Time to quit standing around.

He jogged up the bow ramp onto the main deck, then took the stairs to the second-floor dining room, where they’d always held their staff meetings. It was no coincidence that the executive bar—and all the top-shelf liquor on board—was located in that room. A couple fingers of Crown Royal Reserve made working with family a whole lot easier.

Marc tugged open the door, relieved to find the air conditioner running again. Nothing put a damper on a cruise like the reek of three hundred sweaty vacationers. He noticed the ancient red-and-gold-patterned carpeting had been steam cleaned. He hated that carpet. It had always reminded him of the creepy-ass hotel in The Shining. Maybe next season he’d have the cash to replace it.

All the tables were bare, chairs were stacked along the wall, and clear plastic bags of white linens from the dry cleaner had been tossed in the corner. Marc crossed to the far end of the room, where three heads were huddled in conversation—two blond, one gray. At the sound of his footsteps, Nick and Alex glanced over their shoulders and gave him a wave.

“Cap’n,” Nick said with a mock salute, then took a deep pull from his Heineken.

“Cap,” Alex parroted.

Most folks would never believe Marc was related to the towheads. He had Pawpaw’s tawny complexion, while Alex and Nick had inherited their mama’s Swedish coloring: blue eyes, fair hair, and skin that had to burn a few times before it tanned. Of Daddy’s brood, these two were the only ones who shared the same mother, but that’s because they were twins. Identical—right down to the matching cowlicks that swirled the hair above their left brows.

Marc had resented his baby brothers when Daddy had left his mama for theirs, until the same thing had happened to them a few years later. It was then, at the tender age of seven, that he’d learned to quit blaming his siblings for the sins of their father.

“Papa was a rolling stone,” all right. But no matter which woman he shacked up with, he’d always made time for all five of his sons . . . if working them to death aboard the Belle counted as quality time.

Marc took a seat at the head of the table, and Pawpaw pushed a tumbler of amber-colored liquid toward him. Breaking out the hard stuff already? That wasn’t a good sign.

“Drink up, boy,” Pawpaw said. “You’re gonna need it.”

Marc ground his teeth and glared at his brothers. The last time Pawpaw said those words, Nick had seduced the state inspector’s daughter and nearly cost the Belle her license.

“What’d you do?” he asked them. “Or should I say who?”

The two shared a quick glance before simultaneously admitting, “The jazz singer.”

“Both of you?”

Alex held his palms forward. “She came on to me in the ballroom and practically ripped my pants off. How was I supposed to know she thought I was Nicky?” He elbowed his twin. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing her.”

“Well, ‘seeing’ is a strong word,” Nick argued. “It wasn’t as serious as all that.”

“Mother of God.” And Marc thought he got around. Fresh out of college and still in frat mode, these two made him look like an altar boy. “I assume she quit,” he said.

“Yep,” Pawpaw answered. “Called in this mornin’. But jazz singers are more common than mosquitoes in July round here. That’s not why you need the sauce.”

Marc brought the tumbler to his lips and belted it back, savoring the smooth, smoky burn of aged whiskey. He cleared his throat and clunked the crystal onto the table. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s have it.”

“Well, for starters,” Pawpaw began, scratching his turkey neck, “someone double-booked the honeymoon suite. Now the head’s busted in there, so neither of them can use it.”

That wasn’t so bad. “Call Herzinger Plumbing. He’s expensive, but he’s quick. Give the room to whoever booked it first, and offer the second couple the state suite. Then comp all their off-board excursions and give them a free bottle of champagne.”

“There’s more,” Alex said from the other side of the table. “Lutz found an issue with the train linkage, and he says he doesn’t like the look of the throttle valve.”

“Shit.” Now that was a problem. The city wasn’t exactly overflowing with steam engine mechanics, or spare parts for an antiquated machine designed in another century. “Can he get it fixed in time?”

Alex shrugged. “Probably, if you make it worth his while. You know how it goes.”

“Yeah, I know,” Marc grumbled. “Offer a twenty percent bonus for his crew if they get it done by next week.”

“And the Gaming Control Board called,” Nick added. “They’re auditing last year’s income statements, and they said there’re a couple pages missing from the general ledger.”

“That’s no biggie.” Marc’s sister could handle that. “I’ll have Ella-Claire fax them over.”

“Yeah, but the Mississippi permit still hasn’t come through for the Texas Hold’em tournament.”

“Son of a bitch.” Marc was going to need another shot.

Licensing was an unholy nightmare when Belle crossed state lines, but nothing aboard the boat drew as much income as the casino. Nothing. And tournaments doubled their cash flow, because the participants tended to gamble damn-near around the clock. He’d bent over backward to book that event. Without those earnings, they were screwed like—well, like the jazz singer they no longer had.

Marc pointed to Nick and said, “This takes priority over everything. Drive up there yourself and make sure we get that permit. Turn on the charm—do whatever it takes. We won’t cast off without it.”

“Want me to go now?”

Marc nodded at the door. “I wanted you there five minutes ago.”

“It’s just . . .” Nick hesitated. “There’s more.”

Marc slid his tumbler to Pawpaw for another pour. “What is it?”

“Daddy called,” Nick said.

“And?”

“He wants you to bring on Worm. Said to start him off busing tables.”

“And who’s going to look after him?” Their little brother wasn’t a bad kid, but fourteen-year-old boys had a way of gravitating toward trouble, and Worm was no exception.

Instead of answering, Nick tipped back his beer.

“Let me guess,” Marc said, accepting another shot from Pawpaw. “He expects us to do it for him.”

“The boy’ll be fine,” Pawpaw promised. “Just like when y’all were that age. Family takes care of their own.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one responsible for keeping Belle afloat—both literally and figuratively. Still, it could’ve been worse. At least Daddy hadn’t asked him to hire Beau. To say there was bad blood between Marc and his older brother was like calling Mount Fuji an anthill.

Marc tossed back his whiskey and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Fine, but we need to keep him busy. I want that boy so worn out, he falls down dead in his cot each night by eight.”

“That won’t be hard,” Alex said, “considering we’re short staffed.”

“What?” Marc’s backbone locked. “Since when?”

Pawpaw laughed and gestured at Marc’s empty glass. “Remember when I said you were gonna need that hooch? This is why. That shoddy employment agency that Alex used to hire the cleaning crew got shut down for forging work visas.”

Marc pushed both palms against the air. “Hold up a minute.” Everything had been fine when he’d left yesterday. “When did all this happen?”

The three shared a quick glance, and Pawpaw guessed, “’Bout thirty minutes ago.”

“It was the damnedest thing,” Alex said. “Like a shit storm blew into town and opened up right on top of us. It all happened at once.”

“All of a sudden,” Nick added. “When it rains, it pours.”

“Half an hour ago?” Marc whispered to himself.

Wasn’t that about the time he’d crossed paths with Allie Mauvais? That’s what he got for standing on the same side of the street with her. Maybe her great-great-grandma’s spirit knew all the filthy things he’d wanted to do with Allie.

“We’ve got to have a full cleaning crew,” he said, “or this trip won’t last long.” In such close quarters, sickness spread like wildfire, especially stomach bugs. All it would take was one bout of norovirus or E. coli to shut them down.

“No joke,” Alex said. “Remember that one year?”

All four men cringed at the memory.

A few summers ago, their vegetable supplier had delivered a bad batch of iceberg lettuce. Within days, hundreds of folks had it coming out of both ends—even the guests who’d avoided the salad bar. There wasn’t enough Pepto in the world to counteract a puke-fest of that magnitude. Just thinking about the smell . . . Oh, God, he was getting queasy. He quickly derailed that train of thought.

“If the press got wind of another outbreak like that, it would ruin us. Let’s station hand sanitizer pumps near all the doors and stairwells,” Marc suggested. “One inside every room, too.” He addressed Alex and said, “Call another temp agency. While you’re at it, see if you can snag us a few more servers.”

When a few seconds ticked by in silence, Marc asked his family, “Is that it?”

Pawpaw snorted. “That ain’t enough for you?”

More than enough. Marc felt the urge to knock on wood, toss a pinch of salt over one shoulder, cross his fingers, and tuck a rabbit’s foot in his back pocket—and he wasn’t even superstitious.

He dismissed the meeting and headed belowdecks to the boiler room. He wanted to see the valve “issues” with his own eyes and make sure Lutz wasn’t screwing him over.

Halfway down the first stairwell, his cell phone vibrated against his left butt cheek. Marc pulled it free and discovered a text.