“Right here, hon.” He hooked a thumb at himself and offered to take her bag, all the while looking her up and down like a hungry dog at the butcher store window. “I’ll get you settled in, snug as a bug in a rug.”

“Nice try, Nicky,” she said. “Where’s your brother?”

He wrinkled his mouth in disappointment. “Shoot. How’d you know?”

It was easy. Even as a kid, Nick had carried himself with more confidence than Alex. It was the slight arrogance in his gaze and the cocky tilt of his head that gave him away. That, and the name tag affixed over his left breast.

“You really have to ask?” she said. “I’m a Mauvais, baby. Now quit messing around and help me find your brother.”

“All right, all right.” He pulled out his cell phone, fingertips flying over the screen as he typed a text. “I told him to meet us at your room. C’mon.” He pocketed the phone, grabbed her luggage, and took off across the room in long strides that had Allie jogging to catch up.

“Wait!” she called. “How do you know where my room is? Until ten seconds ago, you didn’t even know I was here.”

He pulled open the stairwell door and held it for her. “Easy. If you’re taking the other guy’s place, you’re taking his room, too.” Nodding ahead, he said, “Third floor. I’ll follow.”

She climbed the first flight, feeling his eyes on her caboose. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it.

“You’re lucky,” Nick said, not bothering to avert his gaze. “The pastry dude was some big shot, so he scored a suite next door to the head chef. The rest of us bunk three to a room down below.”

“Lucky me,” she said without a trace of sarcasm. She’d toured this boat years ago during a seventh-grade field trip, and she remembered how tiny the rooms were. “Sounds like you’re on top of each other.”

“You offering to share your room?” he asked. “’Cause I’d rather be keeping you company than one of my brothers.”

They reached the third floor and stepped into a red-carpeted hallway that reminded her of an old horror movie she couldn’t quite place. “Not happening.” She pointed to her left and asked, “Which way?”

He dipped his head in the opposite direction. “313, the unluckiest number on the boat.”

“That’s all right. I make my own luck.” Allie crossed the hall, glancing at each room placard as she passed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away,” came the reply. She was pretty sure he was still watching her butt.

“How come you’re not bothered by the Mauvais-Dumont curse? I think sleeping with me is supposed to make your heart implode, or something.”

Nick snickered. “You’ve got to admit, it’d be a pretty sweet way to go.”

“So you’re not afraid?”

“Honey, the only thing that scares me is a broken condom.”

She wondered if Nick’s bravery came from knowing he didn’t stand a chance with her. Not that it mattered, because she had no intention of testing that theory. When she reached her door, she noticed Alex striding down the hall toward them. Unlike his twin, Alex kept his distance and ogled with his eyes, not his mouth.

“Hey, Allie.” He gestured at the doorknob and waited for her to back up a step before moving in to unlock it for her. His fingers trembled, fumbling with the key while he darted glances up and down the hall. When he noticed her puzzled expression, he said, “We’ve got to hurry up and get you inside before Pawpaw sees.”

“Oh, shit,” Nick said from behind. “He’s gonna blow a brain vein.”

“Not if he doesn’t find out.”

“You’d better break it to him soon,” Allie said, “because Marc wants me on the welcome line in thirty minutes.”

Alex got the door open and ushered her inside a room the size of a generous walk-in closet. When the twins followed behind and shut the door, Allie inched along the double bed to give herself some space, which was in short supply.

She took in the slim dresser, each drawer cleverly latched to survive the rocking motion of the boat, and admired the netted shelves built into the wall. They’d forgone televisions and iPod docking stations in favor of a single digital alarm clock with AM-FM radio. She wasn’t sure if the goal was to save money or maintain the historical feel. Maybe both. She made a mental note to ask Marc how they generated electricity on board.

A glance to her right revealed the bathroom, where beyond a tiny sink sat a plastic commode . . . smack-dab in the middle of the shower stall. She hadn’t noticed that on the field trip. Allie blinked a few times to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.

Nope, that was really a toilet. In the shower.

“There’s something fundamentally wrong with doing your business while washing your hair,” she said. And where did they keep the toilet paper—under the sink?

“Suck it up, buttercup,” Nick said. “At least you’re not sharing it three ways.”

“True.” Not even a night with Marc Dumont was worth that. Which reminded her—“Hey, Alex, I’m supposed to ask for a staff shirt.”

“What size?”

“Medium, I guess.”

He took an extra-long moment to appraise her chest before agreeing. “I need you to fill out some paperwork, too.” Backing toward the door, he said, “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Alex walked out, the phone in Nick’s pocket chirped and he glanced at the screen. “Duty calls. Let me know if you get lonesome, hon.” He tossed her suitcase on the bed, and with a wink, he was gone, too.

Allie unzipped her suitcase and got to work unpacking. She’d just moved to the bathroom to freshen up when a man’s voice boomed through the thin wall separating her from the next suite. A thrill ricocheted the length of her spine. She knew that gravelly bark. Phillip Regale had checked in.

The Phillip Regale!

Alex had told her to stay put, but there was no harm in a quick introduction, especially if Phil invited her inside his room and away from Pawpaw’s line of vision. She rubbed some frizz-control between her hands and scrunched her curls. After a quick lipstick touch-up, she tucked her room key in her back pocket and checked the hallway, finding it vacant.

She tiptoed over and knocked twice beneath the peephole.

The door flew open more quickly than she’d anticipated. Allie flinched back while offering a shaky wave.

Phillip Regale greeted her with a curt, “What?” and tossed a handful of almonds into his mouth.

He was shorter than she’d expected, wearing a red Belle of the Bayou–embroidered polo instead of his typical white chef’s jacket. But she recognized his salt-and-pepper crew cut and the trio of lines etched across his forehead and between his eyes. He was distinguished and broad-shouldered and clearly awaiting a reply.

“Hi, sir,” she said and paused to swallow. “I’m Allison Mauvais, and I’ll be—”

“No autographs.” He started to shut the door, but on instinct, Allie wedged her sneaker-clad foot in the jamb. The hazel eyes narrowed at her were not amused.

“Can I come in for a second?” she asked, taking another quick peek up and down the hall.

Phillip wrinkled his nose like he’d smelled vinegar in his hollandaise sauce. “No, you most certainly cannot.”

This wasn’t going the way she’d planned. Allie scrambled for damage control. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m your new pastry chef.”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing a bit. “Never heard of you.” He opened the door an inch or two but didn’t invite her in. “Where’d you graduate?”

“Cedar Bayou High.”

“No,” he said, snickering in a way that made her feel stupid. “Which culinary school?”

Allie hesitated, unsure of how to answer him. She had no degrees or formal training beyond what she’d picked up in her mama’s kitchen. But deciding she had nothing to be ashamed of, she admitted, “I didn’t go to culinary school. But I learned from the best.”

“Yeah?” He munched his almonds, tipping back his head to look down his nose at her. “Who?”

“It’s wasn’t a formal apprenticeship, but my mama and my—”

“Oh, God.” He pinched his temples between his thumb and index finger and regarded her with new eyes, taking in the exposed skin below the hem of her skirt and then raking his gaze over her breasts. “I get it. You’re fucking the boss.”

Allie’s lips parted with a pop, heat rushing into her cheeks. Sheer mortification tied her tongue for several awkward beats, and just when she geared up to contradict him, Phil cut her off with a humorless laugh.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve dealt with plenty of broads spreading ’em for a job. Just do what I tell you and stay out of my way. I’ll hire my own guy as soon as we stop in Natchez.”

With the toe of his shoe, he nudged aside her sneaker and clicked the door shut.

For a full minute, Allie’s feet clung to the carpet as she stared at the oak barrier inches from her nose. The heat from her face spread downward, sparking a flame of anger inside her chest. Devyn was right. Phillip Regale was an asswipe. And when Allie blotted her cheeks, she discovered the jerk really did spit when he talked.

She balled one fist and pounded on his door. When he didn’t answer instantly, she pounded three more times.

Alex turned the corner and bolted to her side. “What are you doing? Get back in your room!”

“Not yet,” she said, pounding until her fist ached. “Not until he takes it back.”

The door swung open again, and this time, Phillip’s eyes were more than unamused. They were downright livid. “What now?” he demanded around a cheek full of nuts.

“Nothing, Chef,” Alex said, wrapping an arm around Allie’s shoulders and then releasing her just as quickly.