Are you free for some afternoon delight?

A smile formed on his lips. It was Nora, the perky redheaded waitress he’d taken home a couple of weeks ago. She was hotter than hellfire in the sack, with a carpet that matched the drapes. But despite that, he found himself texting, Rain check?

You at the boat? she replied. I can be there in 10.

No dice. Marc was wiped out, and Nora wasn’t on his to-do list. Will make it up to you after this cruise.

It better be good!

Isn’t it always?

She signed off with an xxx/ooo, and Marc shoved his phone into his pocket.

For the first time since he’d sprouted short-n-curlies, he didn’t have the energy for sex. Hell, maybe he was jinxed after all.

* * *

One week and two dozen headaches later, Marc gathered his hair in a low ponytail and donned his captain’s hat—pristine white with a gold-embroidered black bill. He straightened his tie and grinned at his reflection in the pilothouse window.

He’d waited a long time for this.

Through the port bay, he could see a flurry of movement as early-morning shipments of fresh food and last-minute supplies arrived for loading. In a few hours, guests would begin boarding, and there was plenty to do before then. Just when Marc had managed to weather last week’s shit storm, the main chef had changed the menu and demanded a list of new ingredients.

Typically, Marc didn’t tolerate that crap, but booking Chef Regale for this cruise had drawn a full house. The man was unarguably a ranting diva, but his name was legend. As a bonus, Regale had brought on his associate pastry chef, a bigwig in his own right. That was worth makin’ groceries.

He buttoned his white suit jacket and headed downstairs for a walk-through of the main level, pleased to find the carpets freshly vacuumed and the brass handrails buffed to a shine. The new cleaning crew had mopped the deck so thoroughly, its wooden planks practically glowed, and each bench and lounge chair was clean enough for the most discriminating backside.

Satisfied, he touched base with his event manager and then strode outside to supervise the deliveries and greet any guests who might arrive early. He’d just stepped off the bow ramp when Worm waved one bony arm from the sidewalk and dragged himself over in a Hooters T-shirt, jean cutoffs, and a pair of Converse Chucks held together by a dying breath of glue.

Marc glanced around for Worm’s mom, not too surprised when he couldn’t find her. Their father didn’t have the most discriminating taste in baby-mamas.

“What the heck are you wearing?” he asked his brother. “The Belle’s not a trash barge—she’s basically a floating hotel. Even busing tables, you’ve got to look good.”

“I know, I know.” Worm tipped his shaggy brown head toward the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m fixin’ to change. Didn’t wanna get my good clothes all sweaty from walkin’ over here.”

“You walked all the way from uptown?”

“I’m not a kid,” Worm protested with an eye roll, then swore, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”

Teens and their attitudes. Was Marc ever this snarky? “Don’t make me toss you overboard.”

“We’re not even on board,” the smart aleck countered.

God bless, it was going to be a long couple of weeks.

“Well, let’s fix that.” Marc swatted his brother’s scrawny tail, eliciting another nonswear. “Get on up there and find Alex. He’ll take you to your bunk. After you change, come back here and be ready to help the porters haul luggage.”

Worm hitched up his duffel and grumbled toward the ramp.

“Hey,” Marc added, “and lose the attitude!”

“Yeah, yeah,” came the retreating reply.

When Worm disappeared through the dining hall entrance, Marc pulled in a calming breath and turned his gaze to the tranquil blue sky and the leaves stirring above his head. It was perfect weather for boating—sunny and mild, with calm water to boot. The Mississippi could be a harsh mistress, but she’d decided to favor him with some sweet lovin’ today, for which he was mighty grateful.

He strolled toward the sidewalk and paused when his cell phone rang. A glance at the screen showed Phillip Regale calling. Marc swiped a finger across the glass and answered.

“Bad news,” Chef said, never one to mince words.

Marc hoped Regale hadn’t changed the menu again. He’d already sent Nick to the market. “How bad?”

“I lost my pastry chef.”

Marc damn near dropped his phone. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

“He’s under quarantine with German measles.”

“What?” Who the hell got German measles anymore? “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious!” Regale bellowed, clearly insulted. “First documented case in a hundred years. If that’s not some damned dirty luck, I don’t know what is.”

“Can you get someone to cover him?”

“That’s the crazy part,” Regale said in disbelief. “I’ve called every pastry master I know—even the ones I wouldn’t ordinarily work with—and I can’t get a single one to pick up the line. It’s like they dropped off the planet. I half wondered if there was something wrong with my phone, but I reached you just fine.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I left a message with an agency. If they don’t come through, we’ll have to use store-bought desserts. Maybe pick up a second chef when we stop in Natchez.”

Suddenly, the wind kicked up, temperature dropping as clouds eclipsed the sun. The skin at the base of Marc’s neck prickled into gooseflesh, and he shook off a chill. He glanced at the now-dark sky, wondering what had just happened. He had seen no storm systems on the radar this morning. He turned to jog back on board but stopped short, breath catching as he came face-to-face with Allie Mauvais.

Marc clapped a hand over his pounding heart while she stood there watching him—lips curved in a grin, raven hair whipping her cheeks, hands clasped behind her back as if she’d appeared by magic.

Which she probably had.

It took a few beats for Marc to find his voice. He told Regale he’d call him back and disconnected, then demanded, “What’re you doing here?”

Allie gripped her waist with one hand, still smiling. “That’s not very nice, baby.”

Holding up his phone, he demanded, “Did you do this?”

“Do what?”

The answer formed on his lips, but it was too absurd to speak aloud. Did you give my pastry chef an eradicated disease? Did you blow the throttle valve? And what about my old cleaning crew—did you get them deported? Saints alive, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. He was losing his marbles.

“You okay?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

“Yeah, sorry.” He rubbed one temple, hoping to restore his sanity. “It’s not a good time for a visit.”

“I know. I heard about your pastry chef. Does he really have German measles?” She shook her head and whispered to herself, “Who gets those anymore?”

His thoughts exactly, but he wondered how Allie had found out.

The question must have shown on his face. “The agency sent me,” she explained.

He puzzled for a moment, and then the full meaning hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull: Allie Mauvais aboard his ship—for two weeks. No way in hell. He’d sooner wrestle a twelve-foot gator in a flaming vat of fish guts.

Before he had a chance to tell her no, she held her palm forward, revealing a small yellow pouch secured at the top with twine. “I also came to wish you luck and give you this.”

Marc hesitated. He didn’t trust Allie’s gris-gris any more than he trusted her in the galley.

“It’s dirt from Memère’s tomb and a few pennies,” she said, stepping nearer. “For good fortune.”

He took a step back, licking his lips.

Allie tipped her head and studied him with those exotic eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Of course not,” Marc scoffed and plucked the sachet from her outstretched hand. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, but made sure not to touch her. “But you can go back home. I can’t use you here.”

She heaved a sigh and narrowed her eyes at him. “You are afraid of me.” Defensively, she folded her arms. “Grow up, Marc.”

Despite her criticism, the words sparked a flash of pleasure low in his belly. He hadn’t heard his name on Allie’s lips since junior prom, and he liked the way it sounded. A little too much. He kind of wanted to hear it again, this time low and breathy with a moan behind it.

“I can help you,” she pressed. “I don’t have any catering jobs for the next two weeks, and I’m sure my sister will watch the shop while I’m gone.”

“But the salary’s not—”

“Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “This’ll be a good way to get my name out there.”

Marc scrambled for a valid excuse to say no. “Phillip’s really hard to please.”

“Wait,” Allie said. “Phillip who?”

“Regale. He’s cranky as—”

“The Phil Regale?”

“Yeah.”

“The man who practically revolutionized flambé in haute cuisine?”

“I guess so,” Marc said. “Is there more than one chef with that name?”

She shook her head, then bounced in place. “I’ve been trying to meet him for years! I’d love to work with him!”

Marc tried warning her that Chef was a misogynistic prick who didn’t like cooking with women, but Allie was too busy squealing and jumping in a circle to hear. Then she waggled one finger in the air and started dancing the Charleston. Marc couldn’t help smiling. In her half-hysterical state, she’d never looked so . . . normal.