The door had barely closed behind the man when Pawpaw lit into Marc.

“Where the hell have you been, boy?”

One hand on the wheel, Marc sipped his coffee and suppressed the urge to snap at his grandfather. “I got a late start this mornin’ is all. No reason to get your britches in a twist.”

“Late start?” Pawpaw stammered. “We’ve been tryin’ to track you down all night!”

That sounded bad. Marc’s stomach tightened, and he took his eyes off the river just long enough to face his granddaddy, whose typically tawny cheeks had darkened to the shade of a summer raspberry. “Why? What happened last night?”

Pawpaw laughed without humor. “What didn’t happen?”

“You going to tell me or not?”

“Where should I start?” asked the man, lowering his saggy bottom onto a folding chair and clearly enjoying Marc’s unease. “How ’bout with the theater show? One of the actors in the second performance broke a leg—literally. Poor bastard slipped on a Twinkie wrapper, of all things, and went down harder than a prize heifer.”

Cringing, Marc drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “He okay?”

Pawpaw lifted a shoulder. “Guess so. The EMT said it looked like a clean break.”

“The EMT?” As far as Marc knew, there were no medics on board. Just the staff nurse, who treated stomach bugs and the occasional scrape. “Where’d you dig up one of those?”

“I didn’t. We stopped around midnight.”

“Stopped the boat?” Marc damn near dropped his coffee. “You docked the Belle last night?” And I didn’t notice?

Pawpaw raised one bushy brow and leaned forward in his chair. “Twice.”

“And nobody bothered to tell me?”

“Not for lack of tryin’,” Pawpaw said, shaming Marc with a bitter glare. “You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

Marc set his coffee on the console and patted himself down, searching for his cell but coming up empty-handed.

“Lookin’ for this?” Pawpaw pulled the cell from his shirt pocket and handed it over. “Found it on the casino floor . . . in a patch of dried Coca-Cola.”

Avoiding his granddaddy’s eyes, Marc took the sticky device and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

“When I went to your suite,” Pawpaw continued, “you weren’t there. We tore the boat apart looking for you, ’specially the second time.”

Marc returned his gaze to the water, barely seeing a thing as guilt clawed a jagged trail into his skull. He was captain of the boat—directly responsible for the Belle and every soul aboard. How could he be so irresponsible as to go off the grid all night? And how was it possible they’d docked twice and he’d never noticed?

He knew the answer, just didn’t want to admit it. He hadn’t detected the stops because Allie’s bed was rocking, even when the boat wasn’t. Making love with her felt so incredible he probably wouldn’t have known if the boat were on fire.

Marc cleared his throat and refocused on the controls, slowing the throttle to bring the old girl down to six knots. Unfocused as he was right now, he probably shouldn’t be piloting at all. “What happened the second time?” he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Domestic dispute,” Pawpaw said, hooking his fingers in sarcastic air quotes. “That’s what the cops called it, anyhow.”

Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me the law was aboard my boat?”

“Naw,” Pawpaw said. “Beau stepped up and handled it. He carried the perp down the ramp and the officers stayed on the dock.”

“What’d the guy do?”

Pawpaw snorted in amusement. “Crotchety son of a bitch nearly took off my head with a wine bottle.”

“He attacked you?”

“Sure as I’m sittin’ here. His wife sent me one-a-them dirty text messages and he—”

Marc whipped his head around. “You were sexting with a guest?”

“Hey,” he said, pushing both palms forward, “I didn’t encourage her. I was just minding my own business when her old man came at me swingin’ a 1982 Merlot.”

“Oh, yeah?” Marc smelled bullshit. In his younger days, Pawpaw had made a reputation for himself as the bayou’s number-one backdoor man. “Then how’d she get your number?”

Pawpaw’s gaze dropped to the floor. “That ain’t the point.”

“God help us,” Marc muttered under his breath. “Sometimes I wonder how we’re still afloat.”

“It all worked out for the best,” Pawpaw said with a dismissive wave. “Once they left, I had the maids turn down the room so the folks from 116 could have it.”

Marc hated to ask. “What happened in 116?”

“Pipe burst in the head.” A low whistle puffed Pawpaw’s cheeks. “When the maintenance crew came, they found a dead opossum in the toilet.”

“Fan-damn-tastic.” Marc noted the sonar equipment was on the fritz, too. “That’s all we need—a critter invasion.”

“If it ain’t one thing, it’s another,” the old man mused.

No doubt. And it didn’t escape Marc’s notice that the figurative downpour had occurred precisely when he’d taken Allie Mauvais to bed. He tried telling himself it was a coincidence, but it felt like a lie.

The stakes seemed to escalate with each touch. An after-prom kiss had earned him a boxer-full of blisters. The first time he’d crossed Allie’s path since high school, half his cleaning crew had been deported and his pastry chef had contracted German measles. He’d given Allie an orgasm, and the bed next door had burst into flames. Now after a night of lovemaking, all hell had broken loose.

What would happen next?

Marc was afraid to think about it, because he wasn’t ready to stop seeing Allie. Not even close. He’d always known one night with her wouldn’t be enough, and sure as dawn, he’d be back in her arms tonight.

But regardless, he needed to keep his priorities straight. The Belle came first, not Allie . . . even if he did love making her come. In the end, she was just a woman, flesh and bone, and his time with her was fleeting. The Belle would be here long after Marc was gone, serving a new generation of Dumonts. He had to keep her thriving.

“So where were you last night?” Pawpaw asked. When Marc ignored the question and resumed sipping his coffee, the old guy scoffed and added, “Whoever she was, I hope she was worth it.”

Marc grinned above the rim of his Styrofoam cup.

She was.

* * *

He spent the rest of the day perched behind the wheel, staring out the front window at the mighty Mississippi but seeing Allie’s face reflected in each wave and shadow. Every wooden creak and groan of steel transported him back to last night when she’d moaned his name in a litany of pleasure. Even the warm jasmine breeze tormented him with reminders of her scent.

He hadn’t caught a glimpse of Allie all day, and yet there was no escaping her.

Touches of her presence were everywhere—in the abandoned gris-gris bag on a hallway table outside his suite; in the ramekin of crème brûlée on the lunch tray Worm had delivered to the pilothouse. Marc had never been a fan of that particular dessert, considered it nothing more than glorified pudding, but the buttery custard and crisp caramelized topping Allie had created were so delicious he’d sent Worm back to the galley to fetch seconds.

Whether in bed or in the kitchen, one taste of Allie’s sweetness was never enough.

Marc checked his watch, wondering what she was doing right now. The dinner shift had ended hours ago, so she was probably in her room getting ready to catch up on all the sleep he’d denied her last night. His mouth pulled into a frown. He wanted to see her, but he didn’t know what the proper protocol was for their “relationship.” He’d promised not to nail other women while he was sleeping with Allie, but that didn’t make them a couple. Or at least he didn’t think so. Allie wasn’t his girlfriend, was she?

Hell, he didn’t know. This was foreign to him.

He pulled his cell phone from the control panel and tapped a hasty text. What are you up to? Would love to see you later, then shook his head and inwardly chided himself. No, that sounded needy. Plus, he shouldn’t be putting any form of the L-word into Allie’s head. The last thing he needed was for her to get the wrong idea and assume their arrangement went any deeper than simple lust. He deleted the message and shoved his phone into his pocket, deciding to let her make the first move.

As long as she made a move soon.

About an hour later, when he’d resorted to pinching himself in order to stay awake, two quick knocks sounded from the pilothouse door, and the object of Marc’s obsession peeked her curly head inside, giving him a smile that made his heart leap into his throat while a swarm of moths took flight in his belly.

Lord help him, his brother was right. Marc was whipped like a rented mule.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to play it cool. “This is a nice surprise.”

Allie nudged her way inside and shut the door with her hip, then held up a steaming cup of coffee and a few cookies on a napkin. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I figured you could use some sustenance.”

“You read my mind.” Caffeine, sugar, and a heaping dose of Allie Mauvais were exactly what he needed. His mouth watered, partly from the scent of roasted coffee beans and chocolate chips and partly from the candied perfume clinging to her throat. “Thanks, hon.”

She handed him the offerings and pointed at the folding chair by the wall. “Want some company? I can stay for a while and help keep you awake.” The dirty thoughts collecting inside Marc’s head must have shown in his eyes, because she pushed forward both palms and clarified, “No hanky-panky while you’re at the wheel, Captain. All I’m offering is a little lively conversation.”