deck Four.”

  “Which one do you usually go to?” He raised a lazy eyebrow.

  Butterflies leaped to life in her belly. She had a feeling she knew where this was going—the wrong direction.

  “I—” she began but her throat was too tight to speak. She swallowed and began again. “I don’t.” Even to her the answer sounded sharp, full of meaning. Not just a statement of fact as she’d intended. When he raised his eyebrows, she found herself compelled to say more. “I’m not much of a dancer. But I’ll take you to whichever venue appeals. I’m sure you won’t have a problem finding partners.”

  “I’d rather dance with you,” he said, his voice as rich and smooth as darkest chocolate. Before she could think of another excuse, he held out his hand. “Live on the edge. Dance with me, Della.”

  She looked at the hand outstretched in front of her. This wasn’t just a hand she’d sutured; it was a man’s hand. She hadn’t held—really held—a man’s hand since her husband’s. It was loaded with meaning. An invitation to dance. Her mind spun on to the next threat…dancing, which required even more body contact than hand-holding. Involuntarily, her muscles tensed.

  For two years, she’d lived a celibate life and preferred it that way. It was the only path open to her—even in the unlikely event that a man might see past her scars, she would never, never risk loving and losing again. So why go dancing? Or even share dinner with a man?

  Because Luke wanted to—and she’d locked herself into a game of “persuasions” to convince him to keep the Cora Mae as a cruising ship. A game she didn’t intend to lose. So no backing away from a simple request.

  Though, if she were honest, part of her wanted to dance with this man. Would it be so wrong to give in to that part just this once?

  Ignoring the trembling deep inside, she took Luke’s hand and showed him the way to the Blue Moon.

  As Luke led her onto the full dance floor ten minutes later with a firm grip on her hand, Della tried to remember how to breathe. She normally loved that the walls around them were painted darkest blue and studded with fairy lights that resembled little stars, but for the first time she couldn’t spare them a glance.

  He’s walking you to a dance floor, not off a gangplank. No big deal.

  But her body wasn’t listening. Because, any moment now, Luke would take her in his arms—a touch more intimate than any contact from a man she’d experienced in several years. Her stomach tightened like a fist.

  While the singer crooned an old favorite and with other couples scattered around them enjoying the night, they reached the center of the polished floor. Luke turned to face her, inviting her to step in. She tried to comply—to move—but her feet wouldn’t work.

  You agreed to this. You said you’d dance with him.

  Taking a breath, she shuffled her feet until she was encircled by Luke’s patiently waiting arms. Perhaps sensing her inner tension, he held her at a respectable distance and began to move them smoothly around the floor. She was as stiff as a board, but was helpless to loosen up. Being this close seemed wrong on so many levels.

  “I won’t bite,” he said, his mouth near her ear.

  Startled from her thoughts, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Of course he wouldn’t; she was being unreasonable. They were simply dancing, the sam
e as the other couples. The same as she used to do. Before.

  Consciously loosening her muscles, she released some tension as she exhaled in a long steady stream.

  “Better,” he murmured.

  His encouraging tone allowed her to relax more into his arms. And as she did, she became aware of the sensation of those arms around her—supportive and…nice.

  The scent of a man’s clean skin filled her head, and the strength of his broad shoulders registered under hand. Her pulse picked up pace, and this time it wasn’t due to apprehension. He pulled her almost imperceptibly closer, and she looked up into his warm gray eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing exactly what to say.

  “What for?” he asked, his voice soft. “You’ve given me an entertaining day and now you’re dancing with me. There’s nothing to apologize for. I should be thanking you.”

  Kindness with no awkward questions. Her heart melted a little. The depth of his sensitivity was unexpected. She couldn’t have picked a better partner for her first foray into dating. Not that this was a date, but the things they were doing were all the sorts of things normal couples did when they went out. Maybe, after Luke left, she would make more of an effort with her social life, stop cutting herself off—not go searching for a relationship, just a little company. Maybe it was time.

  She smiled up at him. Other guests floated across the floor, most dressed to the nines, several dripping in diamonds or brightly colored gemstones, but she ignored them. They couldn’t compare to this man.

  He shifted his hand at the small of her back and rubbed a slow pattern of small circles, sending goose bumps rushing across her arms and torso. As he led her in a turn, he pulled her a little closer again. A space still existed between their bodies, but she could feel the heat emanating from him, and his breath fanning over her cheek.

  Suddenly she didn’t want his kindness, didn’t want his gentleness. She wanted to be dragged against him—closer still—to feel his body pressed against the length of hers, to kiss and be kissed. It had been so long…