Page 17 of Lair

NINE

I’m allowed a late start the next day, as I’m on laundry duty. I’m ironing male crew uniforms when Thea comes in with a mound of bed sheets. One look at her face and I know she’s got some juicy gossip to share. “What is it?” I say eagerly, and she looks around before leaning in. “It’s Lucia.”

This’ll be good. “What about her?”

“She’s gone.”

I blink. “What?”

Her eyebrows shoot up: I know. “These were from her cabin.” She lifts the armful of sheets. “All her stuff was gone. No one’s seen her. Poof. I asked around, but Mrs. Colding won’t say anything. Word is, Mr. Voper got sick of her and had Jason escort her off the boat during the night.”

My jaw drops. “Wow.”

“Right?” Thea shakes her head. “One thing I know?” She drops the sheets. “Girl was a pig.”

She leaves, and I start untangling the white bedding and pause, frowning at a heavy smear of red on them. Is that... lipstick?

When I’m relieved for break, I hear the rattling drop of the anchor and go abovedeck to see where the Lair’s landed next.

From the looks of it? A pirate cove. The cliffs of Corsica soar up for miles in tumbled crags and pinnacles of red sandstone mantled with maquis scrub. The Lair has backed up to them into a little sheltered bay where deep water froths about boulders speckled with the droppings of sea eagles wheeling in the sun-drenched sky. It’s absolutely stunning.

I hear the scoffing whine of Emmie on a sun lounger on the swim deck. “But what’s stopping us from drifting and smashing up against the cliffs?”

The cool, patient voice of Mrs. Colding replies. “Just wait.”

As I watch, the tender idles up to the largest of the boulders in the cove. On the foredeck stands Jason, a thick black stern line in his hands stretching back to the yacht. At the end of the line is a heavy ring of chain-links. He waits for his moment, muscles bunched and skin gleaming gold in the sunlight, and leaps onto the sharp-looking boulder in his bare feet. Emmie and Thea on the swim deck turn to each other, hands hiding their mouths—hot—and I shake my head. But my eyes are also drawn to his physique, so well-defined under his tight polo, as he throws the chain like a lasso around the crown of the boulder and snugs it down tight around outcroppings. The sun is beating down on him, and a drop of sweat turns to golden light as it falls from his brow. How have I never appreciated the male body like this before? For its own sake, separate from the man? Then Jason has straightened, unclipping his crew radio. “Reel her in, Captain.” There’s a slow, methodical clanking—the slack anchor-chain getting inched back in—and the stern line begins to rise taut as the Lair is towed backwards. The chain suddenly rattles and constricts around the boulder. The stern line hums. And Jason, utterly sure of himself in this world, presses his radio. “Good.” The Lair is now effectively rendered stationary between two opposing tension points.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a burst of clapping—Emmie and Thea, standing to applaud. Mrs. Colding seems unimpressed.

I can’t help grinning as Jason hops back aboard the Lair. “Impressive.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “I know how to put on a show for the guests.”

I eye him up and down. “That you do.”

For a second he stares, and then a laugh leaps out of his throat. “Yeah, well, a hot bod is almost a requirement to get hired as a mate on a boat like this.” His ears, I note, have turned very red. “You’re pretty much there to be eye candy for the female guests.”

“Don’t forget the female crew.” The rejoinder is out before I can stop myself, or the guilt can set in.

Remember, I think. You can allow yourself this much.

Jason, meanwhile, arches a brow. “Oh? Seen any candy about, have you?”

I shrug, nose in the air. “Maybe.”

He cracks a grin. “To think I almost let myself be a scrawny bookworm my whole life.”

“To think,” I tut. “What a waste that would’ve been.”

He regards me for a long moment, the corners of his mouth dimpling in restrained humor. “Miss Strand,” he declares at last. “You are starting to emerge.”

Cailee’s words ringing in my head, I force away all my customary defenses—Why not have fun?—and turn to him with lifted chin. “Do you like it?”

He stares at me, all teeth. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He rubs his neck, glances about and leans forward. “Hey, I was thinking—”

“Mr. Young.” Crew radios whine, and everyone looks up. It is, unmistakably, Mr. Voper’s voice. “Meet me in the main salon, please.”

I look up, too. Mr. Voper stands under the awning of the aft bridge deck, staring down at us.

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