Island Heat

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It was Ben’s turn to stiffen in his seat, and she felt a surge of triumph. See how he liked it when the shoe was on the other foot.

“There was one girl in our year level who, through no fault of her own, had gained the reputation for being standoffish. They called her the Ice Queen, didn’t they, Ben?” Tory tilted her head to one side as though she were genuinely asking him to verify her memory of events.

He nodded minutely and avoided her eye. “I believe that was it.”

“Anyway, the guys started a book on who could be the first to get the Ice Queen to melt, if you know what I mean,” Tory explained.

David smirked, but Lt. Williams frowned.

“How charming,” she said. “I hope no one collected.”

“Unfortunately she was a little gullible. I understand she wasn’t very experienced with men, so when this one student turned on the charm, she was pretty much putty in his hands.”

“Let me guess—she found out about the bet, didn’t she?” the lieutenant asked, looking really angry now.

“Yes,” Tory said. “But not until afterward.”

There was a small pause as they all absorbed this.

“How humiliating,” the other woman said in sympathy.

“Yes,” Tory said again, more quietly this time as she remembered the stinging hurt she’d felt when she’d overheard Ben’s friends laughing at her and talking about the bet.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben shift in his chair and open his mouth as though he was about to defend himself. She waited for him to dare try it, but he obviously thought better of the impulse.

“Wow, and I thought the world of journalism was cutthroat,” David said.

The arrival of dessert distracted both of their dining companions for the next few minutes, and Tory smoothed her napkin in her lap and absolutely refused to look in Ben’s direction. She couldn’t believe he’d brought up their personal history like this in front of everybody. And she couldn’t quite believe that she’d taken a shot back at him, either. She wondered if anyone realized that they’d both been taking veiled jabs at each other beneath their apparently innocuous anecdotes. She’d tried very hard not to react to what he’d been saying, but she wasn’t certain she’d succeeded very well.

At last she risked a sideways glance at Ben. He was looking at her, she realized. They locked eyes for a split second, then broke contact simultaneously.

Concentrating on her dessert, Tory willed the evening to be over.

AFTER DESSERT, COFFEE and liqueurs were served, the captain invited his guests to move away from the formality of the table and take advantage of the couches and occasional chairs nearby. Ben heaved a silent sigh of relief as he at last moved beyond the range of Tory’s perfume.

He’d had worse dinners—but not many. The meal itself had been fine—parts of it excellent—but being trapped next to Tory for two hours had been a new and exquisite form of torture. Every time he’d let his guard down and his gaze wander, he’d found himself studying the swanlike line of her elegant neck or the golden curls teasing at her delicate ears. Several times during dinner he’d heard her low, melodious laugh as she’d talked with the woman on her right, and the hairs on his arms had stood on end.

Then there was the little game of tit for tat they’d played. He was still trying to come to terms with the hurt he’d heard in her voice when she’d talked about their date. And that damned stupid bet…

“More coffee, sir?” a waiter asked, and Ben shook off his preoccupation and held out his cup.

He’d never been the kind of person who dwelled on the past. Besides, she’d gotten her own back. More than gotten her own back, in his opinion.

Glancing up, he saw that Nikolas was crossing the room to join him.

“Captain,” Ben said with a half-assed attempt at a salute.

“Maître d’. Sorry, no, it’s something else, isn’t it?” Nikolas pretended to be confused. “Chef de something or other?”

“Close but no cigar,” Ben said drily.

Nikolas grinned, his teeth very white against his olive skin. “How did you rate Dominique’s efforts tonight?” he asked, his gray eyes intent.

He prided himself on setting a good table, Ben knew.

“Her sauces are excellent. The fish was very fresh and beautifully cooked.”

Nikolas made a low sound of agreement. Neither of them mentioned the slightly soggy berries in the dessert.

“And how are you finding working with Ms. Fournier?”

“Tory is also very good at what she does,” Ben said easily.

“Helena swears by her cookbook. She’s fallen in love with your spicy Caribbean food.”

“If Helena is interested in trying real island food, I’ll give her some local recipes to try,” Ben said.

Ever astute, Nikolas picked up on the reserve in Ben’s tone.

“You don’t like Ms. Fournier’s cookbook?” he asked with the quirk of a dark eyebrow.

“It’s fine. It’s just not authentic, that’s all.”

“What do you mean it’s not authentic?” an all-too-familiar voice demanded.

Ben turned to see Tory standing behind him, Helena at her side.

“I was bringing Tory over to meet you,” Helena said to her fiancée, obviously trying to smooth over the awkward moment.

But Tory wasn’t about to let his comment go. “Well? What’s not authentic about my book?” she asked again.

Her cheeks had flushed a becoming pink, the color flattering against her creamy skin.

“For starters, have you ever visited half the places you’ve written about?” Ben asked.

“No. Have you ever visited France?” she countered.

“No.”

“Yet I bet you dare to serve a bouillabaisse in your restaurant, right? And I bet there are a host of other recipes cherry-picked from half a dozen other countries around the world on your menu.”

He nodded. “That’s true.”

“I researched my book meticulously and I worked with dozens of expat islanders in New York. I may not have the same beach view you have from your restaurant, but I know what I’m talking about.”

“If I’m willing to concede that my bouillabaisse might not hold its own against a local offering in Marseille, will you concede that as a born-and-bred islander I might just have the edge on you?” Ben asked.

Her chin came up and her hand rested her hip. Despite how annoying he found her, a part of him couldn’t help admiring her chutzpah. Did this woman never admit defeat?

“Nope. I’d pit my jerk chicken against yours any day,” she said proudly.

“Sounds like a challenge.” Nikolas was clearly enjoying their sparring.

“Why not?” Tory said.

All eyes turned to Ben. He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’ll be like taking candy from a baby, but if that’s what the lady wants…” he said provocatively.

Tory didn’t rise to the bait. Instead she smiled a secretive, confident smile.

“Done.” She agreed. “My jerk chicken versus your jerk chicken. Time and place of your choosing. And when I win, I’ll expect a quote for the review pages of my next cookbook.”

That nearly made him choke. He’d rather eat her damned cookbook than endorse it. But she was hardly likely to beat him.

“Deal. And if I win…” He couldn’t think of what to say because the only idea that popped into his head was so inappropriate and never-going-to-happen that it made him want to shake his head to knock the thought loose from his mind. “If I win, you give me your father’s famous secret recipe for port wine glaze,” he finally said.

“Still haven’t worked it out, Ben?” she asked mockingly. “It’s very simple, really.”

Very aware of Helena and Nikolas watching their interplay like spectators at a tennis match, Ben stuck out his hand. “Are we agreed or not?”

Her hand was warm and firm as it slid into his. “Agreed.”

Helena cleared her throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Ben stared at her blankly and was aware of Tory doing the same.

“Such as?” he asked.

“Who is to decide the winner?” Nikolas asked.

“Oh,” Tory said.

“Of course, Nikolas and I might be available….” Helena hinted with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

“Perfect,” Ben said. “You two are the judges and your decision is final. We’ll use the cuisine center as a base. How does two day’s time sound, after we’ve departed Grenada?”

Tory lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “If you need two days to get your act together, by all means,” she drawled.

Ben looked down at her, at the flush in her cheeks and the challenge in her blue, blue eyes.

“It’s a date,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

TORY TURNED HER FACE into the cool sea breeze and stared up at the navy-blue sky. Why was it that the stars seemed to sparkle so much more brightly out at sea? She told herself there was probably some incredibly rational scientific explanation, like the fact that there was less ambient light from city streetlights to distract the eye, for example. Not quite as romantic and magical an explanation as a woman might hope for but probably more accurate than putting the spectacular sky show down to there being tropical magic in the air.

Of its own accord, her hand found the silver teardrop pendant hanging from her neck. The precious metal was warm from her skin, and she peered down at it wryly. Perhaps this whole true-love-legend thing was starting to rub off on her after all.

Dinner had been a trial. There was no other word for it. Being forced to sit next to Ben all night, rubbing shoulders with him occasionally, inhaling his crisp aftershave…She’d felt on edge and on her guard through the whole meal. Both before and after his childish attempt to make her squirm.

She dropped the pendant as she forced herself to acknowledge that she’d gotten her own back, which probably made her just as childish as him. She frowned at the inky sea. She really should try to rise above it, tell herself that nothing he did or said mattered.

Turning away from the railing, she reluctantly decided that it was time to turn in for the evening. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, she started back along the deck, looking for the entrance that would lead her to the elevator bank. Her steps slowed, then halted altogether when she spotted the newspaper folded neatly on one of the sun lounges lining the deck. It had been discarded inside out so that the photograph that had so intrigued her last night was staring straight up at her. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but she couldn’t just ignore it and walk past. She hesitated, then reached for the paper, lifting it to stare into the little boy’s eyes again. Just as she had last night, she felt a resonating sense of recognition. She knew this boy. She recognized the soul staring out at her from those clear blue eyes.

Her fingers tightened around the paper. Last night she’d told herself she was crazy to even contemplate the idea that this might be her brother’s lost son, but tonight she acknowledged that she’d never stopped thinking about this photograph since the moment she’d seen it. Even when she’d been sparring and sniping with Ben today, a part of her mind had been dwelling on this little boy’s face.

Just like that, she made her decision. It might be crazy, it might be a sign that she had more issues around her brother’s death than she’d yet acknowledged, but she was going to pursue this. She was going to do everything in her power to find this little boy and verify for herself that he was not her brother’s son.

Folding the paper more carefully, she turned to head back to her cabin only to almost walk straight into Ben. They both froze, then took a step backward as though being within touching distance might give them cooties or something. He’d taken off his tie and loosened his collar, she noted, and his hair was wind-rumpled. She didn’t need to see the thin line of his lips to know that he was as unthrilled to see her as she was to see him. The air practically vibrated with their mutual antipathy.

“Enjoying the ocean breeze?” he asked after the silence had stretched a little too long.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are we making small talk with one another now?”