Countering His Claim

“You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, her voice even, unaffected.

Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—

Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.

Two (#ulink_236d3683-f0ef-5d74-a69d-211f0a519358)

Less than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.

The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.

She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.

Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.

“Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.

“No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.

Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”

“Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”

Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”

“You were a big part of that, too, Della.” Jackie took her hand and squeezed, and Della appreciated the warmth, the solidarity. “We all know the long hours you put in with him, going above and beyond. The way you devoted yourself to making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. And Patrick knew it, too. He sang your praises whenever he could, told us he was indebted to you.”

Della managed something of a crooked smile, but this time her constricted chest wouldn’t let her reply. Thankfully, the man at the front of the room cleared his throat and introduced himself as Patrick Marlow’s lawyer and executor of his will.

As he spoke, Della’s gaze drifted to Luke Marlow, also in an aisle seat, but in the front row beside the captain. His back was tall and straight in the chair and, just as when she’d first seen him when she was boarding a few hours ago, she found it difficult to drag her attention away. There was something magnetic about that man.

Then he slowly turned and searched the crowd before his gaze landed on her. A shiver of tingles ran down her spine. His head dipped in acknowledgment, and she nodded back, before he turned to the front again. Della tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to put Luke Marlow from her mind as best she could. She was here for Patrick.

The executor had finished his preamble and come to the division of assets. He’d left a collection of rare and first edition books to his sister-in-law, Luke’s mother, who, the executor noted, hadn’t been able to attend; he left some personal effects such as cuff links and a tie clip to various members of staff.

“Regarding the ownership of the cruise ship, the Cora Mae...” The executor paused for a muffled cough and darted a quick glance around. “I leave a one-half share to my nephew, Luke Marlow.”

The room was silent for the longest beat as though everyone was too shocked to move. Then a wave of murmuring washed over the small crowd.

Luke had inherited one half? As Della struggled to make sense of the phrase, her gaze flew to Luke. He sat very straight, very still.

One half meant...there was someone else. She could feel the sudden wariness of every crew member present—if their future had seemed uncertain five minutes ago, it was now even more unpredictable. She ran through Patrick’s stories of his family in her mind for possibilities, scanned the rigid bodies sitting in the front row. Although their tension was nothing compared to that emanating from Luke as he sat motionless, waiting, focused.

“The other one-half share,” the executor continued, “I leave to Dr. Della Walsh.”

What? Her heart skidded to a halt then leaped to life again, thumping hard in her chest, each beat a painful hammer in her ears. Oh, God.

Surely there was a mistake. She replayed the words in her head, looking for where she’d misunderstood, but found nothing. What had Patrick done?

People turned in their seats to face her, some with mouths open, others with confused frowns, a few whispering her name in incredulous voices.

Even through the bewilderment, the irony struck her—despite rushing and managing to arrive before the proceedings had begun, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, after all. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up, then died again when Luke pinned her with fierce gray eyes.

She leaned back against the chair, away from the force of his unspoken accusation. Abruptly, he stood and the crowd’s attention switched to him. Her skin went cold as he stalked down the aisle then stopped to loom over her.

“Dr. Walsh,” he said through a tight jaw. “A word in private, if you please.”

He held his hand out, plainly expecting her to rise and precede him out of the room. Her jellied joints felt unequal to the task but after a moment she managed to force herself to her feet. As she swiveled, she nearly stumbled. A firm warm grip encircled her elbow, steadying her, saving her from that ignominy.

She turned to thank him but her throat seized as she met the hard glitter in his eyes. Her stomach flipped. With all the grace she could muster, she allowed him to guide her out to the corridor.

Once the door to the boardroom had shut behind them, he looked from closed door to closed door. “An empty room where we can talk undisturbed?”

Willing her brain to work, she indicated the door on the left and he headed for it, still gripping her elbow. It was smaller than the room they’d come from, designed for meetings of no more than ten people, furnished with a rectangular table surrounded by chairs and one porthole.

As soon as the door clicked closed, Luke released her and his hands moved to his hips, suspicion and anger radiating from every inch of his six-foot-plus frame.

“Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice harsh and a sneer curling his top lip. “What exactly did you do for my uncle to earn yourself half a ship?”

It took a moment but then his meaning slammed into her. He thought she’d used her body, sold herself to manipulate sweet, lovely Patrick for financial gain. Rage charged through her veins, hot and wild. Before she’d even realized her intention, her hand was swinging toward him. His eyes widened. He began to turn away, but it was too late.

A crack echoed as flesh met flesh. The force of her slap jerked his head sideways. Heat and pain streaked across her palm, leaving the rest of her body icy cold, and the jolt shuddered all the way up her arm to her shoulder.

And then she froze. She’d struck another human being in anger. The violence felt ugly, alien...she felt alien. She looked down at her upturned palm. Warily her gaze crept up to Luke’s face, to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek and a wave of nausea cramped her stomach.

* * *

Luke swore under his breath. He’d never been slapped before. Now that he had, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. His cheek hurt like hell.

Della’s hand still hung in the air as if she didn’t know what to do with it now. Her face was blanched of color. Whatever else he may think of her, he could see the slap was out of character. Not that it mattered. What mattered more was that he’d lost his temper. If he were to succeed, control would be his friend. Control over himself, leading to control of the situation. No more angry outbursts—a cool head would win the day.

He spun away and strode over to the other end of the room, trying to find his bearings. He glanced up at a framed photo on the wall of the original Cora Mae proudly entering Sydney Harbour over fifty years ago. Patrick’s Cora Mae had been named after the ship in the photo, which had been Luke’s grandfather’s, and that ship had been named for Luke’s grandmother, Cora Mae Marlow. Now he was effectively sharing his heritage with a stranger...at least until he could rectify the situation. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders.

What had Patrick been thinking to put him in this position? He scraped both hands through his hair and blew out a breath.

“I have to know,” he said, still facing the photo of the Cora Mae. “When we met earlier and you stitched my hand. Were you aware then that Patrick was leaving you half the ship?”

He turned to face Della. She’d slipped into a chair, her head was bowed, her hands in her lap—her left hand held her right wrist as though she was afraid of what it might do next. Those were the long slender fingers that had stitched his wound with such dexterity, such tenderness. Who’d have thought they’d be capable of delivering such a stinging rebuke.

“No.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I had no idea.”

He surveyed her, curling his fingers around the top of the chair, feeling the padding give under his fingertips. She was the doctor who’d nursed Patrick through his final illness, when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Had she used that time to sway him? To garner a financial reward? Perhaps exerted subtle—or not so subtle—influence over a susceptible, sick man?

He released the chair, dug his uninjured hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “It’s a pretty big gift to be a surprise.”

“Patrick had said on more than one occasion that he was grateful I’d arranged for him to be cared for on the Cora Mae. The ship was his home and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Which was why he tried to hide his symptoms as long as he could.” Her eyes closed tight for a long moment, and when she opened them again, she focused on the ceiling. “He also said he’d leave me ‘a little something’ in his will.”

Luke let his silence ask the questions.