Make You Blush (9 page)

“You walked all the way from uptown?”

“I’m not a kid,” Worm protested with an eye roll, then swore, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”

Teens and their attitudes. Was Marc ever this snarky? “Don’t make me toss you overboard.”

“We’re not even
on
board,” the smart aleck countered.

God bless, it was going to be a long couple of weeks.

“Well, let’s fix that.” Marc swatted his brother’s scrawny tail, eliciting another non-swear. “Get on up there and find Alex. He’ll take you to your bunk. After you change, come back here and be ready to help the porters haul luggage.”

Worm hitched up his duffel and grumbled toward the ramp.

“Hey,” Marc added, “and lose the attitude!”

“Yeah, yeah,” came the retreating reply.

When Worm disappeared through the dining hall entrance, Marc pulled in a calming breath and turned his gaze to the tranquil blue sky and the leaves stirring above his head. It was perfect weather for boating—sunny and mild, with calm water to boot. The Mississippi could be a harsh mistress, but she’d decided to favor him with some sweet lovin’ today, for which he was mighty grateful.

He strolled toward the sidewalk and paused when his cell phone rang. A glance at the screen showed
Phillip Regale calling
. Marc swiped a finger across the glass and answered.

“Bad news,” Chef said, never one to mince words.

Marc hoped Regale hadn’t changed the menu again. He’d already sent Nick to the market. “How bad?”

“I lost my pastry chef.”

Marc damn near dropped his phone. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

“He’s under quarantine with German measles.”

“What?”
Who the hell got German measles anymore? “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” Regale bellowed, clearly insulted. “First documented case in a hundred years. If that’s not some damned dirty luck, I don’t know what is.”

“Can you get someone to cover him?”

“That’s the crazy part,” Regale said in disbelief. “I’ve called every pastry master I know—even the ones I wouldn’t ordinarily work with—and I can’t get a single one to pick up the line. It’s like they dropped off the planet. I half wondered if there was something wrong with my phone, but I reached you just fine.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I left a message with an agency. If they don’t come through, we’ll have to use store-bought desserts. Maybe pick up a second chef when we stop in Natchez.”

Suddenly, the wind kicked up, temperature dropping as clouds eclipsed the sun. The skin at the base of Marc’s neck prickled into gooseflesh, and he shook off a chill. He glanced at the now-dark sky, wondering what had just happened. He had seen no storm systems on the radar this morning. He turned to jog back on board but stopped short, breath catching as he came face-to-face with Allie Mauvais.

Marc clapped a hand over his pounding heart while she stood there watching him—lips curved in a grin, raven hair whipping her cheeks, hands clasped behind her back as if she’d appeared by magic.

Which she probably had.

It took a few beats for Marc to find his voice. He told Regale he’d call him back and disconnected, then demanded, “What’re you doing here?”

Allie gripped her waist with one hand, still smiling. “That’s not very nice, baby.”

Holding up his phone, he demanded, “Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

The answer formed on his lips, but it was too absurd to speak aloud.
Did you give my pastry chef an eradicated disease? Did you blow the throttle valve? And what about my old cleaning crew—did you get them deported?
Saints alive, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. He was losing his marbles.

“You okay?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“Yeah, sorry.” He rubbed one temple, hoping to restore his sanity. “It’s not a good time for a visit.”

“I know. I heard about your pastry chef. Does he really have German measles?” She shook her head and whispered to herself, “Who gets those anymore?”

His thoughts exactly, but he wondered how Allie had found out.

The question must have shown on his face. “The agency sent me,” she explained.

He puzzled for a moment, and then the full meaning hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull: Allie Mauvais aboard his ship—for two weeks. No way in hell. He’d sooner wrestle a twelve-foot gator in a flaming vat of fish guts.

Before he had a chance to tell her no, she held her palm forward, revealing a small yellow pouch secured at the top with twine. “I also came to wish you luck and give you this.”

Marc hesitated. He didn’t trust Allie’s gris-gris any more than he trusted her in the galley.

“It’s dirt from Memère’s tomb and a few pennies,” she said, stepping nearer. “For good fortune.”

He took a step back, licking his lips.

Allie tipped her head and studied him with those exotic eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course not.” Marc scoffed and plucked the sachet from her outstretched hand. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, but made sure not to touch her. “But you can go back home. I can’t use you here.”

She heaved a sigh and narrowed her eyes at him. “You
are
afraid of me.” Defensively, she folded her arms. “Grow up, Marc.”

Despite her criticism, the words sparked a flash of pleasure low in his belly. He hadn’t heard his name on Allie’s lips since junior prom, and he liked the way it sounded. A little too much. He kind of wanted to hear it again, this time low and breathy with a moan behind it.

“I can help you,” she pressed. “I don’t have any catering jobs for the next two weeks, and I’m sure my sister will watch the shop while I’m gone.”

“But the salary’s not—”

“Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “This’ll be a good way to get my name out there.”

Marc scrambled for a valid excuse to say no. “Phillip’s really hard to please.”

“Wait,” Allie said. “Phillip who?”

“Regale. He’s cranky as—”

“
The
Phil Regale?”

“Yeah.”

“The man who practically revolutionized flambé in haute cuisine?”

“I guess so,” Marc said. “Is there more than one chef with that name?”

She shook her head, then bounced in place. “I’ve been trying to meet him for years! I’d love to work with him!”

Marc tried warning her that Chef was a misogynistic prick who didn’t like cooking with women, but Allie was too busy squealing and jumping in a circle to hear. Then she waggled one finger in the air and started dancing the Charleston. Marc couldn’t help smiling. In her half-hysterical state, she’d never looked so . . . normal.

Allie Mauvais was human.

Of course she’s human, you dickhead. What else would she be?

While Allie shimmied her hips, he considered her offer. He
did
need a pastry chef, and there were no other takers. In the end, what choice did he have? Before Marc had a chance to change his mind, he said, “Okay. Go home and pack, but be quick about it. We launch in two hours.”

She didn’t waste a second in turning and bounding toward the French Quarter, black curls springing freely down her back. She called over her shoulder, “You won’t regret this!” and then vanished around the corner.

Marc wasn’t so sure about that, but he was still grinning like a fool. He pocketed the gris-gris bag she’d given him and sauntered toward his ship. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down, and the clouds broke, freeing the sun.

The day was perfect once again.