Page 24 of Lair

His vivid blue eyes open, blinking snow off those beautiful lashes as they look up at me. “You’re snooping again, Aurora.”

I would blush if my blood was still moving. I jerk my eyes away. “I—sorry. Mrs. Colding said to check on you...”

“I am fine. Thank you.” His lips curve.

“Okay.” I hover, not sure where to put my eyes, flooded with embarrassment as I hug my arms. “I, uh, wanted to thank you. No one’s ever...”

He lets me flounder, as if enjoying the spectacle. And then, finally sparing me, “You’re welcome.”

How is his formality so sexy?

“Okay,” I say again. “I’ll... be outside.”

And I retreat, hurrying past the sauna, the spa, into the passageway toward the beach club. Away.

Wow, Arie. Can you get any more awkward?

And still my thoughts linger on his body. On the fine line of hair beneath his bellybutton, descending down to...

Stop it, Aurora.

I flutter my hands, trying to get warmth back into them. My head feels hot. Hotter than it should, anyway. I’m still trying to figure that out when I hear spiky, bitchy footsteps approaching. Even Mrs. Colding doesn’t have such vitriol in her step.

Here we go. Supermodel vs. stewardess.

Emmie’s in a flowy silk shirt that’s unbuttoned to show she’s got nothing on underneath but a sexy black bikini bottom, all the good parts hanging out. Of course.

Emmie Gallagher: in it to win it.

“Congratulations, farm girl,” she singsongs, “you’re Voper’s charity case of the week.” She lets the shirt slide off her perfectly perky tits and holds it up for me to take. Her moist, harlot-red lips purse in a kiss of scorn. “But I am going to give that man the best blowjob he’s ever had,” she announces with airy conviction, “and afterwards he’s going to come out and tell you you’re done on this boat.” She leans a hand on the tall mirrors lining the passageway and takes it away, holding it to her mouth. Oopsy. “I’m sorry, do you have to wipe that down now?” And she walks on, trailing a hand along the mirrors all the way, leaving a smeary handprint down twenty feet of glass in a screeching dragging of skin. She looks back with a coquettish smile.

My shoulders heave. I am boiling over with useless rage, my head ready to explode. Or is that a headache? I put a hand to my brow and it comes away shining with sweat. What’s going on? Everything feels weird. Then a wave of nausea hits me, doubling me over, hands on knees and shivering like a sick horse, and Emmie pauses in her march of triumph. “Oh, goody,” she calls back. “The food poisoning is kicking in.” And she swings wide the glass door of the snow room, perfect brow arched. “Have fun with that.”

THIRTEEN

My jaw drops in utter disbelief as I think back on that awful oyster. That conniving little...

But another wave of nausea nearly knocks me over, and I start hustling up to the main deck. I need to get to my cabin. Into bed. I need...

“And what exactly are you doing here?” Mrs. Colding stands in the middle of the main lounge, iPad in hand. Her voice is the hiss of a viper. “Did you leave Mr. Voper alone?”

My stomach plummets. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Colding. I—I’m not feeling well—”

“This may be a surprise to you, Miss Strand, but I have no interest in your emotional dilemmas—”

“No, really. Emmie, she—”

A loud sigh. “I am quite done with the theatrics between the two of you. If you cannot be professional—”

“But Mrs. Colding—”

“Miss Strand.” Mrs. Colding’s eyes blaze. “If you do not return to your post immediately, this boat will leave port without you. Is that clear?”

I swallow, head pounding. “Yes, ma’am,” I manage meekly, and head back to the spa area like a whipped dog.

Okay, then. Yes. That should not have been surprising. This is what it means to be a stewardess, after all.

Chin up, Aurora. Be professional.

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