With Every Breath (Sea Swept #2) (8 page)

His touch shouldn’t stun me into speechlessness. Neither should his lack of a shirt. Thanks to the Greek system at college, I’ve been around lots of shirtless frat guys, guys who were in great shape and not afraid to flaunt it. They were eye candy—this is something different. West’s nearness, the heat from his skin, makes me aware of every inch of him, and how solid his body felt on top of mine. I suddenly feel almost shy.
 

West drops his hand.

“Let’s get back to work,” he says curtly, and walks back over to our studio set-up. Even with two injuries, his bare torso is really distracting. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time,” he barks, and that snaps me out of my daze. This is West, my jerk of a boss, and I am
not
lusting after him. I chalk my momentary lapse up to feeling shaky after the rogue wave.

I help West set everything up again. “Thankfully, I was more hurt than the lights,” he says happily. “If they’d broken, our profit margins would have been shot by the repair cost. We got lucky.”

I shake my head. I don’t understand why he ranks the company’s equipment above his own safety. “You can’t wear your polo,” I say. “You’re covered in blood, and so am I.”

West glances at the bundle of his clothing. Extracting his undershirt, he shrugs it on with a wince. The t-shirt is black, so it barely shows the blood.

“I’ll wear this for now,” he says. “Go change into a new polo, then stop by my cabin and grab me one too.” He hands me his room card and tells me the cabin number, then eyes me doubtfully. “Do you know how to get to your room?”

I give him as haughty a glance as I can manage. “Of course.” And I do, thanks to Elise. Last night she drew a map of the crew levels for me, and I’ve kept it in my pocket all day, along with the map of passenger areas that I picked up from the purser’s office.
 

Dashing quickly to my cabin, I throw on a new polo shirt and fix my hair, then find my way to West’s room. I use his key card and go inside.

West gets a room to himself, lucky dog. Other than the bigger, full-size bed, the room looks like mine. There’s more engine noise, though; the room almost vibrates with it. A backpack slouches in the corner, and instead of snapshots of friends on the walls like Camelia has put up in our room, his walls are blank. An open laptop sits on the desk. West must have disabled the sleep function, because the screen saver is on, cycling through images.

I rummage through the small dresser beside the desk, looking for a clean polo and undershirt for West. First I find a drawer full of socks and boxer-briefs, and before I can help it my brain forms an image of West wearing only those two items.
 

“Stop it,” I mutter, exasperated with myself.

The second drawer contains his shirts, so I grab a polo and tee. As I’m closing the drawer, his laptop’s screen saver catches my eye with a splash of color.
 

I step closer. This image looks to be of a painting featuring a stylized bird in shades of teal and blue and yellow. It’s gorgeous, with sure, delicate strokes. In the corner I spot the artist’s signature:
Campbell
. That’s West’s last name.

Did West’s mom create that? He did say she was a painter.
 

The bird fades, the image replaced by a photograph of the dawn over a city landscape. I recognize the Freedom Tower, so it must be Miami. The sun reaches fingers of color over thin clouds that melt from white to red to gold, and the buildings in the foreground are black shadows, silhouetted by the brilliant sky. It’s a gorgeous photo, in both color and framing. It’s not anything like the photos I’ve been snapping all day of passengers. This is art.

The screen changes again, to a close-up of a raindrop reflecting a rich blue sky dotted with clouds. I can’t help but think about my own raindrop photos that I took before I arrived on the ship—and how much better this one is.
 

I should scurry back above decks, but I’m mesmerized by the procession of photographs, each more striking than the last. I know the basics of balance and perspective, and can use my camera on manual settings, but these photos are in another league entirely. They’re like Sofia’s: professional. Vivid. Surprising. They tell a story, and make something special out of the ordinary.

Did West’s mother take these too? Or is West himself the one behind the lens?
 

I tear myself away from the laptop and head back up to the hallway outside the dining room. Once there, I find West joking around with a family from Orlando, instructing them to lean to the side and pretend it’s another rogue wave. They laugh and pose, and he snaps a photo.

“This might actually be better than a normal Formal Night,” West says cheerfully after they head into the dining room. “They’ll all want memories of the rogue wave.”

I hand him the shirts with a wry smile. “Thank God we can use a potentially dangerous accident to part passengers from a few more dollars.”

“That’s the job, Yasmin.”

“It’s just so mercenary.”

“Life is mercenary,” West says, fiddling with his camera. “Get used to it.”

Oh, I want to smack him sometimes. If he hadn’t thrown himself on top of me to save me from the light, I’d consider doing just that.

“I saw some paintings and photos on your screen saver,” I say instead. “Are they your mother’s paintings?”

He gives me a startled glance, and I recall him telling me not to ask about his mother again. I brace myself for a sharp reminder, but instead West’s mouth softens into something that’s almost a smile.

“Yeah,” he says.

“They’re beautiful. She was really talented.”
 

His smile broadens, and for a moment I get a glimpse of something other than his Boss persona. But it fades as quickly as it appeared, and he returns his gaze to the camera.
 

“She never made much money on them.”
 

“Money, schmoney,” I retort. “And the photographs? Did she do those too?”

West shakes his head. “We didn’t have a decent camera until I won a contest in high school and got this baby.” He holds up his Nikon D3s. “Those are mine.”

“They’re gorgeous.”

He shrugs. “Just messing around.”

“They should be in a gallery.” I’m totally serious. Sofia was hampered by the fact that she didn’t have the strength to do much, go anywhere, but if she could have, she’d have poured her whole heart into it. West has the same kind of talent, if a different style. For him to ignore that would be a tragedy. “Why haven’t—”

“I’m set here for now,” West cuts me off. “I need you to go find out whether any of the other photographers are injured. I have a list of their favorite Formal Night spots.”

I blink. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

West gives me his hard-eyed Boss look, the one that has never heard of a smile.

“I’m trying to do my job. And I need you to do yours too.”
 

West rattles off his ideas about where the rest of the team is, and I plug it into a notepad app on my phone. I look up, about to ask how his back feels, but West steps away to coax another couple into getting their pictures taken.

I watch him for a moment, but whatever crack I’d seen in his façade is gone. And it shouldn’t matter to me anyway, I remind myself. Once I’m done with my shift, I decide, I’ll hit the gym instead of the bar. An hour of kickboxing should punch my inconvenient lust into submission.

Turning on my heels, I slip my maps out of my pocket and head off.

Chapter 8

West

“
Another
costume? Seriously, West?”

It’s the morning of our first port day in Portales, Mexico, and in the bright glare of the storeroom lights, Yasmin’s eyes flash daggers at me. She mumbles something to herself, and I blink.
 

“You’re going to do
what
to me with a butter knife?” I ask.
 

“Nothing,” she says. “But I’m not wearing that thing.”

“Newbies wear the costumes,” I remind her.

“That’s like, a stripper dress.” Her dark brows pull together in annoyance. “It’s practically sexual harassment to make me wear it.”

“I don’t make the rules. The guys wear a sombrero and a mariachi outfit. The girls wear this.” Yasmin glowers at me, and I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. I make my expression very neutral. “There’s always the Kippy costume if you’d rather wear that.”

Yasmin rolls her eyes, then grabs the bundle of fabric from me. “Fine,” she says, somewhat less than the model of good grace.

“Good call. It’s over ninety degrees out there.”

“Get the hell out of here so I can change,” Yasmin snaps. My amusement fades, because if any of my other staff took that tone with me I’d reprimand them, and I’m not going to take it from Yasmin just because I can’t forget her soft hands on my skin when she patched me up last night. Even though the cuts on my back and bicep hurt like hell, her touch felt like fire. The best kind of fire, a sweet burn in which I could all too easily lose myself.
 

I cross my arms and stare her down. Yasmin pauses, and I can see from her expression that she realizes she crossed the line with her attitude. She opens her mouth, and I wait for an apology.

“Fine,” Yasmin says, a devilish smile slipping across her lips. “Stay, then.”

Pivoting, she puts the costume pieces on a crate of photo paper. Her back to me, she pulls her shirt over her head, and I’m suddenly staring at a swath of lightly tanned skin that my fingers itch to touch. Her bra is turquoise, and as her fingers go to her shorts, I have a craving to know if her panties match.

But I’m her manager, and while making her wear the sexy costume doesn’t count as sexual harassment, watching her undress would definitely get me fired. She’s won this round, and I beat a hasty retreat to the photo shop.

Camelia and Charlie are waiting for me by the entrance. The four of us will make up today’s debarkation team, even though we’d much rather be sleeping. The rest of my staff has the morning off, since nearly all the passengers are heading out on shore excursions.
 

I talk to Camelia and Charlie for a few minutes about our agenda for the day and to make sure we all grab the right gear. While Camelia checks over her camera bag, I stand with my back to the storeroom door and try to forget about the sight of Yasmin taking off her shirt, forget about her small waist and her lace bra that looked so easy to unclasp. I slide a glance at the clock, wishing there were time for me to grab a cold shower.

When the door behind me opens, Charlie halts his complaining about his hangover mid-sentence. Grinning, he whistles.
 

“Damn, girl!” he says. I turn and take her in.

Yasmin blushes and scowls, using her hands to cover her bare stomach. “I look stupid.”

“You look fantastic, Señorita Star Heart.” Charlie eyes her in what seems to me to be overdone appreciation.
 

Not that she doesn’t deserve it.

The señorita costume consists of a stretchy white blouse and a red skirt. The shirt has puffy cap sleeves, a low neckline, and a hem that stops well above Yasmin’s belly button. The skirt skims her hips and ends just above her knees in a bright ruffle, and her black heels make her legs deliciously long despite her petite frame. The outfit is sized as what the company calls one-size-fits-most. “Most,” apparently, being limited to girls in great shape. The fabric hugs Yasmin’s curves, and her naked, toned midriff has my eyes following her as she crosses the room to us.
 

She’s done her dark hair in a sexy updo, accented with a company-provided red silk flower. Her face is bare, but her lashes and eyebrows are dark, and she looks so sultry that for a moment I can’t look away. When I do, I find Charlie grinning at her.
 

“Let’s get going,” I say.

“Wait,” Camelia says, handing Yasmin a little pouch. “She needs makeup.”

Yasmin opens the bag, and the two girls go over to a mirror behind the cash register where Camelia starts applying some sort of lotion.
 

“We’re going to be late,” I say. “She doesn’t need makeup.” Yasmin is already going to be too damn distracting. But the girls ignore me.
 

“Just to warn you about the male passengers,” Camelia says as she lines Yasmin’s eyes in dark shadow. “They will grab your ass when the picture is taken.”

“If they do they’ll get their hands smacked,” Yasmin says indignantly. Camelia shakes her head.

“If you do, the wives will know, and no one will buy a photo.” She gives a fatalistic shrug. “So you must smile if you can.”

“Wonderful,” Yasmin mutters, glaring at me again as if it’s my fault. Which it sort of is, since I put her on costume duty. Camelia starts painting Yasmin’s lips a bright scarlet, and when she’s done I have to admit that the makeup does complete the costume. Yasmin has fully transformed into Señorita Star Hart, all pouty fire and sexy curves.

I feel like an ass for thinking it, but a lot of guys are going to buy photos with her. I sure as hell would. She is crazy-hot.
 

Not that I should notice.
Damn it
, I tell myself,
get a grip
.
 

Yasmin catches my eye and salutes me ironically. “Ready and waiting for Operation Objectification,” she says, making Camelia laugh.

“Hey, we guys get objectified too,” Charlie says to her. He pats his bare torso. “Women can’t resist touching these washboard abs.”

“I thought guys wore a mariachi outfit,” Yasmin says.

“We wear a sombrero and carry a guitar,” Charlie says, pointing at the props leaning by the wall. “There’s a shirt too, but ladies buy more photos when we lose it.”
 

“How many photos does a girl have to buy for you to lose your pants, too?” Yasmin teases. Charlie laughs.

“You wouldn’t believe how often I actually get asked that,” he says. “I could tell you such stories …”

“All right, let’s get to work,” I say loudly.
 

“My lady,” Charlie says, grandly extending an arm to Yasmin. She takes it with a smile, and they saunter off into the Promenade. I watch them go, annoyance trickling down my back like sweat. It shouldn’t bother me in the least that they’re flirting, but I find myself glowering as I grab my camera.