The Trouble With Paradise (3 page)

Dorie, on the other hand, had fallen flat on her face.

Lying there humiliated on the mat, amongst a few snickers and some pitying looks, she’d decided she was better off dressing to hide the extra few pounds rather than make a fool out of herself again.

“Take a week off and pack your bags, Dorie Anderson, because the South Pacific awaits you! A dream come true!”

It did sound like a dream. She pictured pristine white beaches, with gorgeous cabana boys serving her drinks . . . “So this is completely one hundred percent free?”

“That’s right!”

At least he didn’t say her full name again.

Mr. Stryowski poked his head back in the door, still wearing his favorite expression, which could scare a ghost. He tipped his freakishly big nose down at her, which caused his toupee to slide down his forehead. Slapping a hand on it, he pointed at her with the other. “You’re clocked in but not working. What’s wrong with this picture?”

She covered the mouthpiece of her phone. “Apparently I just won a week’s vacation in the—”

“I don’t care if it’s on the moon—”

Of course he didn’t.

“Get your butt to work.”

“Dorie Anderson?” Peter said in that eerily cheerful voice. “Are you interested in this fabulous opportunity, at no cost to you?”

Hands on his too thin hips, Mr. Stryowski looked about ten minutes past annoyed, and in that moment Dorie realized something—he was truly and completely sucking the soul right out of her.

So was her life.

New goal—no more letting anyone suck on her soul. No more letting anyone suck anything . . .

Unless it was that cabana boy.

“Hang up,” Mr. Stryowski demanded.

She held up a finger, but he kept coming.

He was going to take her phone and close it. But she wanted the prize. She
needed
the prize. “I’m interested,” she said quickly to Peter Wells, and turned her back on her soul-sucking boss. “Very, very interested.”

Behind her, Mr. Stryowski snorted his disapproval, but she didn’t care. For a week, for one entire week, there’d be no bullying, no working her fingers to the bone for too little pay, no wondering when her life would kick itself into gear and become the adventure she’d always dreamed of.

Because it just had.

“Peter Wells? How soon can I leave?”

TWO

 

Dorie had done it. She’d packed a suitcase—okay, two—and flown for a day and a half, first to Australia (ohmigod, Australia!) then onward to Fiji, specifically Viti Levu, and the international airport there.

She got off the plane and into a bright green taxi without windows. On the console sat a humongous parrot, singing along in falsetto to Cher’s “Do You Believe in Life after Love,” the warm, salty breeze ruffling its feathers. Dorie joined in, and at the harbor, got out and stood on the dock, grinning from ear to ear at the beauty around her. Let the adventure begin!

More of that light wind rolled over her, rustling the stiff fronds of coconut palms edging the streets and beach. There were people everywhere, in all colors and sizes, speaking a myriad of gorgeous-sounding languages with delightful accents.

She’d wondered if she’d fit in, and she had to say, she did. She was wearing one of her own designs, a white sundress, with brand-new heeled sandals—her cruise splurge—which gave her more height and confidence than practicality. But she figured the confidence was more important at this point.

At anchor on the bay sat a dozen gleaming sailboats, their hulls slashes of white on a backdrop of startling blue so bright it almost looked like a painting.

So hard to believe, and she took a moment to soak up the ambiance. That, and the fact that this whole Kicking Life into Gear thing felt good, really good. Following the directions she’d been sent, she walked to a slip at the north end of the docks, where she stared up at a very large sailboat. A very large sailboat that looked like something right out of one of the history books she’d done her best not to read while in school; tall, proud, and . . . sinkable.

The
Sun Song
.

She knew from the info that Peter had sent her that the sailing yacht had been made in France, was eighty-two feet long, and was a ketch, whatever that meant. The exterior was made out of welded aluminum alloy, which sounded good and well and extremely water worthy, but it was nice to see the safety raft strapped to the side in case of emergency.

Although come to think of it, she didn’t know if she wanted to think
emergency
in the same sentence with the words
sailboat vacation
. . .

Nope, no negative thinking.
She’d gotten the week off, and to do so she’d only had to promise Mr. Stryowski she’d work Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Easter—for the rest of her life. But it was done, and she would enjoy herself. After all, it was her new mission statement.

That, and to not think of Mr. Stryowski, or her slowly wasting away life . . . not once.

The plank to get on board was flat and wide enough, assuming she was very careful, and she planned to be very,
very
careful. There were chain handholds on either side, protecting her from the long fall to the water below, but her age-old fear of heights gripped her hard, making nerves flutter in her tummy.

Or maybe it was the king-size candy bar she’d consumed on the plane over here. As she stood there, frozen by her own shortcomings, she contemplated the plank, and how long it seemed. From above, what seemed like miles of white sails seemed so pristine against the azure blue sky.

“Helluva lot of sheets up there, huh?”

At the southern drawl, Dorie turned in surprise and got an even bigger one. A man stood next to her. Correction, a magnificent Adonis of a man.

He was dressed in clothes he definitely hadn’t bought at Shop-Mart. Nope, she recognized those pants and shirt as Hugo Boss, and the fashionista in her sighed. There was nothing more attractive than a man who knew how to dress.

Not even a Nordstrom’s sale.

His pants were khaki, his shirt a stark white linen, artfully shoved up at the elbows. His luggage—a gorgeous leather saddlebag—hung off one seriously broad shoulder. So broad that he nearly blocked out the sun. He had sun-kissed blond hair and stunning warm hazel eyes, topping about six feet of solid hard body, the kind one got from a most earnest commitment to the gym.

Unlike her own, not-so-earnest commitment.

Turning his head, he looked at her. “A real beauty, don’t you think?” he asked in that Texas accent.

She tried to respond, but her tongue was swelling. Good to know she was still a socially challenged idiot. Any second now she’d start drooling—an unfortunate side effect of the swollen tongue.

“Hello?”

Heat zoomed up her face to the tips of her ears, undoubtedly lighting her up like a Christmas tree.
Perfect.
She bit her tongue and managed two words. “A beauty.”

He smiled, and the sheer wattage nearly knocked her to her knees, but she did her best to return the smile. Given her nerves, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing the moment he’d started talking to her, she probably only bared her teeth.
Smooth.
She was so smooth.

He pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, covering up those decadent eyes. “You going on board, too?”

“Yes.” Assuming she managed to cross the plank.

“Excellent.” He held out a big, strong hand. “Andy Hutchinson.”

“Dorie Anderson.” His hand, warm and callous, swallowed hers whole. She was so distracted by his hotness factor, she almost missed the fact that he was looking at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Baseball,” he drawled, and did the big wattage smile thing again.

She really needed to get on board and away from him so she could commence breathing before brain damage occurred, but she was nothing if not polite. “Baseball?”

“You’re wondering where you know me from. I play for the Astros. First base.”

She thought maybe he paused there for adoration, but he was wasting his time, because all she knew about baseball was that the players looked cute in their tight uniform pants.

Besides, she already adored him.

From far above, up on the ship, voices rang out, and then laughter. Baseball Cutie looked up, clearly eager to board. “You ready?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He gestured for her to go first.

“Uh . . .” Once again, she eyed the plank, then let out a nervous laugh. “You know what? I’ll just . . .” She took a step back to make room for him. “Meet you up there—”

Only she never got to finish that statement because she tripped over her luggage, still on the ground behind her, and went ass over kettle right there on the dock, hitting hard enough to rattle her teeth.

Sprawled flat on her back with her legs draped over her own two suitcases, she stared up at the brilliant blue sky with the solitary white puffy cloud shaped like a pair of lips grinning down at her, and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

“Jesus. You okay?”

Was she? Well, that depended on his definition of
okay
. She moved to sit up, but froze at the unmistakable sharp prick of a splinter—in her butt. As she contemplated this unwelcome turn of events, Andy’s gorgeous face appeared, that easy smile now twisted into a worried grimace as he leaned in close. “Dorie? Talk to me, darlin’.”

Well, if he kept calling her
darlin’
in that slow, southern boy speak, she’d be juuuust fine. “I’m good.”

“You sure? Because that was a doozy.”

Yeah, she knew. She’d been there.

“I mean, I haven’t seen such a good landing since we beat the Yankees at home last season.”

Terrific.
She was more entertaining than a nationally televised baseball game. As she dwelled on this, a breeze hit and her vision became momentarily hampered by . . . oh yes, perfect . . . her own gauzy white sundress. This was because the hem of it flew over her head.

Which meant she was showing parts of herself to Baseball Cutie that shouldn’t ever be shown before a fifth date.

Okay, maybe a third. Not that she’d been on a third date lately . . .

Horror and embarrassment warred for first place. Slapping down her dress, she sat up and tried not to look directly at him, as if that could possibly help the fact that he’d just gotten an up-front and personal look at her Victoria’s Secrets.

How long had she known him? A minute, tops? This was a record, even for her, making a fool of herself in less than sixty seconds. But he was gentlemanly enough not to mention it, though his eyes sparkled. He simply offered her a hand and another of those brain-cell-destroying smiles.

Okay, so he was cute and sweet
and
kind. Three out of the four characteristics on her list. Too bad she was such a blathering idiot. She let him pull her to her feet, only to go very still. Forget the splinter in her tush, she’d hurt her ankle.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” She’d never admit otherwise. Nope, after the show she’d just given him, she’d rather die.

“You know, Dorie, it’s going to be fun getting to know you better,” he murmured in that slow honey of a voice.

Sure.
But would he still want to get to know her better if she’d had on her granny laundry-day panties?

“Dorie?”

Oh, boy.
Now she had to look at him. Trying not to wince, she tilted her head up, but apparently there was a God, because someone from on board called down to him, waving wildly, holding up a drink.

Andy waved back and shot the guy a thumbs-up. “That’s Bobby,” he explained. “The crew hand.”

Dorie waited for Bobby to come down and help them board, but he didn’t. “A friend?”

“Ex-friend, actually. He owes me big bucks and can’t pay up, so here I am, taking it out in trade. Not a bad deal, huh?”

“Not at all.”

Andy nodded, clearly already on board in his own head. She’d lost him. Not a new feeling for her, and thankfully her tongue began to revert to its normal thickness.

“So, you’re okay?”

“Oh me? Great. I’m great.” She attempted another smile and hoped she pulled it off. “You just go ahead.”

“Sure?”

He moved to the plank with his smooth, elegant gait and her heart gave one last little sigh. All men were definitely not created equal.

When Andy didn’t fall into the brink, she let out a shaky breath. Now all she had to do was figure out how to do the same with her healthy fear of heights, her two heavy suitcases, a sprained ankle, and a splinter in her butt. She grabbed her luggage, and with a combination limp/hopping motion, staggered closer to the plank, attempting to walk on the toes of her right foot to keep the majority of her weight off the ankle, all while not looking down—