a wicked grin, she got up to test this theory: standing in front of the window naked, she cupped herself from the sides, offering up her luscious handfuls to passersby.
Two little old ladies ambled past, chatting, but the one looking right at her didn’t blink.
“Must be true,” she murmured.
Lola glanced at the clock. Time for some serious primping before her fiancé got back from his winning streak in the casino. If he smiled just right and ground against her on the dance floor, Dennis Fletcher might get lucky yet again after dinner—and she’d keep him coming back for it all night long. That fantasy alone made the price of this trip worth it.
She’d gone through a long, sometimes rocky romance with her financial advisor, a man who played hardball with the markets while she’d played hard to get. But only enough to keep him panting like a puppy, since she was every bit as hot for it as Fletch was.
Lola had finally convinced him they should elope to the Caribbean for one of those romantic cruise ship weddings. She and Mr. No-Strings-Attached were finally tying the knot! So he deserved nothing but the finest—in other words, her, totally tricked out—as a reward for making such a sound decision. Not only would she be the wife of a savvy, handsome man, but her business would benefit, too: she could spend her time expanding Well Suited instead of working so hard for Fletch’s attention.
Lola flicked her auburn hair back to keep it from smearing her wet nipples. God, but they looked tacky, like they belonged on trailer trash—or some chick in a cheap porn flick. Which meant Dennis would go nuts. They might not even make it to the Captain’s reception, or get dressed enough to go downstairs for dinner.
Yet she did want to wiggle into that little black cocktail dress and then announce her arrival with a click-click-click of her stilettos. A girl didn’t get many opportunities to fox herself up and split zippers. And even though she was crazy for Fletch—because he was a fine catch; the money man who’d sent her business soaring—Lola hoped she’d never outgrow her power to make other guys look. And then put their hands in their pockets.
Rap-rap-rap.
Fletch! Lola quickly capped her nail polish, so she could sprawl suggestively on the bed for his entrance.
“Yehhhhhhs?” she crooned toward the door. “Who is it?”
“Message for Meese Wright. I leave eet here, een your box.”
With an impatient sigh, she opened the door and stuck her head out. Must not’ve been much of a message, if Enriqué didn’t wait for a tip! She glanced up the long, narrow corridor to see if Fletch was on his way, hoping he wasn’t so engrossed in his poker game that he’d lost track of the time. It was her night to shine, dammit! To romance the night away with a man in a tux who couldn’t take his eyes off her.
But then, if he was really raking it in at the tables, maybe she could forgive him for being a little late. Dennis Fletcher was the luckiest man she knew, when it came to playing Caribbean Stud. And that diamond on her left hand hadn’t come cheap.
She snatched the message from the clip on her door, which she shut with a swing of her bare butt. No envelope, just a folded slip of paper. Fletch must really be cleaning out the house—but then, cell phones didn’t work here on the ship, so maybe he’d scribbled a note instead of coming upstairs.
Lola, said his familiar scrawl. I’ve found my true soul mate! A woman who knows how I need my freedom—who won’t boss me around, or insist on having the last word. And she doesn’t call me Fletch—much less bark it like she’s giving her dog a command. I’ve left the ship to get better acquainted at her seaside villa, so don’t come looking for me.
I didn’t want to break it off this way, but it’s for the best. Have a nice life, babe, You can bet I will! Dennis.
2
“That goddamn double-crossing sonuva bitch!”
Lola crumpled the note and threw it at the bed, but that didn’t nearly relieve her anger. Who did he think he was, saying he’d met somebody else—his true soul mate, for chrissakes! Dennis Fletcher wouldn’t know a soul mate if she slapped him in the face!
She threw open the closet door, slamming it hard against the jamb. What if he’d been planning this all along? Just said he’d get married to shut her up, so he could abandon her on this swanky ship and not have to pay his bar tab and casino—
But his clothes were still hanging there. The blazers she’d chosen to make him look wider across the shoulders. The slacks that hugged his sexy ass and played up the bulge in front.
Lola yanked out the top drawer, still muttering.
“Must not’ve thought he’d need underwear, either, to go sashaying off to some rich bitch’s seaside villa. Some bitch from Aruba, no less!” she jeered, hurling his undershirts across the room. “Probably met her in that onshore casino we walked through this morning. In the time it took me to pee, no less!”
Still pissed, Lola flung his socks at the picture window, wondering why any moron would roll them up into such bulky balls. “Well, I hope she’s loaded, cause Fletch’ll let on like he’s so the Caribbean stud—and then go through her cash faster than Tarzan’s chimp can swing through the jungle!”
Dennis did bring to mind a monkey, come to think of it. An albino monkey, with his close-cropped blonde hair curving around his temples into a widow’s peak. She should call and tell him exactly what she thought of him right now! Make monkey noises in his ear—
But no. He’d see her name and number on his cell screen and ignore her. And she certainly didn’t want to interrupt whatever he and his soul mate were doing!
“You can’t call him,” she muttered, throwing his skimpy swimsuits to the floor. “No cell signal, remember?”
But she could play detective.
Lola grabbed the Aphrodite Ahoy! newsletter that listed today’s schedule and events. Since they didn’t sail until six, she had forty-five minutes to run ashore and—if he thought for one minute she’d let him dump her for some—
Lola sucked in a shuddery breath. That’s exactly what Fletch had done. He’d dumped her, for some sleazy broad with a villa on Aruba…a woman who wouldn’t put him in his place, or suggest that his tightie-whities were shot—or too tacky for a guy marrying a—a woman who advised high-level execs about dressing for…success.
Dammit, I did NOT say his name like he was a dog fetching something!
Lola fondled the silk bikinis she’d bought him, but the rainbow they made in his drawer taunted her like his note had.
She would not cry over this jerk! Instead, she grabbed the closest thing—her swishy silk robe from Victoria’s Secret—and stepped into her kitten-heel sandals with the rhinestone vamps. She snatched her SeaKey from on top of the TV, where Captain Scandalous was once again assuring her he was about to make her wildest dreams come true.
And Lola headed out. A bitch on a mission!
Down the narrow hallway she rushed—around the corner, to race down the stairs—no time to wait for elevators!—until she reached the gangplank on Deck One. Sweaty, overbaked passengers were swarming aboard, their Sea Key cards making a steady
