Spooning Daisy (11 page)

“This is what happens when you steal,” Daisy chastised herself. Well, she’d just have to figure some way to get it back in there before he discovered it missing. But that meant separating Max from his bag and he was surely taking it with him after they finished dinner.
Unless
. . .

Max straightened his knee then strapped on the splint over his jeans. He wiped the fogged mirror with a corner of his towel. But instead of checking his reflection, he turned away and lifted his duffel bag to the lidded toilet. A quick check here, a quick check there, everything seemingly intact, Max decided he was being paranoid. But it didn’t stop him from licking the flap on the manila envelope and sealing it, just in case. Because Daisy definitely looked guilty of something, even if it was just intent. Maybe he caught her
before
she’d snooped, not that he worried she’d find anything useful to her.

Money
. But he’d checked his wallet and, although he didn’t count the bills, the wad was still pretty thick. Besides, Daisy might be a lot of things, but she was too proud and too honest to steal, no matter how dire her circumstances. Never mind that she’d sold Jason’s widescreen TV and Tina’s golf clubs. That was payback. But with Max, she’d been totally up-front about whose clubs they were and had even given him the chance to renege on the deal. He had found that amusing and admirable, in a weird sort of way. If all else failed, there was always guilt to keep Daisy on the straight and narrow.

A triple knock. He opened the door on a smiling Daisy with hair dryer in hand.

Speaking of guilt
, Max thought about her excessive smile . . .
and recently-glossed lips?

“Here y’ go,” she said as if she might break into song.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Take your time. I’ll be out here. Waiting.”

Yep. Something smells rotten in Denmark.
Max plugged in the dryer and faced himself in the mirror. A few minutes of hot air and he was done. Raking fingers through his dark waves, he let them fall naturally. Appraising his clean-shaven reflection, he caught the line of pink skin over his right temple. He fingered the healing gash.

So why hadn’t Daisy visited him in the hospital?

Of course, he was
suing
her. And he had slept with her ex-fiancé’s fiancée.
Ouch
. It was probably safe to say that Daisy didn’t
like
him all that much. Maybe even stronger than that.

Still, Daisy hadn’t even tried to see him while he was in the hospital; not a card, phone call, flowers, nothing. He couldn’t decide which bugged him more—that she hadn’t tried to see him or that it bugged him that she hadn’t tried.

Pride.
Pride had kept Daisy from his bedside. Had he really expected differently?

He regretted the lawsuit. But he had hospital bills and now he couldn’t work, which meant he’d have to hire someone else to do his job. On top of that, he was out $647 when he’d given the golf clubs back to Tina . . . who, by the way, had visited him in the hospital
three times
, not to mention the visit he’d made to her condo after his release.

Besides, Daisy obviously had money. She had just sold an expensive house in an expensive neighborhood and she owned a Lexus—until it was stolen. Still, she’d been the executive chef at a posh restaurant, undoubtedly well paid. Bottom line, Daisy could well afford $25,000 to help him out of the predicament she’d put him in.

Not only that, Daisy still hadn’t apologized for all the damage she’d caused—or, more recently, for accusing him of being a thief and a stalker—although she’d had plenty of opportunity this afternoon when he’d bought her lunch.

“That’s right,” Max said to the mirror. “I bought her lunch.” It didn’t matter that he’d had ulterior motives; she still got fed, which was obviously all she cared about. When it came down to it, for all the pain and suffering she’d caused him, Daisy was getting off pretty damn easy.

If only she’d told him why she wanted to leave Mama Mia’s. Never mind that fleeing from Jason was a
little
pathetic—although he actually did understand. Those few minutes they’d spent quibbling over her drinks could’ve been spent escaping. And Max wouldn’t have this brace on his leg or a scar above his eye or Daisy on his hands.

But not for long
. Max patted aftershave on his neck and cheeks. Tomorrow they docked in Ketchikan and Daisy would be off the
Columbia
and on a southbound ferry to Bellingham. Max would be in Daisy’s cabin, on his way to Haines. Like two ships passing, they’d never see each other again.

Chapter Eleven

“T
his place is busy,” Daisy said while she and Max waited at the hostess station for a table. A wall of windows port, bow, and starboard showcased the reason most were on this ferry—cloud-piercing mountains, voluptuous spruce, and diamond-blue waters. All washed by a golden sun beginning to drop in a cerulean sky, but far from sunset. Nowhere in that vast wilderness was the tiniest evidence of human intrusion. Alaska wasn’t called the Last Frontier for nothing, Daisy thought, entranced by the landscape.

Max looked around the dining room as if he hadn’t already noticed the crowded tables or the waitstaff hustling from one place-setting to the next like hummingbirds to nectar—pouring water, delivering food, clearing dishes. Happy voices rose above the background noise of silverware on porcelain and congenial conversation as a casually dressed foursome entered the room.

“Captive audience,” Max said. “Not a lot of options.”

A half frown. “I think the food is pretty good.”

“That’s right. You had a hot date here last night.”

Daisy’s intended retort was thwarted by the hostess.

“Reservations?”

Daisy looked at Max, rolled her eyes, and said no.

“Table for two?” the sunny hostess asked, pulling menus and a wine list from the rack without waiting for confirmation.

With Daisy and Max following, the hostess wended her way between diners and oases of plants while cutting through spheres of translucent amber shining down from the ceiling. They arrived at a far table crowded against a wall in a partial alcove. She handed each their menu, promised a waiter, then left, still smiling.

“Well, it’s not the greatest table,” Daisy remarked, scooting her chair in. “We should’ve made reservations.”

“I like it.” Max pushed up the sleeves of his cobalt-blue sweater and landed his elbows on the table. “I’ve got my back covered and I can see all the action.”

“Expectin’ trouble, Hopalong?”

“I like privacy,” Max explained, his voice deep and his words slow. “Besides, it’s the food I care about.”

“Dining out should be as much about ambience as it is about food. Subdued lighting, flickering candles, sparkling crystal, gleaming silverware, where each of the fork tines are perfectly aligned and the pieces match in pattern—”

Max glanced down at his setting, noting the slight bend in the outer tine of the dinner fork. Like he cared . . .

“—And the linen should be crisp and
creamy
white, never stark white, without a wrinkle, or a stain, not even a water mark. The napkins folded precisely, each edge and corner aligned with the next, and the china evenly glazed without the minutest dull patch—”

Speaking of dull
. . . Daisy’s dedication to precision and perfection reminded Max of his navy flight commander, “Knife” Newton. He’d never met anyone as obsessively compulsive as Commander Newton
until
Daisy Moon. If she didn’t end her monologue soon, his brain would be as glazed as his dinner plate.

“Actually, that’s kind of why I’m on this ferry . . .”

Max nodded, his thoughts on a lone thirty-something blonde spilling out of a low-cut sweater two tables behind Daisy. The blonde smiled at him. He could sit here, look in Daisy’s direction and flirt with the blonde, and Daisy would be none the wiser. That would keep things interesting until she finished her discourse on napkins.

Picking up a breadstick, the mystery woman discreetly licked the sides, then slowly worked the shaft through her red lips.
Lucky breadstick.
His thoughts came to a screeching halt when a well-dressed, white-haired man—maybe twenty years older than Max—returned to the table that held only dessert dishes and coffee cups. When the man looked his way, Max diverted his eyes to Daisy. Then, sensing it was safe, Max looked at the blonde, who held him in a side-glance.

“. . . Otter Bite.”

Max nodded, wondering if he’d heard right, then went back to his fantasy. This woman held promise, assuming there wasn’t a gold band hiding beneath that large sapphire on her marriage finger. Max Kendall didn’t do wives. Fiancées, possibly; girlfriends, definitely. But he wouldn’t be an accomplice to breaking vows. It might be a fine line, but it was his fine line and he’d never knowingly crossed it.

“So, Max, what do you think?”

Max blinked at Daisy, who was leaning into the table, intent on him, her eyes . . . hopeful? He had no idea what he thought, but it was probably best to be amenable or risk an even more boring verbal treatise on God only knew what. Of course, he could tell her that he’d been flirting with the well-endowed blonde and hadn’t been listening . . .

“What do
you
think?” he asked instead.

Daisy frowned. “I just told you what I think. Weren’t you listening?”

The bane of every man’s relationship with women—the
weren’t you listening?
complaint! He could confess that no, he wasn’t, but judging by Daisy’s expression, he figured frankness might end his chances for her cabin.

“I just want to be sure you’ve thought it through,” Max said, having had practice with the song and dance.

“Oh.” Sounding apologetic. “Well, I have. I know it’s a little unorthodox—”

What?
Max silently joked.
Folding a napkin on the diagonal?

“—But this isn’t the nineteen fifties and we are adults. With a little tolerance and patience, I think it would work. As I see it, commitment is the key to success.”

“Commitment?” Max asked suspiciously.

“Well, sure. Every plan requires commitment. Otherwise you’ll never get through the rough spots. Right?”

Max wasn’t sure yet again what he was agreeing to—
rough spots?
—but if it could move Daisy to a conversation he had some participation in, he was all for it. “Sure.”

Daisy scrutinized him as she’d done the silver. “Not very convincing.”

“If it works for you, it’ll work for me.”

“Really?” Sounding grateful. “I’m . . . surprised. Honestly, I thought you’d have reservations or at least an opinion.”

“Unlike you, Daisy, I don’t have an opinion on
everything
.”

If he had intended to shut her up, he succeeded. Daisy eased back in her chair with a look that reflected insult. She opened her menu and put her icy attention there.

His shoulders drooped. Individuality aside, when it came to being pissed, women were all the same. He debated an apology, but the silence was a welcome relief. At least he was no longer groping for a response to unknown questions. After a final glance at the blonde, he vowed that he’d now pay attention to Daisy. He opened his menu. After all, he was working up the nerve to ask for her cabin. There would be plenty of time later for blondes.

“Can I get you something from the bar?”

Max and Daisy looked up from their menus at a twenty-something waiter they hadn’t seen coming.

“Bombay and tonic,” Max answered first. “Sapphire if you’ve got it.”

“And for you, miss?”

She flashed him a dazzling Irish smile that lit up her eyes like sparklers. Or so Max thought.

“A Coke would be lovely. Thank you, Andrew.”

Max frowned at the pair, until he realized that a name tag was pinned to the waiter’s crisp white shirt.

“Our dinner specials are listed on the insert. Everything is fresh. The halibut has been going over very well and we’ve had a lot of compliments on the scallops. The seafood salad is always popular. I’ll give you a few minutes and be back with your drinks.”

“Thank you, Andrew,” Daisy said.

Why can’t you be that sweet to me?
Max wanted to ask, but reached for the wine list instead. “Would you like a bottle of wine?”

A half smile in his direction and her voice dripped honey, but the sparklers had become daggers. And no amount of honey could dull those blades.

“No. Thank you.”

Yep, still pissed.
“They have some nice wines here.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That’s right—” Max stopped himself.

Daisy kept smiling. As if her lips were frozen into that curl.

“Not even a glass? We can toast to . . . our truce.”

Daisy leaned into him, her voice as soft and seductive as the dark auburn spirals drizzling past her cheeks. “I would, Max, but I’m such a klutz that my wine might end up in your face.” That smile, those daggers.

“I’ll ask the waiter for a lid and a straw.”

“It’s going to be tough flying with just one eye.”

Max couldn’t help but smile. “Call me crazy, but I think I’m safe.”

The daggers slowly disappeared until only a teasing glint remained.

However much Daisy annoyed him—and oh, how she annoyed him—she was equally entertaining. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced this kind of mental calisthenics where he was simultaneously exhausted and invigorated. And tonight, with her green sweater sparking her eyes and her hair tamed into finger-tempting waves and her mouth glossed so the light shimmered on the lush swell of her lower lip—

“I suppose I do have an opinion on pretty much everything,” Daisy said.

—and the alluring tendrils of her perfume . . .

“A virtual cornucopia.
But
—” Max said, accepting her apology, “there are worse things in life than having opinions. At least you think about things.”

It sounded like a compliment. “Charity says I
over
think.”