smoothed her hand over her new, beautiful scarf, carefully folded it and laid it in the top drawer of the chest of drawers disguised as a steamer trunk. She swatted at a particularly aggressive swath of mosquito netting and walked toward the sound.
There it was. Pitiful. Touted as a grotto for two, she had to ask, two what? She doubted she could fit in there without folding her knees to her chest. A glance at the trickling “waterfall” told her where she’d be showering. A peek behind the surrounding plastic leaves revealed a tiny sink and toilet.
She flipped open her cell and punched a button.
“Karyl, you are not going to believe this.”
3
Maggie sniffed and wiped her nose with the tissue stuck in the belt of her once-white slacks and tried to rinse the grime from the washcloth. Sweat trickled between her breasts, making her wish she had never invested in the new instant-cleavage-enhancer model. A lot of good it did her.
Hunched over the miniscule sink, she rubbed at the dust-streaked terry held under a flow of water one step above trickle status. When it became obvious that most of the dust was embedded for eternity, she twisted the little pointed knobs to turn off the water and made her way back into the living quarters to resume her cleaning, careful to avoid poking her eye out on the colorful beak of a stuffed bird next to the “grotto.”
An hour later, she stretched and rubbed the small of her back while she looked around at her progress. All one and a half plastic bushes of backbreaking progress.
“This won’t do.”
She walked to the wooden box housing the phone and called the concierge.
Ten long minutes later, a timid knock sounded. She fought her way through the vinyl, slid back the bolt and opened the door.
The small man from the deck stood all but quivering in the hall, his clipboard clutched to his scrawny chest.
“Ms. Hamilton?” he called above the jungle sounds, “I’m Otto, the purser. Front desk said you had a complaint?”
“Yes, Otto, I certainly do!” she shouted back and motioned him inside. “Come in.”
Just when she wondered if she’d have to resort to dragging him bodily into her suite, he stepped across the threshold.
She waved her hand in the direction of her personal jungle. “I’m afraid this just won’t do. I feel like I need a machete to even find my bed! Plus, I’m very allergic to dust.” She pointed at one particularly fuzzy example, in case he failed to notice. “And the noise is, well, you can hear for yourself. I need to change rooms.”
The poor man seemed to cower. “I—I’m afraid that’s just not possible, M—Ms. Hamilton. All the other books are roomed.” He stepped back, his knuckles white where he gripped his clipboard. “I mean, all the other rooms are booked.” He reached back and opened the door, his intent on escape clear.
“Wait!” She lunged toward him, eliciting a startled whimper from the man. “Please. I’ll take anything.” She sneezed and focused her teary eyes on him. “Please. The dust is killing me.”
His lips disappeared into a tight line. He stood a bit taller. “I’ll speak to the cruise director, but I doubt he can do anything.”
He hurried out and closed the door with a snap before she could think of an argument.
“Great,” she murmured, swiping at a particularly obnoxious split-leaf elephant ear that had been whacking her head in the air-conditioned breeze. “Just how I wanted to spend my first day at sea.”
She’d just dragged out her portable air cleaner and located a plug—no easy feat, given the decor—when a knock echoed in the little jungle.
She crawled out from under yet another fake palm and got to her feet, brushing the dust bunnies from her white slacks as she walked toward the door. It no longer mattered that her door did not have a peephole. Jack the Ripper could be on the other side and if he offered her a clean room, she’d gladly follow him anywhere.
Her pile of dust-gray cleaning rags caught her attention. Keeping up appearances was a necessity. In a swooping motion, she bent to scoop them up as she walked by. Her bare foot hit a wet spot on the edge of the grotto. Her mind registered the cool, slick feel of the porcelain “beach” a nanosecond before she slid with a scream and a splash into the churning water.
The woman’s scream from behind the locked door made Drew’s blood run cold. Even the ridiculous jungle sounds couldn’t drown out her distress. It was bad enough to be assigned to the honeymoon cruises for his final season. He’d be damned if one of his last cruises would lose a bride.
Hands shaking, he fumbled with his set of master keys before he found the right one and got the door unlocked.
He saw her immediately.
She sat chest deep in the grotto, little islands of what looked like dirty washcloths floating around her. One small hand covered her left eye and forehead.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” He pocketed his keys and moved to the edge of the water.
She didn’t blink. “My eye hurts,” she said, the husky quality of her voice slipping down his spine like a seductive fingernail. Great. Finally his libido kicks in, and it’s with a newlywed woman.
“What happened?” He scanned the room for her husband, ready to personally throw the bastard from the ship. Men who abused women were lower than a snake’s armpits, as far as he was concerned.
“I slipped and fell into the water.”
Sure, you did. He reached out a hand to help her stand on what he knew to be a less than skid-free tub bottom. “I’ve got you. Just take small steps, and then I’ll help you over the rim. Do you need to see a doctor?”
She shook her head, her short curls sticking to her skull. Wet, her hair looked almost translucent, so he’d bet she was a blonde.
The silk shirt sticking to her like a second skin most likely was yellow. He tried to avert his eyes from the scrap-of-nothing bra revealed by the wet fabric but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from the tempting sight. Lordy, it was enough to make a grown man weep.
Once-white pants clung to world-class legs, leaving little to the imagination. Why were all the good ones married?
Her hand felt tiny within his grasp. He resisted the urge to pull her close. Barely. Damn, what was wrong with him? Maybe he’d been out to sea too long. He was definitely drowning in the clear turquoise of her bloodshot eyes. Why did women stay with bastards who made them cry?
Wow. Maggie looked up—way up—into the blue eyes of easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Now, this is more like it. Tan, with golden-brown hair and mile-wide shoulders, dressed in a white uniform shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked good enough to eat.
Dang. She realized she was holding his hand like some starstruck teenager. She dropped it and took a step back.
Unfortunately she was a bit too close to the edge of the grotto.
Arms flailing as
