I lay down again, snuggling deeply into the covers. The morning could wait.
I wanted to enjoy this moment with him, this peaceful, unprovoked state we
shared now. To pretend that somehow this could be real without being wrong.
Because as soon as he opened his eyes, we would have to be at odds again.
As if he heard my thoughts, his eyes fluttered open, and he caught me
staring. No use in looking away—I returned his gaze without faltering,
wondering what he was thinking, why he was in my bed and what he was about
to do.
He smiled at me. “Good morning, love. I have to say, dreaming about you is
nothing compared with waking up next to you.”
I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. Game on.
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Chapter Eleven
I escaped to the bathroom, locking the door just in time.
He pounded on it once, hard, and then laughed. “Come downstairs and have
some breakfast. I can smell it from here.”
I waited though, until I felt sure he was gone.
Breakfast did sound appealing. After I showered and changed into the black
uniform that had materialized on the bed, I headed down the stairs.
The aroma was alluring—at first. I took a seat at the table with my three
roommates, and Dr. Folsom served me a heaping, steaming omelet. I smiled up
at her, but she diverted her eyes from mine and returned the pan to the kitchen.
Across the table, the admiral sipped his coffee and pushed his eggs around his
plate with so much concentration I thought he might be performing a ritual. I
looked up to Nicoli, who got up to clear his dishes. He leaned against the
refrigerator now, arms crossed.
I glanced around the room, searching for a friendly face, finding none. The
sunlight streamed in the windows and patio doors, bright and refreshing. Steam
danced from our collective omelets, coaxing out our appetites. A vase of long-
stemmed flowers sat in the middle of the table, fragrant, yellow, conducive to
cheer. The reek of conspiracy overpowered it all.
I hopped up from my seat, and Nicoli uncrossed his arms, stepping away
from the fridge.
“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping his tone a dangerous casual. “You
haven’t touched your breakfast.”
Anna Scarlett
I stepped backward and glanced behind me to the door leading to the beach.
“I’m not hungry.”
Nicoli stepped forward when I inched back again. “You need to eat, Dr.
Morgan.”
So, it was Dr. Morgan again, was it? Had I committed a new offense, or did
he still dwell on the old one(s)?
“No, Captain Marek.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and I raised my brow at
his hypocrisy. If I was Dr. Morgan, then he was Captain Marek.
“You’ll need your strength today, Dr. Morgan,” he said. “Because I’m going
to be teaching you how to swim.”
I shot a calculating look behind me. The door couldn’t have been more than
ten feet from me. Time wise, a mere couple of seconds.
“You can be assured I’ll catch you,” he drawled.
I eyed the stairwell behind him. Maybe I could make it to my room and
lock—
“That would be futile as well,” he said smugly.
I maneuvered behind the table and chairs. He would have to circle around to
get to me, which would buy me a few seconds. Again, he could see my intent,
but he had no choice but to play my game. My eyes swept the counter, bereft of
the knives—and all other utensils as well. Was he afraid I’d brain him with a
ladle? I glared at him.
“You shouldn’t play with knives, Dr. Morgan. You could get hurt.”
“Or you could.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not likely.”
Glaring at him gave me time to contemplate my options. We circled the
table, but each time he inched closer and closer. He could see the desperation in 188
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my eyes because he said, “And don’t try any of that pressure-point stuff. I’m not as naïve as your last victim.”
I huffed, pouting, not willing to admit I’d been considering exactly that. And
then I got an idea. “You can’t teach me to swim today,” I told him with a smile.
It took him off guard. He stopped. “And why not?”
“Because I don’t have a swimsuit.” Belatedly, I realized Dr. Folsom may very
well have one I could borrow.
Nicoli thought of this too and glanced to her, but she shook her head. He
frowned. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to do your shopping today. Dr.
Folsom said she needed to pick up a few things as well. We do have the rest of
the week to concentrate on making you buoyant, at the very least.”
“Yes,” I agreed, already scheming. And I was pretty excited about the
shopping part. I was in desperate need of something—anything—that wasn’t
black.
As I compiled a mental list, Nicoli said, “I’ll join you. We can take the pod.”
At the same time Dr. Folsom said, “What a lovely idea,” I yelled, “You’re not
invited.”
“And you’re holding my hand on the dock.” He cut off my protests with,
“It’s that or I carry you. We wouldn’t want a repeat from yesterday, now would
we?”
I shook my head—only the repeat I worried about had to do with his lips.
I held his hand as he dragged me onto the pier. The pod surfaced beside us,
the glass shield breaking through the waves.
“Who’s driving it?” I asked, surprised.
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“I recalled it by remote. I sent it to anchor at the bottom last night so it
wouldn’t be battered by the storm.”
He jumped in and helped Dr. Folsom down. The subtle waves didn’t hint at
the tempest we’d witnessed the evening before, the gentle crests hardly
bothering to peak at all. The sunlight shimmered over the water like pieces of a
shattered mirror, and I lifted my face to its warmth. I had missed the sun.
“Elyse?” Nicoli inquired.
I looked down to find them both waiting for me. He reached up, and I
accepted his hand. He gently lowered me into the pod, pressing me against him.
I knew full and well he hadn’t pulled Dr. Folsom so close. Of course, she hadn’t
swan-dived off the dock last night, either. Maybe safety motivated his tight hold.
Maybe he bought into my escape story. Maybe he needed to be pinched.
He scowled at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Your eyes.”
I rubbed at them. They still stung from yesterday’s ordeal. “Are they still
red?”
“No. They’re green.”
I laughed, relieved. “They’ve always been green.” He was outstandingly
unobservant for a captain, I decided.
“I’d forgotten the effect the sunlight has on them.”
He could only be talking about our first encounter on the docks, when I’d
assaulted him with my forehead. His face now was arranged in the same
shocked expression he’d worn when he pulled me from his chest that day.
“There’s nothing I can do about the sunlight, Nicoli. You want me to buy some
&nb
sp; sunglasses?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He turned away and seated himself.
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Degrees of Wrong
I stared after him, trying not to feel insulted. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t care for green eyes, and it wasn’t my fault the natural sunlight reflected the irises
better than the drab, artificial lighting on the Bellator. If they were blue, brown or orange, the result would be the same in the direct sunlight.
Dr. Folsom cleared her throat and patted the seat next to her. I plopped
down, not bothering to strap in, and crossed my arms. Although conscious I was
pouting, I couldn’t help it. I had always been complimented on my eyes. And the
only person whose opinion mattered at all basically just informed me he detested
them. Had he intentionally sniffed out my one small scrap of vanity, then
clubbed it, skinned it and stewed it?
As the pod submerged, I wondered what color eyes Nicoli’s fiancée had.
Shopping turned out to be more of a chore than a pleasure.
We visited the neighboring islands, weaving in and out of the shops. The
diversity of the culture bewildered me. Tourism lured people from every nation
to the area for vacationing, and the multitude and variety of the stores rivaled
even the most modern malls in any big city of the world.
Nicoli served as translator for us, and I wondered if there was a language the
man didn’t speak. The official language, he told me, was Dhivehi, although he
said there were several other dialects, depending on the individual islands. He
said the language was greatly influenced by Arabic, but that other languages,
such as English and French, had a hand in the modern version of it as well. He
was irritatingly informed.
He waited as we tried on our selections then paid for our items. To his good
credit he never complained—even carried the heavier of our bags—but his
expression belied slow, torturous death.
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We used the pod to maneuver between the islands, and every time he helped
me in or out of it, he frowned at me. By the end of the day, I felt so offended I couldn’t even stir up excitement about my extensive purchases, or the fact that I hadn’t spent my own money on them. I slumped in the pod on the way to the
beach house, entombed in self-pity.
Dr. Folsom patted my hand. “We’re going to dinner on one of the islands.
You can wear that little red number you bought. It’s a small restaurant on Ihuru, in the Kaafu Atoll. The tourists don’t even know about it. It’s James’s favorite
place to eat. It’s where he proposed, in fact.”
“Proposed? Proposed what?”
Dr. Folsom laughed. “Proposed marriage, silly. It’s where he asked me to
marry him.”
It all fell into place. Inseparable from the admiral. Undeniable pull with him.
Only three bedrooms in the beach house—and Nicoli and I occupied two of
them. Well, at least we would tonight.
I shook my head, disappointed in myself. “You’re married.”
“No.” She smiled. “We can’t get married until he retires. We wouldn’t be
assigned to the same ship if we were married. Conflict of interest.”
“It’s not a conflict of interest that you’re engaged?”
“Well…our engagement isn’t exactly public knowledge.”
I took that to mean it was a total secret.
“Oh,” I said. And then a little louder for our conductor to hear, “Imagine
that. An engagement that isn’t publicized. What madness!”
He chuckled but didn’t respond.
I smiled at Dr. Folsom. “Congratulations. I’m sorry I’m almost disabled with
my lack of perception.”
She giggled. “I am a good secret keeper.”
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I did go with the little red number, as Dr. Folsom suggested. Simple and
strapless, it didn’t quite reach my knees but didn’t creep up my thighs, either.
Looking in the mirror, inspecting every angle, I decided the basic mathematics of eating less chocolate and producing more sweat worked—no pouch, no bulges.
Which was good, because nothing else could cram into this dress. I accessorized
only with an updo and strappy red heels.
I shook my head at the woman in the mirror. Something was still missing.
Probably my confidence. Prior to this morning, I believed I was at least a little attractive. Now, all my flaws blared at me, the way Nicoli saw them. They
seemed to pop out of the mirror and slap my ego. My eyes sat too close together,
and they were that ugly green shade. My hips were too round for this dress and
my middle toe was almost as long as my big one, making my feet look manly
and un-dainty in the heels. My nose was inconspicuous—not too big, not too
small—just neutral, indifferent. How could it be indifferent at a time like this?
“They usually serve dinner before midnight,” Nicoli called up the stairs. The
admiral chuckled, and I wondered if Nicoli was addressing me or Dr. Folsom—
or both.
I shook my head in disgust one final time and headed for the stairs. I heard
the door open and shut and wondered if everyone had left me behind after all.
As I turned the corner, Nicoli’s feet appeared at the bottom of the staircase. As he came into full view, I smiled at him in appreciation. His awed expression
uprooted the seeds of self-doubt. Smoothed over all the blemishes and
imperfections. Made me whole. I even forgave my nose for its neutrality.
“What are the chances of you changing into something a little
less…breathtaking?” he asked, dead serious.
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“Did you want a percentage? Zero percent.” Especially since you called me
breathtaking.
And I noticed how devastating he looked. I had never seen him in civilian clothes before. The white of his button-down shirt accentuated his olive skin and gave contrast to his coal-black hair, and the partially rolled-up sleeves
pronounced his muscled arms and wide chest. With this he wore faded blue
jeans, of all things, frayed at the bottom from constant wear.
The man would look amazing in anything—and better in nothing—but the
jeans bothered me. “Am I overdressed?”
“I believe the appropriate question would be if you are underdressed. Isn’t
there a wrap or a shawl that should have come with that? Maybe another yard or
two of material?”
I giggled. “I was referring to your jeans.”
He shrugged, grinning. “I prefer to be comfortable when I’m away from the
ship. As far as your attire goes, Dr. Folsom is wearing a dress also, if that answers your question.”
As I didn’t feel it useful to explain to him the many different categories of the term dress or their purposes, I accepted his extended hand as he ushered me out the door and toward the pier.
The restaurant was a small place indeed, with live music and human servers
instead of the three-dimensional tabletop holograms which had taken the
industry by storm. A small, scuffed-up dance floor in the middle of the room
hosted a handful of guests who shuffled around without attention to rhythm or
onlookers. Dim lighting and candles cast an intimate glow, offering p
rivacy,
anonymity and romance—definitely atmospheric for a marriage proposal.
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Our table took up a quiet corner with a view to the entire restaurant. I tried
to ignore the attention Nicoli drew from the female patrons. In a moment of
unreasonable jealousy, I wished I’d been seated next to him instead of across the table. It’s not your place to get jealous, idiot. Stop acting like an infatuated adolescent.
“Dr. Folsom, do you mind switching seats with Elyse, please?” Nicoli said. “I
didn’t bring an extra shirt with me this evening.”
I squashed the giddiness as I took the seat next to him. “An extra shirt?”
“Yes. In case that man at the bar gets blood on this one when I break his
nose. He looks like a bleeder.” The man at the bar was staring at me. He turned his back to our table when Nicoli rested his arm on my chair and gave him a curt
nod.
I giggled. Nicoli leaned toward me and whispered, “Just remember, I did ask
you to change, love. Now you might have blood on your hands.” Then he
winked.
The waitress saved me from a reply by taking our order. The meal arrived in
good time. Dr. Folsom and Admiral Rudd shared one of the restaurant’s ethnic
offerings, while I pushed a less-interesting pasta around my plate. Nicoli ordered freshly caught grouper. I cringed at the smell when he offered me a bite.
As the server cleared our plates, Nicoli stood and held out his hand to me.
“I’m going to have to insist that you dance with me, so those morons at the bar
can stop hoping you’re my sister.”
The admiral chuckled. “Yes, please, Dr. Morgan. I’m afraid I’ve drunk too
much wine to offer Nicoli any assistance in a brawl.”
I laughed and allowed Nicoli to lead me to the dance floor.
“Um, I don’t dance,” I told him sheepishly. “So, no whirling or dipping.”
He laughed and pulled me close, pressing my body against his in a way that
left little doubt as to the possibility of my being any relative of his. My awareness
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of him escalated to what felt more like a sunburn than a blush as he swayed to
the lull of the music.
“What if someone here recognizes you?” I asked. “It wouldn’t be right for
your fiancée to find out about this from a complete stranger. In fact, we really