You’re making excuses for her.
Damn. Damn. Damn. She’d gotten to him. Again.
But if she was starting to care about him, then he had to nip those feelings in the bud. Before it was too late. He couldn’t afford to let Tara get close or convince herself she loved him, because he couldn’t live with another woman’s death or near-death on his conscience.
Cursing his weakness for Tara and his stupidity for craving her body and her company, he scanned the cabanas, beaches and tables. How hard could it be to find one curly-haired blonde on a small island with no roads and no exit other than the tender that had brought her over? Crescent Key had been named for its shape. KCL had posted different excursion sites in and around the island. If he followed the curve long enough he’d find Tara.
The hot sand seeped into his sandals and the sun toasted his bare back. He’d dressed in swim trunks—like a tourist—as camouflage, but it had been a long time since he’d been comfortable in such casual clothing. Five years, to be exact. He’d spent every day since leaving Miami trying to get Wayfarer Cruise Lines ahead of KCL.
Trying to beat Everett Kincaid at his own game.
A laugh stopped Rand in his tracks. Tara’s laugh. He pivoted and followed the sound around a tiki-hut bar and found her at an umbrella-covered table surrounded by a group of six guys. Twenty-somethings. Closer to her age than Rand’s thirty-five. Empty plates, beer bottles, drink cups and a couple of half-filled bowls of chips and salsa littered the picnic table.
The burn in his gut caught him off guard. Indigestion? Probably. He’d speak to the ship’s chef.
Or was he jealous? Couldn’t be. To be jealous he’d have to have feelings for Tara beyond the anger that festered inside him at her manipulativeness. Feelings beyond the respect for her work. Beyond lust for her body.
Her black bikini left her back almost completely bare.
“Tara.”
She startled at the bark of her name and twisted around on the bench seat. “Rand. Hi.”
Was that a guilty flush on her cheeks? Could she be auditioning potential lovers when she’d left his bed only hours ago?
He planted a hand on her shoulder and nodded to her male harem. “Gentlemen. Rand Kincaid. Kincaid Cruise Lines. I hope you don’t mind if I steal my assistant.”
It wasn’t a question.
He noted Tara’s widened eyes, and then one of the guys laughed and grinned at Tara. “You work for the cruise line? That explains all the questions.”
Tara’s shoulder shrugged beneath Rand’s hand. He looked down to see her nose—now sporting a fresh dusting of freckles—wrinkle. “Sorry for the secrecy. But it really is my first cruise, and I know very little about what’s out there. I appreciate you giving me your thoughts on the comparisons between KCL vacations and our competitors’.”
She tucked a pen into the spirals of a little pink notebook. Rand recalled Tara had always carried a notebook in her purse. She was a big fan of note taking. Had been even back when she’d worked for his father. A breeze ruffled the pages—pages filled with her small neat handwriting. Handwriting not formatted like addresses or phone numbers.
Working? She’d been working? Didn’t she realize each of these guys eyed her as if she were a tender and juicy filet mignon and they couldn’t wait to take a bite? And given the mouthwatering cleavage he could see from his position above her, Rand couldn’t blame them.
She rose and gathered her belongings. He let his hand fall from her shoulder.
“I guess this means you’ll have to skip your first Jet Ski ride,” one of the guys said and scowled at Rand. “That sucks. She wanted to learn.”
Tara bit her lip, and disappointment flashed across her face. “I guess so. But I am supposed to be working. It was nice meeting you. Thanks again for your help.”
“Thanks for the drinks,” a blond guy replied. “Maybe we’ll see you at the luau tonight. Save a dance for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Joe.” Tara waved and looked questioningly at Rand.
He grasped her elbow and led her to the opposite side of the tiki hut from the devouring eyes of her fan club. “You were working?”
“Yes, and I have some really good info for you. But why did you blow your cover?”
Good question. He didn’t like the answer. He had been jealous. Dammit. More fool him. “You’ve never ridden a Jet Ski?”
“No.”
A smart man would head back to the ship and put some clothes on the woman. His gaze raked over her lightly tanned skin, savoring the swell of her breasts in the bikini top, the curve of her waist and the dip of her navel above a tiny skirted bottom. And then there were her legs.
The rush of blood to his groin annoyed the hell out of him. He grabbed her hand and towed her behind him. “Let’s go.”
“The boat’s the other way.”
“Ship,” he corrected automatically. “But the Jet Skis are this way.”
“But—”
“You want lessons. You’ll get lessons. From me.” And he’d be damned if she’d be dancing with the frat boy later.
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