Make You Mine (5 page)

The worst part? When he’d left to circulate through the dining room, she’d snuck a bite of his glazed chicken. It tasted so good she wanted to cry. And she didn’t cry easily. She’d learned to grow thick skin as a little girl.

What had this horrible man done to deserve such superior talent? Maybe she should have let him choke on that almond. Allie sighed and propped her elbows on the railing. Who was she kidding? She wouldn’t have done anything differently. She couldn’t stand to see anyone suffer, not even Phil Regale.

The outside door squeaked on its hinges and footsteps sounded on the wooden deck in long, sure strides approaching from behind. Soon the scents of soap and bold aftershave reached Allie on the breeze. She didn’t have to turn around to know Marc had joined her, but she did all the same. Scrumptious as he was, why waste a moment in his company not looking at him?

She rotated her tired body and leaned back against the iron rail, tucking both hands in her pockets. The Louisiana moon illuminated one side of Marc’s gorgeous face, casting a shadow beneath his lips and deepening the cleft in his chin. He rubbed a hand across his jaw while his dark eyes moved over her in a way that made Allie’s pulse quicken.

Each of her ten fingertips begged to skim the contours of Marc’s cheeks and tangle in his hair, but she shoved them deeper into her pockets and told them no. It was too soon—Marc wasn’t ready.

“Nice night,” she mused, tossing a glance over her shoulder at the leafy canopy of willows lining the riverbank.

“Mmm,” he agreed, never taking his dark eyes off her. “Bet it was a long day, though. I know how hard Regale is on his staff.” It wasn’t a question, but he raised a brow as if expecting an answer.

Allie shrugged and told a teensy lie. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Marc chuckled low and deep, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness. He propped an elbow beside her, settling so near that his dinner jacket brushed her bare arm and prickled her skin into goose bumps. “You sound like my sister.”

Allie resisted the urge to lean into him. Marc would spook easily; she had to play it careful with him. “I like Ella-Claire. She’s good people.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agreed. “Way too good to have a jackass like me for a brother.”

She slanted him a look from the corner of one eye. “That’s not true.”

“Aw, now, Allie-Cat,” he murmured with a wicked grin that made her go all gooey inside. “You know I’m not an angel.” The wind kicked up, tossing her curls into the air, and Marc captured one lock between his fingers. He smoothed it against his thumb for a moment before tucking it behind her ear.

Allie swallowed hard. She told her feet to stay put, but that didn’t stop her face from inching toward his. “Neither am I.”

Marc’s gaze dipped to her mouth and held there. “No, I imagine you’re not, sugar.” He licked his lips, and just when Allie thought he might kiss her, he gave a regretful shake of his head and pulled back. “But you’ve been awful sweet around here,” he said. “And I mean to thank you for that.”

Allie stuffed down her disappointment and reminded herself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. With a warm smile, she bumped his shoulder with hers. “Just doing my job, baby.”

He returned her smile and ruffled her hair playfully. “Well, keep doing it. You saved my ass in there with the Gibsons.”

“Aren’t they adorable?” Allie brought a hand to her breast. The bride had come to the Sweet Spot over a year ago, looking for half a dozen cupcakes and a love charm. Well, mostly the latter. But the girl hadn’t needed magic, just the courage to date the men she wanted instead of the trust-fund boys her mama had always pushed on her.

“Adorable,” Marc said in a tone that implied the opposite. “I wonder if they take out their tongue rings before they get down and dirty.”

Allie delivered a well-deserved elbow to Marc’s ribs. “I imagine they leave them in, hon. When it comes to licking, tongue studs offer certain”—she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear—“
benefits
.”

Marc drew a sharp breath while his pulse pumped visibly at the base of his throat. His reaction told Allie he enjoyed her mouth at his ear just as much as she enjoyed pressing it there.

Good. She decided to leave him wanting more.

“I’d better go,” she said, pushing off the rail. “Early to bed, early to rise. I want to beat Chef to the galley in the morning.” Which meant waking up hours before dawn, but it would be worth it if she could bake her breakfast pastries in peace.

Marc didn’t seem to like that. His forehead wrinkled and he held out a hand, catching her wrist to stop her, then releasing her just as quickly as if she’d burned him with her touch.

“Listen,” he said. “I know Regale’s kind of a tyrant, but if he’s giving you any trouble beyond the usual assholery, I want you to come see me. Okay?”

Allie gave him a small grin, touched by his concern. No, she wouldn’t bring those problems to Marc. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the promise of Phil’s mouthwatering cuisine had packed the
Belle
for the next two weeks, and Allie wouldn’t put Marc in the position of having to discipline his most crucial staffer. Or worse, create so much resentment that Phil issued an ultimatum and forced Marc to let her go.

She’d find a way to handle Chef Boyardouche on her own.

“You got it.” Allie threw him one last inviting smile and turned toward the door. As she walked away, she felt the heat of Marc’s gaze on her body, so just for fun, she dropped her hair elastic and bent over—extra-slow—to retrieve it. When she stood, she heard a faint whisper in the background that sounded like “Mercy.”

With a spring in her step and hope in her heart, Allie made her way upstairs to her suite—the unluckiest room on the boat—confident that tomorrow would be a better day.

Allie pressed her lips together to choke back a yawn while she threw more weight behind her rolling pin, eager to finish this last batch of apple turnovers before the sun rose and Regale stormed the galley to reclaim his throne. The oven timer beeped, and Allie set aside her wooden roller in favor of a latex oven mitt. She pulled out a tray of golden brown pastries and set them on the metal racks to cool, then hurried back to her dough to cut strips, add cinnamon apple filling, and fold the turnovers on a clean baking sheet.

She darted a glance at the clock and brushed a glaze over the dough. Not only did she want to avoid working alongside Regale, but a secret part of her needed to prove she wasn’t an “unqualified, hot piece of ass from the swamp.” Maybe she’d never win Chef’s respect, but if he saw how dedicated she was, he might quit threatening to replace her once they reached Natchez.

Twenty minutes later, Allie leaned against the stainless steel countertop and inhaled the delectable scents of apples and spice while admiring the fruits of her labor, no pun intended. This recipe was one of her most popular, with extra sugar and a squeeze of lemon. The four predawn hours she’d spent rolling and mixing and dicing would be worth it when she saw the looks of rapture on the passengers’ faces.

And maybe Chef’s, too. A girl could hope.

The kitchen staff began filing in, pulling waffle mix from the storage closet and chopping onions and peppers for the omelets. They greeted one another in cheery
good morning
s but brushed past “the captain’s squeeze” as if she weren’t there. Allie ignored the slight, arranging her pastries on serving trays until Ella-Claire strode into the galley with a clipboard and a smile.

“Smells amazing,” Ella said, peering around Allie at the turnovers. “Can I steal one?”

Allie used a napkin to lift a still-warm pastry from the tray and hand it over. Ella was the only crew member aboard the
Belle
who didn’t hate, fear, or want to seduce Allie, so she deserved the first bite.

“Mmm, thanks.” Ella took the offering while lifting her clipboard for show. “Alex forgot to get your signature on these tax forms. As soon as you give me your autograph, I’ll add you to the payroll.”

“Won’t the agency be paying me?” Allie asked.

“They didn’t have you in their system.” Ella shrugged. “Works out better for us anyway because now we get to hire you free and clear.”

“Sounds good.” Allie took the clipboard and scrawled her signature on the pages, then handed it back just as Ella sank her teeth into the first bite.

Ella’s mouth curved in a preemptive smile. “Oh, Allie, this is so—” She cut off, eyes widening. Her expression of rapture transformed to disgust, and she snatched a clean napkin from the counter to spit her bite into it.

“What’s wrong?” Allie asked. “Is it too hot?”

Ella’s eyes watered as she spat two more times into the napkin to clear her mouth. “I think there’s something wrong with this one,” she croaked, handing it back.

Confused, Allie pinched off a corner of the turnover and popped it into her mouth. At first, the pastry seemed fine—light and flaky. But when the apple filling crossed her tongue, it tasted like a mouthful of ocean water, bitter and briny. Allie nearly gagged. She grabbed a napkin of her own and disposed of her bite. “Oh, God. That’s awful!”

“It’s so . . .” Ella began.

“Salty,” Allie finished.

What had she done wrong? In her sleep-deprived state, had she incorrectly measured her ingredients? No, that couldn’t be right. She’d made this recipe so many times she could do it in a coma. She lifted the steel bowl from its industrial-sized mixer and peered at the remnants of apple filling smeared on the inside. After running her finger along the rim, she brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean.

It was horrible.

Allie returned to her workstation to inspect the ingredients she’d used. One by one, she sampled the flour, cornstarch, and apples, finding them satisfactory. When she dipped the tip of a clean spoon into the sugar bin and brought it to her mouth, she found the problem. It was salt. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed.

She rotated the plastic container until she found its label:
Granulated Sugar
. Allie knew for a fact there was real sugar in this cylinder yesterday when she’d made berry cobbler and chocolate-chunk cookies, because she’d sampled the finished products. That meant someone had sabotaged her workstation last night after she’d left—and ruined every single one of the turnovers she’d spent the last four hours preparing.

Who would do something so malicious?

“Look alive, people,” Chef yelled, loudly clapping his hands as he strode into the room. When his gaze fell on Allie, a slow grin curled across his lips, telling her exactly who would do something so malicious. Looking right at her, he shouted, “Someone tell the captain’s pretty little squeeze to get her breakfast pastries on the serving line. We’ve got early birds out there.”

The staff shared uneasy glances, unwilling to pass along the message. Finally, a teenage boy asked Allie, “You want me to take them out?”

That’s just what Chef wanted—for her to serve the guests contaminated food and ruin her reputation, and thus her career. What a coldhearted
cochon
. Allie’s whole body scorched with fever, sending heat rushing into her face. She tried to steady her pulse, but her heart pounded so fiercely she felt it in her fingertips. The tingly burn of tears pressed her eyelids, but she forced them back.

She would bathe in acid before she’d let Chef see her cry.

“No,” she said, glaring at Regale to let him know he hadn’t won. Her own voice sounded foreign to her ears, eerie in its smoothness. “I changed my mind. I’m making coffee cake instead.”

“Uh . . . Allie,” Ella-Claire stammered, tossing aside her clipboard with a loud
clang
. “Let me help you.”

“That’s not your job.” Allie had a small staff to assist her with the baking, and by God, they were going to back her up. “The pastry team will—”

“Be helping me,” Regale finished. “I need all hands to run the omelet and Belgian waffle stations. Why don’t you serve your pastries, sweetheart?” he asked with a sneer. “Something wrong?”

That did it.

Allie’s tenuous hold on her temper snapped in half like a brittle lace cookie. Her vision went black for a moment, and when it returned, all she could see was Regale’s smug smile and the hulking, bearlike set of his folded arms. She went deaf to everything but the rush of blood in her ears while an electric charge buzzed over her skin. Someone must have turned on the kitchen fan, because her hair blew behind her in waves that tickled the back of her neck. She felt her body trembling.

To calm herself, Allie closed her eyes and recited the Creole serenity prayer her mama had taught her. She chanted the words of peace, feeling her blood pressure drift down a few notches, and by the second verse she felt composed enough to open her eyes.

That’s when she noticed the whole staff was staring at her in openmouthed horror.

Allie flashed a tight smile to defuse the tension in the room. “I’d better get to work on that coffee cake.”

Ella’s typically tanned cheeks had turned pale. She pointed at the teenage boy who’d offered to haul the turnovers into the dining room. “What’s your name?”

The boy couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Allie’s face. “Uh, Bobby, ma’am.”

“Okay,” Ella said in a voice a few decibels too loud. “Bobby, you assist Miss Mauvais with breakfast.” When Chef geared up to complain, Ella cut him off with a lifted palm. “If you can’t manage without him, I’ll pitch in.” Then she cocked an eyebrow, daring him to admit that he needed the head purser to assist him in making waffles.

Regale’s mouth tightened, but he recovered quickly. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll make do. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” He swept one hand toward the door, basically telling Ella to get out.

Ella-Claire grabbed her clipboard and stalked from the galley with her head held high. She really
was
good people.

“Let’s get to it,” Allie said. She started by dumping over one hundred beautiful, flawlessly baked apple turnovers into the garbage.

That really hurt.

During the next hour, she and Bobby worked in a frenzy to mix, assemble, and bake three shallow pans of crumb cake. All the while Chef barked orders to
her
staff and resumed bullying her with comments like, “Tell the captain’s voodoo squeeze that magic won’t turn off her goddamned oven timer!”

Allie punched the
END
button, silencing the timer as she pulled her last pan of cake from the oven. She had to finish up and get out of here. A steady pressure had been building inside her head all morning, and she knew she couldn’t hold it together much longer.

Once the pans cooled, she helped Bobby carry them out to the breakfast buffet, then thanked him for his hard work and dismissed him for a break. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone inside the dining room. In strides a bit too quick, she made for the stairwell and took the steps two at a time to her room on the third floor.

After unlocking her door with trembling fingers, she stripped down naked, right there in the entryway, and stepped over her pile of clothes into the bathroom to run a hot shower. Safely behind the barriers of two locked doors and a plastic curtain, Allie hung her head beneath the steaming jets and finally let herself cry.

•   •   •

“You need to find her, Marc.” Ella-Claire’s big blue eyes grew impossibly wider as she slapped the purser’s desk and leaned forward. “This is a full-on SOS.”

“Now, calm down,” Marc told her. “Chef’s fine. I saw him ten minutes ago. And I’m sure Allie’s fine, too. She probably needed some space.”

Ella shook her head, setting her ponytail in motion. “You don’t get it—you weren’t there. Regale kept pushing and pushing, and then it was like someone flipped a switch. The lights flickered and wind came out of nowhere. Allie kind of blanked out and she started chanting a spell or—”

“Wait,” Marc interrupted, his stomach dropping an inch. “What kind of spell?”

Ella bit her lip and admitted, “Well, I don’t know. She wasn’t speaking English.”

Marc released the breath he’d been holding. Allie could have been reciting her grocery list for all they knew. He’d had his doubts before, but lately he’d glimpsed a brand-new side of Allie—compassionate and kind. He refused to believe she’d cause anyone harm. Even to Chef, who clearly deserved it.

“Look, I never believed in
all that
,” Ella argued, “and I know Allie wouldn’t hurt a soul, but the whole thing gave me chills.” Ella lifted her forearm, where a dusting of translucent hairs stood on end. “I’m getting chills now just thinking about it.”

Alex glanced up from his paperwork. “Allie made Chef choke on a nut yesterday.” At Marc’s dubious glare, Alex clarified, “She used the Heimlich on him, but still. He almost died.”

“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” Marc began. “You dragged me away from the pilothouse so I could track down our pastry chef and make sure she hasn’t cursed the boat?” Marc expected this kind of idiocy from Pawpaw—maybe even from himself at one time—but not from his sister. Perhaps the Dumont crazy had started rubbing off on her.

“Oh, I don’t think she cursed the boat,” Ella said with a flap of her hand. “Just Phil.”

“And we need him,” Alex added. “So see if you can get her to undo it.”

“Uh-huh.” Undo it. Lord, it was too early for this mess. Marc heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go check on her.”

“Nicky saw her take the stairs,” Alex said. “So she’s probably in her suite.”

All alone with Allie Mauvais in her suite . . .

The idea should have scared Marc, but it put a small bounce in his heels as he crossed the lobby to the main staircase. He was still springing when he knocked on her door, but the instant she answered, that buoyancy deflated faster than a leaky tire.

She looked like a drowned rat.

Her soaking-wet curls hung low and heavy, the locks dripping onto the lapels of her fluffy white guest robe. The oversized garment covered her from fingertips to ankles, dwarfing her body beneath yards of terry cloth. Mascara ran down her face in muddy streams as if she hadn’t bothered to wipe away her tears.

Oddly enough, the effect was freaking adorable, but he still felt terrible for her.

“Aw, sugar,” Marc said with a sympathetic tilt of his head. “That bad?”

“Don’t!” She held up an index finger. “Don’t do that! I’m a professional, not some hot piece of ass from th-th-th-th”—she gulped a hitched breath—“the swamp!”

Marc wanted to tell her the two weren’t mutually exclusive, but it seemed like the wrong thing to say. “Of course you’re a professional.” He nudged his way inside and shut the door behind him, then kicked aside a pile of dirty clothes. “Honey, I tasted your coffee cake. It was so good, I had to take a cold shower when I was done.”

That earned a weak smile. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the foot of the bed. She plopped down, and when he lowered himself beside her, she leaned her soggy head on his shoulder. Marc didn’t mind. He wanted to make her feel better, and besides, she smelled like warm vanilla sugar.

“Who told you?” Allie asked.

“Ella-Claire. She’s worried you hexed the chef.”

She sat up and faced him, her red-rimmed eyes softening in hurt. “Really?”

The look on her face sent an unexpected shock of pain through Marc, especially when he realized he’d contributed to the problem. Until now, he’d never put himself in Allie’s shoes, never imagined how she might feel each time he crossed to the other side of the street when she walked by. He’d been an idiot to assume Allie was some unshakable force of nature. She bled like everyone else. How had he never seen it before?

“I’m sorry, hon,” he said, pulling her close again. “Ella didn’t mean anything by it.”

Allie got quiet for a while, punctuating the silence with an occasional sniffle. When she finally spoke again, her voice sounded so small it tugged a knot in Marc’s chest. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “That I curse people?”