Countering His Claim

He strode from the carpeted staircase to the living room bar and found it well stocked with spirits, wines and soft drinks. All contingencies covered. He knew little about Dr. Della other than that she lived on a ship and had medical training, but at least he’d be able to cater for whatever drinks she preferred.

As he was reaching for a bottle of white wine, there was a knock at the door. Bottle in hand, he crossed the room and drew the door open. His breath caught deep in his throat. She wore a simple floral summer dress and heeled sandals that accentuated her shapely calves. Her loose hair shone in the hall lights, and his hand twitched, wanting to reach out and wrap one curl around his fingers.

Della smiled, but her eyes remained wary, as if still considering the wisdom of this meeting.

He cleared his throat and opened the door farther to allow her to pass. “I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, but didn’t enter.

Placing a hand under her elbow, he gently guided her over the threshold. “Come in.” When she took two small steps into the room, he closed the door and held up the bottle still in his hand. “Would you like red, white or champagne?”

She swallowed, her posture watchful and guarded. She was obviously deciding whether this meeting would be strictly business or whether she’d concede to a certain level of social nicety. He held her gaze, not pushing, not giving her the easy escape, either.

She nodded once, decision made. “White, please.”

A spark of satisfaction zinged through his system—she was going to play nice. It would allow him more opportunity to resolve the situation just between themselves, without getting courts and lawyers involved.

He poured them both a glass of sauvignon blanc and showed her to an armchair. “Are you hungry?”

“I only had a light lunch, so yes, I am,” she said.

He offered her the in-suite dining menu. “Since you’re hungry, we should order now.”

Della took the spiral-bound booklet but didn’t open it. He realized she lived here—she probably knew the options by heart.

He leaned back on the couch and laid an arm along the top. “What would you suggest?”

“Depends what you like. Everything is delicious so you can’t make a bad choice.” She shrugged a shoulder then sat, still and watchful. He saw a way to create some trust that could move them past her guardedness and help the negotiations that would begin soon.

He closed his menu. “Why don’t you order for both of us?”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, assessing the sincerity of his suggestion. “How do you feel about Italian?”

“I could be tempted.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“Please.” He reached for the handset on the table behind the lounge and passed it to her.

She dialed, then lifted her gaze to him. “Hi, Angie, it’s Della. Is Edoardo on tonight?” She smiled. “Can you ask him if he has enough of his eggplant parmigiana to send two servings up to Luke Marlow in the starboard owner’s suite?” There was a pause. “Excellent,” she said and disconnected.

He took the phone from her outstretched hand. “Am I right in assuming you’ve ordered us something that’s not on the menu?”

“You would be right.” She inclined her head, acknowledging his guess. “Edoardo used to occasionally make this dish for himself, then as people started tasting it, they’d put in a request for some the next night and it grew into a bit of a legend. Now he comes in early for his shift and makes a dish for any of the staff who want some. So he usually has a few plates’ worth of it at the back of the kitchen.”

There was a bigger story here—a piece of the Della Walsh puzzle. He gave her an unhurried appraisal. “You have three hundred and thirty staff members aboard the Cora Mae. He makes enough for them all?”

She shrugged. “Many work over the dinner shift, either in food service or entertainment, and on their break they eat at the staff canteen.”

“There would still be a lot of staff off duty,” he said.

As her lashes swept down then up, she reminded him of the movie stars of the sixties—beautiful, sophisticated and unattainable. One step removed from her surroundings, as if watching the world—him—from behind an impenetrable facade.

“Not all staff know about the secret parmigiana, do they?”

“We have a large amount of casual workers. They come on for a year to see the world, and then they leave to settle down somewhere.”

“Not you.” He took another sip of his wine and watched her over the rim.

“I live here,” she said simply. “As do a core group of employees.”

The people who’d formed the protective circle around Della after the will reading. The people who seemed to constantly stop to congratulate her on her windfall. “The parmigiana crowd.”

“If you like.”

He placed his empty glass on the coffee table and sat back. “Don’t you think you’ll want to leave to settle down on land at some point? Marry?”

“I won’t marry,” she said with certainty.

There was more to that, but he could see by the set of her chin she wouldn’t share. Not that he blamed her for that attitude—his marriage to Jillian had been the worst mistake he’d ever made.

He changed tack, still trying to build some rapport so she wouldn’t be so resistant to him and would finally agree to sell her share of the ship. “Tell me about the Cora Mae.”

Her eyes warmed. “She’s a beautiful ship, a floating piece of heaven. A sanctuary.” The last word was a murmur, as though it slipped out as an involuntary afterthought. She cleared her throat and continued. “The architecture of the shopping deck alone was a huge design task and won several awards.”

Luke listened with half an ear as Della continued to espouse the merits of the ship, but one word replayed in his mind. Sanctuary. Why would Dr. Della Walsh— attractive, intelligent, well-educated—need a safe haven? She should have the world at her feet.

Perhaps it had something to do with that guarded expression he’d seen a few times, the one hiding an old hurt.

He caught himself, annoyed. What was he doing wondering about the private thoughts of this woman? That was a completely different matter to building rapport. He blew out a breath then met her gaze. Time to finish this charade.

“Dr. Walsh, what will it take for you to sell me all or part of your share of the ship?”

Four (#ulink_49d9935d-4379-51f5-937e-6bdd8ef0b20f)

Della cast a quick glance around Luke’s suite—one small microcosm of the ship she loved, its gold-and-maroon furnishings, the rich wood and curved walls. What would it take for her to sell her share of Patrick’s ship?

“It’s not that simple,” she said, shifting in her seat. “If I’d known Patrick was leaving me half the Cora Mae, naturally I would have told him not to. And in that conversation, he would have been able to explain why he was doing it. But I never had the chance to discuss it with him, so I’m not privy to his reasoning. And make no mistake, his reasoning faculties were sound till the end. How can I give it up if I don’t know why I have it in the first place?”