Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (7 page)

It was then that I heard Robbie’s voice in my ear.

“So how’s it going?”

I turned to face him, and in spite of myself, I felt my heart do a two-step.

“You all set for Formal Night tonight?” he asked.

Oh, rats. I’d forgotten all about that. I still hadn’t rented an outfit.

“Maybe afterward,” he was saying, “we can go—”

I never did hear where Robbie wanted to go, because just then Anton, ignoring the people who’d gathered to chat with him, came barging between us.

Before I knew it, he had me cornered, his bright orange face just inches from mine. I watched helplessly as Robbie shrugged in defeat and backed away.

“So, Jaine,” Anton said, “when am I going to get to do
your
bust?”

Some other lifetime, mister.

“Seriously, doll, I’d love for us to get better acquainted.” He smiled his version of a sexy smile, exposing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “How about we rendezvous at my cabin tonight and I’ll show you my instruments?”

Oh, wow. This guy was about as subtle as the bubonic plague.

“Sorry, Anton, I’m not interested.”

“C’mon, baby. All the ship’s employees fool around with each other. It’s a nautical tradition.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to carry on that proud tradition without me.”

“Whattsa matter? You married? No problemo. I am too. What happens on board stays on board.”

This said with a most nauseating leer.

“So how about it, sweetheart? You ready for a ride in my love machine?”

Oh, puh-leese. The only thing I was ready for was a barf bag.

“Sorry, Anton. Still not interested.”

“That’s okay, babe,” he said, eyeing me like a sirloin in a butcher’s case. “I like a challenge.”

On that ominous note, he slithered away.

Alone at last, I looked around for Robbie, but once more, he was gone with the wind.

Chapter 6

“O
migod. I look just like my grandmother.” I was standing in the ship’s Formal Wear rental shop, staring at my reflection in a three-way mirror. And I swear I was wearing the same outfit my grandmother wore to my cousin Joanie’s wedding: a long funereal black skirt, topped off with a matronly gold beaded twinset.

“Isn’t this a little on the dowdy side?” I asked the saleslady helping me.

She was a tall, regal dame with her hair pulled back in a bun so tight I was surprised it wasn’t coming out at the roots.

“You just need to accessorize it,” she said with a brittle smile.

With what? A walker?

“Don’t you have anything a little snazzier?”

“Not in your size, I’m afraid.”

Well, excuuuse me for not being a size two.

“How about this one?” She held out a blob of dreary black lace.

“Wasn’t Queen Victoria buried in something like this?”

“Very amusing.” But like Queen Vicky herself, she did not look the least bit amused.

I stared at the gold-and-black number I was wearing and sighed. It was Dowdy Central, but at least it was better than Queen Victoria’s shroud.

“So what’s it going to be?” the saleslady asked, more than a hint of impatience in her voice. “You going to take it?”

I took it, all right. And paid a hundred and twenty bucks for the privilege.

I trudged back to the cabin with my granny outfit, stopping off at the buffet to pick up some poached salmon for Prozac. (Okay, and some peanut butter cookies for me. After an afternoon with
Do Not Distub
, I deserved them.)

When I opened my cabin door, I found Prozac pacing restlessly.

“Hi, sweetheart!” I crooned. “Mommy brought you dinner!”

She shot me a dirty look.

It’s about time.

She practically knocked me over when I put her plate down, so eager was she to bury her pink nose in the stuff.

I was just about to hang my rented togs in my closet when I heard voices raised in Cookie’s cabin next door.

Now I realize someone of your high moral caliber would never do something as tacky as eavesdrop, but I had no such compunctions. In no time flat, I had my ear glued to the wall.

“Are you nuts,” I heard Cookie saying, “spending the day with the old lady like that? You know you’re not supposed to socialize with passengers off the dance floor. You could get fired.”

“Don’t worry, darling.” Graham’s velvety British accent was unmistakable. “They’ll never fire me. I’m very good at what I do.”

“A little too good, if you ask me,” Cookie huffed. “Why did you have to spend so much time with her, anyway?”

“Oh, sweetheart. She’s a lonely old lady looking for a little companionship.”

“Lonely? She’s traveling with her own posse.”

“Surely you’re not jealous? Besides, I told her all about us.”

“You did?” Cookie’s voice began to soften.

“Absolutely. In fact, she gave me the name of a wonderful jeweler in Los Angeles who’ll give us a good price on our wedding rings.”

“Wedding rings?” she gasped.

“Of course, darling. That’s what one usually buys when one gets married.”

I have to admit, I was a tad surprised. After the way Emily had been mooning over Graham, it was hard to picture her playing matchmaker for another woman.

“Oh, Gray!” Cookie’s voice was all melty now. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, you always change the subject when I bring up marriage. I was beginning to think—well, no matter. I was wrong. I’m sorry I made such a fuss about the old lady. It’s just that I hardly got to see you all day.”

“That’s why I’m here now, sweetheart,” he purred. “To make up for lost time.”

At which point, I heard the faint whine of bedsprings. Uh-oh. Looked like things were about to get X-rated. My cue to head off for the shower.

At home I like to soak away my cares in a strawberry-scented bathtub. No such luxury here on the Dungeon Deck. All I had was a shower the size of a phone booth. I spent the next ten minutes trying not to impale myself on the soap dish, all the while breathing in the heady aroma of Prozac’s litter box.

I dried myself off with a threadbare towel not much larger than a dishcloth, then slipped into my robe and undies. I took my time moisturizing and perfume-spritzing and blow-drying my hair.

But then I could avoid it no longer. The moment of truth had arrived.

I took a deep breath and put on my rented togs.

“What do you think, Pro?”

She sniffed at the hem of my skirt much like she sniffs our garbage back home. Not a good sign.

I forced myself to look in the mirror, and once more I saw my grandmother looking back at me. Oh, crud. What would Robbie think when he saw me looking like a poster girl for PoliGrip?

I was standing there wondering what the penalty was for showing up on Formal Night in a pair of sweats when I heard a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” I called out cautiously.

“It’s me. Cookie.”

I opened the door and saw her leaning against my doorjamb in a short satin nightie.

“Oh, Jaine,” she said, drifting into my cabin on a cloud of post-whoopie bliss. “I had to share the good news with you! Graham was just in my cabin.”

So I’d heard.

“And he asked me to marry him!”

“That’s wonderful! When’s the happy day?”

“We didn’t exactly set a date, but Graham said he knows a place where he can buy our wedding rings.”

She plopped down on my bed and sighed.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am. Before long, I’m going to be Mrs. Cookie Esposito Palmer III!”

I smiled weakly. Something told me Cookie might have been jumping the gun a wee bit. Just because Graham knew where to buy a wedding ring didn’t mean he was actually prepared to slip it on her finger. And I wasn’t sure I even bought that wedding ring story in the first place.

“Oh, dear.” Cookie had come down off her cloud and was now eyeing my sorry outfit. “You’ve been to the rental shop, haven’t you?”

I nodded miserably.

“I look awful.”

“Well, you won’t when I’m through with you. Wait here,” she said, dashing out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later she was back in my cabin with a professional make-up kit.

“I happen to be a whiz at this stuff,” she said, dabbing foundation on my face.

She did not lie. The woman was a regular make-up Michelangelo. When she was through with me, my eyes were bigger, my lips were fuller, and for the first time in my life, I had cheekbones.

“Now, for your hair.”

With what seemed like just a few spritzes of hairspray and some deftly placed hairpins, she wound my curls into a sexy Sarah Jessica Parker-ish updo.

“Wow,” I said, gazing at my reflection in the mirror. “This is such an improvement.”

“Wait a minute. I’m not through.”

With that she took a pair of dangly gold earrings from her pocket and put them in my ears.

The saleslady was right. Accessories did help. I didn’t look half bad. I bet if I squinted my eyes and stood about three cabins away from the mirror, I’d even look skinny.

“Oh, Cookie. You really are my guardian angel.”

“Don’t be silly, hon,” she said, wrapping me in a perfumed hug. “I’m sure you’d help me out if I was in a jam.”

What neither of us knew at the time, of course, was that a jam of monumental proportions was right around the corner.

Chapter 7

I
made my way across the dining room that night feeling pretty good about the new, improved me. My confidence was quickly shattered, however, by what I was about to see.

There, floating above the table next to mine, was a balloon reading,
Happy 100th Birthday, Ethel!
Sitting beneath the balloon was a frail old woman with pink cheeks and blue hair—Ethel, no doubt—wearing a button that said,
Kiss me. I’m 100!

And that’s not all she was wearing.

You guessed it. The exact same outfit as mine.

Yes, folks, I’d shown up dressed like a centenarian.

“Jaine, how lovely to see you,” Emily said, catching sight of me.

Once more, the others had arrived before me and were seated with their cocktails. All dressed in non-rented togs far more fashionable than mine. Emily wore a spectacular lace gown, set off by a string of magnificent pearls I sure hope she was insured for. Maggie had on a champagne-colored halter dress that, although not particularly flattering to her generous upper arms, undoubtedly sported a designer label. Even Ms. Nesbitt had pulled out the stops and was wearing a tailored beige silk dupioni suit.

Kyle and Robbie both wore tuxes. And Robbie, I couldn’t help but notice, was looking particularly spiffy, his green eyes startling against his tan, his sun-streaked hair still wet from a shower.

I smiled feebly and slipped into the vacant seat next to Emily, feeling about as stylish as the Volga boatman. I just prayed they hadn’t noticed my centenarian fashion twin.

No such luck.

“Oh, Jaine,” Ms. Nesbitt said, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “You’re wearing the same outfit as the hundred-year-old lady over there. Isn’t that cute!”

I felt like shoving a dinner roll in her big fat mouth.

But I did not do any roll-shoving, because at that moment Graham Palmer III came gliding up to our table, once more channeling Cary Grant. I tell you, the man was born to wear a tuxedo.

“Good evening, everyone,” he purred in a deep baritone.

“Guess what?” Emily’s face glowed with pleasure. “I’ve invited Graham to join us for dinner.”

Kyle looked up from his martini, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“But he’s not assigned to our table.”

“He is now, dear. That maitre d’ said there’d be no problem if Graham sat with us for the rest of the cruise.”

“The rest of the cruise?” Kyle washed down this news with a big gulp of his drink.

“I had him bring an extra chair to our table,” Emily said.

Indeed, for the first time I noticed an empty chair at the table, two spaces down from Emily. I’d been so wrapped up in my fashion crisis, it hadn’t registered before.

“Leona, dear,” Emily said to Ms. Nesbitt, “why don’t you take that chair, so Graham can sit next to me?”

Nesbitt blanched in disbelief, her face almost as white as her napkin.

“But I hate to trouble Ms. Nesbitt,” Graham said smoothly. “I can sit over there.”

“No!” Emily cried, like a child whose favorite toy has just been threatened. “I want you here next to me.”

Jaw clenched tight in anger, Nesbitt grabbed her drink and changed seats, fuming as Graham slid into her vacated spot.

And Nesbitt wasn’t the only one who was pissed. Kyle, clearly upset at having this interloper in our midst, polished off his martini and signaled the waiter for another.

Yes, indeedie, there was tension in the air.

And matters did not improve when the waiter returned to take our orders.

“Madame?” he asked, starting with Emily.

“The Steak Mexicana looks awfully good,” she said.

It sure did. According to the menu, it was “broiled to perfection and smothered in onions and roasted red peppers.”

“Good grief, Emily!” Ms. Nesbitt piped up, shaking her head. “You can’t have the Steak Mexicana. Much too spicy.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t.”

And then Graham did the unthinkable. He contradicted Ms. Nesbitt.

“Oh, go ahead, Em,” he said. “Get what you want.”

“Do you really think so, Gray?”

“The steak’s not that spicy, is it?” he asked the waiter.

“Not at all,” the waiter replied.

“And besides,” Graham said, with a wink, “you only live once.”

“Yes,” Emily said, clearly under his spell, “I think I’ll have the steak.”

Nesbitt seethed as Graham shot her a smug smile. Another victory for Graham in the Emily Wars.

The waiter proceeded to take the rest of our orders. Once again, due to my second-class citizenship, I was saddled with the chicken. But the others were under no such restraints, and I listened with envy as one after the other opted for red meat. Only Ms. Nesbitt held back, sticking with her ghastly vegetable plate.