right. How does five-thirty suit?”
“Perfect,” he said and relaxed his shoulders. He’d resolve this and be on a flight to Melbourne in the morning.
They walked for a minute in silence, Luke’s thoughts dwelling on Patrick and what he could have intended by leaving half the ship to Della Walsh, if he’d been thinking at all when he wrote the will. But the other thought that had been pestering at the edges of his mind was why Patrick had felt it necessary to keep his illness a secret from his own family. That’s what family was for—to support each other in the hard times.
And if Patrick hadn’t made the call, then his doctor should have.
He planted his hands low on his hips and found the gaze of the doctor in question. “I need to know something. Once you knew how serious Patrick’s cancer was, once you knew he wouldn’t survive it, why didn’t you override his wishes and ring his family?”
Uncertainty flashed across her features. It had been fleeting, but he’d seen it. Then she found her calm composure again and crossed her arms under her breasts. “I have a question for you. Why didn’t you ever visit Patrick?”
Regret and grief and guilt coalesced into a hard, hot lump in his gut. “That’s irrelevant,” he snapped. He didn’t have to justify himself or his actions to a virtual stranger.
“Patrick invited you often.” Her voice was soft, probing. “If you’d come aboard, especially in the last year or so, you would have found out for yourself that he was seriously ill.”
“I’ve never been fond of sailing. Besides, I saw him when he came ashore so there was no reason.” But that answer didn’t satisfy the guilt that was eating at his gut, so he offered her a tight smile. “I need to get back to the ship to make some calls. I’ll see you at five-thirty.”
He turned on his heel and left.
* * *
At five-thirty, Luke showered and changed for dinner with Della. Walking down the stairs of his duplex suite, delicious anticipation sizzled through his bloodstream, making him pause. How long had it been since he’d looked forward to dinner with a woman this much? Della intrigued him—every word she’d said, every action, raised questions that begged him to find answers. Or challenged him the way she had this afternoon about Patrick. Either way, he was thinking about the lovely doctor far too often.
There was a danger in this.
He straightened his spine. He would not be distracted by a woman. His ownership of the Cora Mae was at stake.
He glanced around the suite’s dining room. The concierge had offered him staff from the butler service for the night, but he’d declined. These negotiations were delicate and they’d need privacy.
He strode from the carpeted staircase to the living room bar and found it well stocked with spirits, wines and soft drinks. All contingencies covered. He knew little about Dr. Della other than that she lived on a ship and had medical training, but at least he’d be able to cater for whatever drinks she preferred.
As he was reaching for a bottle of white wine, there was a knock at the door. Bottle in hand, he crossed the room and drew the door open. His breath caught deep in his throat. She wore a simple floral summer dress and heeled sandals that accentuated her shapely calves. Her loose hair shone in the hall lights, and his hand twitched, wanting to reach out and wrap one curl around his fingers.
Della smiled, but her eyes remained wary, as if still considering the wisdom of this meeting.
He cleared his throat and opened the door farther to allow her to pass. “I’m glad you came.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, but didn’t enter.
Placing a hand under her elbow, he gently guided her over the threshold. “Come in.” When she took two small steps into the room, he closed the door and held up the bottle still in his hand. “Would you like red, white or champagne?”
She swallowed, her posture watchful and guarded. She was obviously deciding whether this meeting would be strictly business or whether she’d concede to a certain level of social nicety. He held her gaze, not pushing, not giving her the easy escape, either.
She nodded once, decision made. “White, please.”
A spark of satisfaction zinged through his system—she was going to play nice. It would allow him more opportunity to resolve the situation just between themselves, without getting courts and lawyers involved.
He poured them both a glass of sauvignon blanc and showed her to an armchair. “Are you hungry?”
“I only had a light lunch, so yes, I am,” she said.
He offered her the in-suite dining menu. “Since you’re hungry, we should order now.”
Della took the spiral-bound booklet but didn’t open it. He realized she lived here—she probably knew the options by heart.
He leaned back on the couch and laid an arm along the top. “What would you suggest?”
“Depends what you like. Everything is delicious so you can’t make a bad choice.” She shrugged a shoulder then sat, still and watchful. He saw a way to create some trust that could move them past her guardedness and help the negotiations that would begin soon.
He closed his menu. “Why don’t you order for both of us?”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction, assessing the sincerity of his suggestion. “How do you feel about Italian?”
“I could be tempted.”
“Can I use your phone?”
“Please.” He reached for the handset on the table behind the lounge and passed it to her.
She dialed, then lifted her gaze to him. “Hi, Angie, it’s Della. Is Edoardo on tonight?” She smiled. “Can you ask him if he has enough of his eggplant parmigiana to send two servings up to Luke Marlow in the starboard owner’s suite?” There was a pause. “Excellent,” she said and disconnected.
He took the phone from her outstretched hand. “Am I right in assuming you’ve ordered us something that’s not on the menu?”
“You would be right.” She inclined her head, acknowledging his guess. “Edoardo used to occasionally make this dish for himself, then as people started tasting it, they’d put in a request for some the next night and it grew into a bit of a legend. Now he comes in early for his shift and makes a dish for any of the staff who want some. So he usually has a few plates’ worth of it at the back of the kitchen.”
There was a bigger story here—a piece of the Della Walsh puzzle. He gave her an unhurried appraisal. “You have three hundred and thirty staff members aboard the Cora Mae. He makes enough for them all?”
She shrugged. “Many work over the dinner shift, either in food service or entertainment, and on their break they eat at the staff canteen.”
“There would still be a lot of staff off duty,” he said.
As her lashes swept down then up, she reminded him of the movie stars of the sixties—beautiful, sophisticated
