Jack & Jilted (3 page)

“Whoa,” he said, and he was behind her, one hand on her waist, steadying her. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she said, taking a few more steps gingerly. His hand, she noticed, did not move from her waist until she was on the deck itself.

“Not used to boats, huh?” he said, stepping easily off the walkway and onto the deck as if it were rock-solid concrete instead of the shifting surface of a water-bound vessel.

“No,” she admitted. “But I’ve always loved the ocean, which is why Gerald…”

Just the name caused a pang.

“Now, now, enough of that,” he said, and he rubbed her shoulder absently, which made her feel both embarrassed and thankful. “Why don’t I show you to your cabin?”

“That’d be great,” she said. She followed him cautiously, still getting used to that swaying motion beneath her feet. As soon as she made it to her cabin, she was taking these dumb shoes off. She sent Jack an apologetic smile when he realized she was lagging, and he slowed down to accommodate her.

The ship itself was pretty, she noticed as she walked. She was no expert, but the wood looked like something expensive—teak maybe. They used teak on boats, didn’t they? And the lines were clean. There were all kinds of nautical doodads that seemed well-worn but not unsafe. She went down the steps carefully, going along the claustrophobic hallway.

“The galley’s over here,” he said, pointing to a door, “and the crew’s cabins are here…and here we are, your cabin.”

He opened a door and she peeked in.

It was smaller than she’d expected. And it was mostly bed.

“There’s the bathroom.” He pointed to a closet-sized room. “There’s a shower and everything else you’ll need. It’s pretty straightforward.”

She nodded absently, although she couldn’t take her eyes off the bed. It was huge, considering the room. Two people would probably have to be close to be comfortable. Which was probably the whole idea, she clued in, with a growing sense of sadness. There was what looked like a down comforter and some luxurious sheets. Satin maybe? Whatever they were, it was cream-colored and decadent. She’d likely be swimming in the things, slipping and sliding as the ship continued to sway.

“There are drawers here,” he said, opening some hidden compartments. “And you can put your bag under your bed, here.”

“Right,” she murmured, barely paying attention. The lights were on a dimmer switch—they were low and romantic. There was a CD player, no doubt anchored to the headboard. She saw a collection of CDs in a built-in cabinet, all slow love songs or soulful ballads. She bit her lip, fighting tears.

“And if you’ll look carefully,” Jack continued, “right here, by the portal, is a button that operates our time machine. You don’t want to hit that accidentally.”

“You got it,” she said, then she shook her head, startled. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Just seeing if you were still with me,” he said, leaning toward her to look into her eyes. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yes. Sure. I mean…” She made a vague gesture with her hands. In the context of what she’d been through the last few hours, she was okay. But for any other day of her life?

“No,” she admitted. “I’m not doing okay.”

He sighed heavily, the big inhalation making his chest seem huge in the close quarters. She found herself sitting on the bed, which put her almost eye level with his belt buckle. She craned her head upward to stare at him. To her surprise, he sat down next to her. At least it wasn’t a water bed, she thought inanely, although the idea of a water bed on a boat struck her as redundantly funny. She smiled weakly at her own joke.

“I know I kind of talked you into this,” he said slowly. “You don’t have to come out on the boat if you don’t want to. I mean, if you’ve got family you’d rather be with or something…I know this has got to be a rough patch.” He winced. “Let me rephrase that. Rough patch doesn’t even cover it. Hell, I don’t even know how to say it.”

“Neither do I,” she said, realizing that fact. “I feel more numb than anything, though.”

“Now I’m really feeling scummy,” he muttered, surprising her. “Are you going to be okay here? I mean…well, you know what I mean.”

“Am I going to be okay all alone in the honeymoon suite of a romantic cruise, dealing with the emotional aftershocks of being left at the altar by my supposed future husband?” she summarized, feeling each word like a lash on her skin.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “that’s one way of putting it.”

She thought about it. Thought about what she’d left behind. Her parents had argued vociferously against her going on the cruise, using the exact same logic. But the idea of being back home, surrounded by her well-intentioned family and friends, was far more claustrophobic than any small ship cabin could be. And while the ship was romantic, it wasn’t as though Gerald and she had been feeling intimate lately, anyway. If they’d actually gotten married, all this ambience would’ve been wasted on them after they arrived, since they’d both probably just tumble in and simply sleep. She hadn’t even had the full wedding and she felt like crashing into bed and staying unconscious for the full seven days. And with the size of the bed, she would probably be more comfortable alone, if she was honest about it.

As her father said, When life gives you lemons…

“I’m going to be okay,” she announced clearly. “It’ll take time, but…yeah, I’ll be okay.”

Then she turned her full attention to Jack. He looked concerned. Actually, he looked a little unnerved. Men didn’t normally deal well with emotional women, she told herself, torn between amusement and irritation. Gerald had always found some excuse to vanish when she was in “one of her fits” as he called them, her rare outbursts of temper or upset. She’d learned not to expose him to them. When she felt like crying, she called her friends; when she felt like hollering, she drove somewhere isolated and screamed in her car with the windows rolled up. Afterward, she could calmly deal with whatever was bothering her. Generally by that point, Gerald didn’t even have to become involved.

She frowned. That might have been part of the problem, too.

“One last thing,” he said, sounding hesitant. “There’s a minifridge over here. It’s got, er, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. It’s also got some beer, if you want it.”

“Thanks,” she said. “And don’t feel guilty, okay? You didn’t talk me into anything.”

“Sure I didn’t,” he said, and his recriminating tone spoke volumes.

“No, really,” she argued. “I decided to take some time to develop an action plan. I really am regrouping.”

The look he sent her was almost one of pity, but he let it go. “All right. Since I’ve got you settled in, I’ll cast off and we’ll be on our way. We’ll be cruising up toward Catalina, but we won’t go all the way there tonight. If you need anything, just hit the intercom button here.” He gestured to a panel by the door. “Whatever you want, ask, and I’ll jump to.”

“That sounds nice,” she said. “Thanks very much…Jack.”

He smiled, revealing two dimples that probably broke hearts in every port he’d ever sailed into. Too bad her heart had already been broken.

“No problem…Chloe.”

She smiled back when he shut the door. The smile didn’t last long, though, as she leaned back against the bed.

All right. You’re here. Now what?

She could feel the motions of the boat—the whirr of the engine as it roared to life, the slow, steady sway as it moved out of its slip and carefully navigated its way to the Coronado Channel. She could see out the small window. The sun had almost entirely set, the sky bleeding from crimson to purple to navy, left to right. It was beautiful, so beautiful it made her heart hurt.

In the twilight, later, she decided to go about settling in. She’d be here for a week, after all. She unpacked her luggage neatly into the small drawers and stowed the bag under the bed. Then she grabbed a book—the romance that she’d purchased to while away the hours in the sun while Gerald fished or whatever. She realized within ten pages that she didn’t want to read someone else’s love story. A murder mystery might’ve been more the thing.

Restless, she wanted to pace, but there wasn’t enough room, and she wasn’t sure enough of her “sea legs” to brave the deck. She didn’t feel queasy, which was good. But she did feel tense. No, tense was too mild a word. She felt compressed, as if she’d been vacuum-sealed into a body two sizes too small for her.

By the CDs, there was a brochure, just like the one Gerald had shown her when he’d described the cruise to her. She opened it, reading the copy:

“Welcome to the Rascal. Our honeymoon cruises are created with the happy couple in mind.”

Not this time, she thought bitterly.

“While on board, feel free to make our ship your home. Wander the decks, ask questions of the crew. Our private chef prepares your meals. Our onboard masseuse is happy to provide for your relaxation. And our maid service will ensure that you have nothing to do during this time except focus on your enjoyment and each other.”

She frowned. It wasn’t very well written. She’d have done it differently, she thought. And for something advertised as four-star, the brochure itself could use jazzing up.

She bit her lip. She was morphing into “business mode” as Gerald called it, although he usually said it admiringly. He loved her practicality. At least, he’d said he did.

The tension increased a little. If this kept up, she’d be a foot shorter by morning and probably as dense as lead. She needed to relax.

Tentatively she hit the intercom button.

“Captain here, Chloe. What can I do for you?”

She swallowed hard. “I know it’s a bit late—”

“Nonsense. It’s only—what—almost eight o’clock. Are you, er, hungry?”

“No, no,” she said. After eating out of guilt at the reception, she doubted she’d be hungry again for hours, possibly days. “But I am really stressed.”

“A walk on deck maybe?” he suggested. “Nothing like moonlight and the sea to soothe a troubled mind.”

“It’s my body that’s causing more of the problem right now,” she said, rubbing at her neck, which felt as if it were trapped in a vise. “I was wondering, do you think you could send the masseuse to my room?”

There was a pause. “Er…”

“I don’t mean to be a bother,” she said, “but in the brochure…”

“No, no, of course,” he said. “I’ll, er, have the masseuse there in a minute.”

“Thank you,” she said and released the intercom button.

There, she thought. She was on an adventure. She was coping.

She was regrouping.

IT FIGURED. THE first thing she’d ask for would be one of the four-star amenities that he could no longer provide. Jack grimaced as he rummaged through what was once Helen’s cabin, the tiny berth that was next to where Kenneth used to stay—and no doubt part of the reason they got together, Jack realized. The yacht really wasn’t that big. He found some almond massage oil and two clean towels.

He’d promised Chloe a good time, a relaxing time. And he was going to do exactly that—even if it wasn’t quite what she was expecting.

He took a deep breath, armed with his massage accoutrements, and knocked on her cabin door.

“Come on in,” she called.

He opened the door and then stood in the doorway, stunned.

She was lying on the bed facedown, wearing nothing but a sheet.

“Uh,” he said slowly, feeling most of the blood drain out of every part of his body—except one part, and frankly that part did not need to be part of the massage-giving experience. “I guess you’ve had massages before,” he finally added inanely.

Her eyes went wide and her face went pale. She started to sit up, revealing a lot of her breasts before she realized that she was naked and propping herself up that way wasn’t helping matters. She collapsed back onto the bed with a squeak.

“I…I didn’t realize that you were the masseur,” she said in a low voice. “I thought—I guess it’s dumb, but I thought it would be a woman. Or somebody else. You know.”

Jack felt that same sensation of guilt burn through his chest. “A common misunderstanding,” he said, hating his glibness. “If it’s too distracting, I can go away.”

She bit her lip—a cute gesture, he thought, which made her look innocent and young and at complete odds with her provocative nudity beneath the sheet, a detail that simply would not be ignored. “I…hmm.”

She wanted to de-stress, and this had seemed like a good idea, he thought. Now she was probably even more tense.

Way to go, Jack.

“If you don’t mind my staying,” he said slowly, “I promise to be completely professional. And you have had sort of a trying day. If anybody could use a bit of relaxation, it’d be you.”

Then it struck him. Why are you convincing her to go through with it? What’s wrong with you?

She chuckled at the understatement. “True enough,” she said. “I, er, guess it’d be okay.”

He breathed out a silent sigh of relief, then realized: he was committed. He’d given plenty of back rubs in his day, but they’d hardly been anything someone would call “therapeutic.” They were generally designed to gain entry to a woman’s bedroom and, somewhat later, into her bed. They were seduction tools, not tools for relaxation.

His anatomy started to shift into that mode until he sternly counseled himself to knock it off. This was business, not pleasure.

He cleared his throat. “Do you like champagne?”

“Sorry?” she asked, looking startled.

“Champagne,” he repeated, getting the bottle from the minifridge. She hadn’t touched any of the alcohol, he noticed. “We offer it to the customers to celebrate, sure, but also to help them relax and unwind.” And maybe if she had a little alcohol, she wouldn’t be quite so critical of the amateur quality of her massage.

“I don’t drink much,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think today is a good day for an exception,” he said wryly.

She chuckled at that, too, and he noticed her shoulders move almost imperceptibly lower—a good sign.

He popped the cork and grabbed one of the champagne flutes from the fridge, as well, pouring the light amber liquid in and stopping before the bubbles frothed over the top. “Here you go,” he said, handing the glass to her.

She propped herself up on her side, tucking the blanket around her torso—but not before he’d gotten another glimpse of her breasts. She was definitely a feast for the eyes, he had to admit. Maybe five foot five, with long cinnamon-brown hair that tumbled in waves past her shoulders and creamy white skin that suggested maybe Irish or British heritage. The faintest natural hint of roses in her cheeks supported that. She was on the thin side, making the curves of her breasts and hips that much more accented.

She sipped at the champagne carefully, then she obviously understood he was waiting for her. He watched as she finished the glass and handed the empty flute back to him. “Thanks,” she said.

“There. It’ll take a few minutes for that to kick in,” he said, “and I don’t want to do anything too strenuous and ruin it. Nothing too deep-tissue,” he clarified. He remembered when he’d hired Helen and she’d offered to give him a massage as a sort of interview. She’d done a “deep tissue” massage, and he’d thought he was on a medieval torture rack. The fact that he’d felt better the next day didn’t help the fact that the massage itself had been way too rough.

Chloe sank down into the bed, shrugging slightly and groaning. “Whatever you think is best,” she demurred, turning her face away from him.

He looked at the massage oil, opting to only use a small amount or else the satin sheets would be ruined. Maybe he shouldn’t use any.

Did he really want to take the sheets away?

“Is everything okay?” Chloe asked after he’d rubbed his hands together for several minutes, trying to decide how to start.

“Sure. Yeah. Just…relax,” he said hastily and reached for her shoulders, which weren’t covered by the sheet. Her hair got in the way, but before he could say anything, she was reaching up with those long arms of hers, pushing the tumbled mass up, sighing a little in the process.

He had to admit, seeing her all pale blanched-almond skin and cinnamon-brown hair against butter-cream-colored sheets was a beautiful picture. One might even say delicious.

If one were, you know, somebody else.

What is wrong with her fiancé that he’d walk away from this?

He went to work on her shoulders. They felt like steel bands, corded with tension. She winced and groaned as he tried to gently work out the knots, sitting on the bed next to her.

“Holy crow,” he said finally. “How long have you been like this?”

“Almost a year,” she said, her voice muffled against the bed. “I’ve been planning the wedding for that long.”

“You should get massages more often,” he said, easing a knot out, feeling gratified at her low moan of appreciation.

“I kept meaning to,” she admitted. “But when I was working, as well as planning the wedding, there was no time. And when I quit working, there was no money, you know?”

No money. Yeah, he knew that one well. Otherwise he wouldn’t be playing Jack the Masseur for his chartered client.

“Why’d you quit your job?” he asked instead, inching the sheet down to her lower back. She had a great back, he thought. The slopes of her sides tapered into her hips, and she had a sprinkling of freckles, looking like a constellation over her shoulders. He felt his heart rate accelerate for no good reason and he focused on her words.

“Gerald—he’s my fiancé—thought it’d be better if I stopped working.”

“Wow,” Jack said, smoothing his hands from her shoulder blades down to her lower back in long strokes. She was making happy noises now, and he kept doing what he was doing, using gentle pressure from his fingertips. “Real forward-thinking guy.”

He immediately felt her tense beneath his fingers and cursed himself. If he were trying to make her relax, maybe reminding her of the guy who’d run out on her wasn’t the best way to go about it.

“I worked for him, and people weren’t thrilled with us dating. Getting married did not help matters,” she explained, and Jack felt her muscles bunching up defensively.

“Okay, okay. Don’t think about it,” he insisted, rubbing at the tension until she was closer to the calm state he’d had before he brought up Gerald the Wonder Twit. “I just figured you’d be someone who liked her job.”

“I did. Sort of,” she said. “Well, maybe not the job specifically. But I like being busy and helpful.” She laughed ruefully. “And, you know, getting paid.”

“I hear you on that one,” he said, giving her shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. He’d done most of her back and her arms. For a second, his glance shot to her perfect teardrop-shaped backside.

Well, she’s probably tense everywhere…

He chickened out—or rather, he came to his senses before he could inch the sheet lower. Instead he simply placed it over her torso and moved another section of sheet so he could reach her legs. He massaged each leg individually, enjoying her groans of gratitude. She had great legs, long and shapely. She even had pretty feet.

Where exactly are you going with these observations?

He blinked, his hands pausing on her right calf. She was a customer and a recently abandoned bride. In other words, she was trouble with a capital T, and he needed to get a grip and quick.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she murmured in response. “Not bad at all.”

He worked on her feet, eliciting sounds from her that were almost sexual in their pure pleasure. He had to force himself to concentrate and ignore the semierection that was threatening to go full-mast on him. “Liking your first experience on the ocean?” he said quickly, hoping for some distraction.

“It’s much more soothing than I imagined,” she said, her voice a dreamy whisper. “I wish I’d tried it before all of this.”

He smoothed his thumbs over the arches of the bottoms of her feet, and she sighed ecstatically. Her toenails were painted a brilliant plum color, he noticed, smiling. “Well, you’re trying it now,” he replied, keeping his voice soft and soothing, as well. He let go of her feet. “And if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more relaxing, please let me know.”

“I certainly will. This is wonderful,” she said.

He got up to make his way to the door. Only to be surprised when she turned over, the sheet sliding seductively.

He blinked. She was used to massages, apparently, and she was expecting him to do a full and complete job.

By this point, his body throbbed almost painfully. It wasn’t as if he was hard up for female companionship. He knew plenty of women who didn’t mind having a good, no-strings-attached time with him when he was in port in San Diego. But he’d been so busy keeping his boat afloat, literally and figuratively, that he simply hadn’t had time.

And there was something about this woman.

She had her eyes closed and was breathing deeply, evenly. She was waiting.

He rubbed at her neck, beneath her jawline, very lightly. She smiled in encouragement. He rubbed her earlobes. He had to move closer to get the right position and he could smell her perfume, something vanilla, blending with the hazelnut of the small amount of massage oil he’d used in the beginning.

She smells good enough to eat.

The thought, impromptu as it was, shot forth a vision of her naked, lying there with her back arched as he shifted the sheet away from her, pressing kisses down that creamy stomach of hers, gradually moving lower…

He quickly took his hands away as if burned.

“Everything all right?” she said almost in a slur.

“Fine. Fine.” He quickly worked on her arms, focusing especially on her hands. He figured he couldn’t get into that much trouble with hands. He ignored her chest completely and then did another cursory rubdown of her legs.

When he’d finished, she was sleeping. Her breath was coming out in little rhythmic whooshes. With her hair spread out like a fan on the bed she looked beautiful and, best of all, relaxed.

He, on the other hand, fled the cabin with towels and oil in hand. He was sweating, he realized, even though it was not that hot a night.

He’d done the job—he’d stepped in for his missing masseuse and he’d satisfied the customer, completely relaxing her.

Now he needed a beer, he thought frantically, before his body started wondering what it would take to get him relaxed and satisfied.

CHLOE WOKE UP completely disoriented. She was in darkness, and the room didn’t feel familiar at all. For one thing, it was swaying, and while she could taste the last vestiges of alcohol in her mouth, she doubted the rocking sensation was due to drunkenness. For another thing, she was naked, and the sheets felt cool and slippery around her skin. It was an unusual feeling, albeit a pleasant one. Also, she didn’t have a pillow beneath her head, which should have been uncomfortable except for the fact that she felt strangely relaxed.

She’d had a massage, she suddenly remembered.

Right after having some champagne.

Both of which, incidentally, were given to her by Jack.

She sat bolt upright, feeling her heart trip-hammer in her chest. Remembering Jack and the reason she was on his ship to begin with quickly brought all her other memories crashing down. The wedding that didn’t happen. The fiancé that never showed up. The mountain of details she was going to have to deal with…

The fact that she’d gotten on the ship in the first place to have the time, space and quiet to figure out what those details were and what her next step was.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. Now that she’d gotten her bearings, she felt more resolute and somewhat less despairing than she had hours ago at her ruined noncelebratory reception. Her stomach growled, to her surprise. There wasn’t a clock, so she turned on a light and glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock. She was starving.