Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

Allie shook her index finger at Regale. “I’m not sleeping with the captain!”

“Right.” He tossed another almond into his mouth. “Then explain why I’m stuck working with an unqualified, hot piece of ass from the swamp.”

Alex drew a sharp breath, flinging himself in front of Regale as if to take a bullet. “We need him, Allie,” he said desperately. “Don’t hex him!”

“Hex me?” Regale said with a snort. “Good God, what kind of Podunk shit is th—”

His voice cut off abruptly, hand flying to his throat while his watery eyes bulged wide. As seconds ticked by, redness crept into his face, followed by a shocked expression. He tried to cough, but no sound escaped his lips. With each new attempt, more color flooded his cheeks until he resembled an unripe plum.

Alex spun on her. “Undo it!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Phil bent at the waist and clutched the doorjamb, pounding his own stomach to free his airway.

“Please, Allie!” Alex begged. “Reverse it!”

She pushed Alex aside and skirted Phil’s body until she settled behind him. Steeling herself, she wrapped both arms around his belly, situated her fist beneath his rib cage, clapped the opposite hand over it, and heaved backward.

Nothing happened.

“Oh, my God,” Alex cried. “He’s gonna die!” He frantically made the sign of the cross over Phil, mumbling a Hail Mary in disjointed Latin.

Allie tensed her muscles to try again. This time, she inched her fist upward and planted her feet hip-width apart for better leverage. With a mighty tug, she squeezed Phil’s girth with all her strength and heard a light oof of air in response. She glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the dislodged almond smack an old man in the eye.

“Couillon!” the old man swore, clapping one hand over his injury. Then he turned his good eye on her and lowered the brow above it. “Is that a Mauvais? Aboard my ship?”

He had to be Marc’s pawpaw. Allie hadn’t seen him since she’d moved away from the bayou, but apparently he recognized her easily enough.

Before anyone could respond, Phillip growled and shoved Allie into the hall, thanking her for saving his life by slamming the door in her face. Again.

Ten frantic minutes later, after she and Alex had tried tag-teaming his pawpaw into accepting her aboard the Belle, the old man stalked away.

“Over my dead carcass!” he hollered. “I’m havin’ words with Marc. But first, I’m pourin’ a line of salt at my door, so she can’t curse the bed while I’m outside!” He pointed at Alex and warned, “You best do the same, boy!”

“That only works for those who mean you harm,” she called after him. “I’m here to help.”

As he charged down the hall, she thought she heard him mutter, “Damn straight. Help us all to hell.”

Alex rushed after his pawpaw, leaving Allie alone to wonder if the Dumonts had it all wrong. Because if the day’s events were any indication, it seemed Memère had jinxed her own line instead of theirs.

Sliding on his sunglasses, Marc peered through the pilothouse window at the murky Mississippi, as the Belle sluiced through her currents like a hot knife through butter. Nice and smooth, just the way he liked it. He touched the throttle to open it up to a leisurely seven knots and enjoyed the manufactured breeze from a nearby oscillating fan affixed to the wall. Overhead, the clouds parted and bathed the deck in golden rays as if the Man Upstairs had personally blessed this voyage.

It was a good day.

The engine hummed flawlessly, propelling the newly repaired paddle wheel into a lazy rotation while his passengers milled about the multistory decks, sipping their mint juleps. Even the finicky sonar equipment had decided to play nice this afternoon in celebration of Marc’s first day as captain. The only part of the Belle giving him any grief was of the living, breathing variety.

Which was usually the case.

“You’re thinkin’ with your tallywhacker,” Pawpaw accused from his seat on the defunct side control panel. “If you have a lick of sense, you’ll drop that witch at the next port.”

Marc cringed inwardly. Witch, siren, devil, sorceress. When Allie had said she’d been called worse than his teasing nickname, she was likely referring to the slurs his own family had hurled at her over the years.

And yet here she was, taking the abuse with a weary smile while saving Marc’s bacon. Last he’d seen her, she’d stacked out a corner of Regale’s kitchen to fix a batch of berry cobbler. Her bronze cheeks had been dewy with perspiration, her adorable nose smudged with flour, but despite Chef’s demands to get the hell out of his way, she’d tossed a handful of blackberries into her mouth and soldiered on. Allie was a damned hard worker, and she deserved respect from the crew.

“Put a lid on that nonsense,” Marc said. “I need a pastry chef a whole lot more than I need an Onboard Historian.” He turned to Pawpaw and arched a brow at the old man’s ridiculous title. As if the crotchety old coot were qualified to dispense knowledge beyond how to brew homemade whiskey.

Pawpaw pressed his wrinkled lips into a line, glaring at Marc in a way that warned he’d conceded the battle but not the war. As he stalked out the pilothouse door, he grumbled, “We’re gonna need more salt.”

Marc released a breath and tried to reclaim his perfect day, but it wasn’t happening. Even the clouds knitted together, obscuring the sun and putting the kibosh on his grace from above. He called one of his copilots to man the controls, figuring he might as well head downstairs to mingle with the guests and check in with his sister, the head purser.

On his way to the main level, Marc turned a critical eye down each hallway, pleased to find uniformed maids shuttling clean towels and fresh ice water into each room. When he passed the reading salon, he nodded a greeting to a lone guest curled up on the plush chaise longue, romance novel in one hand and a cocktail in the other. That’s what Marc wanted to see—his passengers relaxed and happy.

He descended the sweeping mahogany staircase and crossed the lobby to the main desk, where Alex was showing Worm how to operate the intercom system while Ella-Claire tapped at her keyboard.

The instant Ella-Claire’s blue gaze darted up from her computer screen, her face broke into a wide grin. She skirted the desk and came running at Marc, chestnut ponytail swinging above her crisp white purser’s uniform, sensible black heels clicking against the wood floor. She threw her arms around him and hugged his neck.

“Congrats, Captain,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

Marc gave her a squeeze and a smile to match. His little sister knew how much this day meant to him, and he loved her for it. They were half siblings—same mama, different daddies—but even though the Belle wasn’t Ella’s legacy, she’d spent every summer since her fourteenth birthday sweating right alongside him on this boat. Together, they’d towed luggage and scrubbed decks until his daddy had recognized Ella’s talent for sweet-talking irate guests. He’d trained her for customer service, and now ten years later she practically ran the show.

“How’s it going so far?” Marc said. “Any snags?”

She offered a reassuring pat on the forearm and returned to her station behind the polished wood counter. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“What about the Gibsons?” Alex asked her.

Ella threw Alex a sharp look.

The Gibsons. Why did that name sound familiar to Marc? “What about them?”

“They’re one of the couples who double-booked the honeymoon suite,” Ella explained. “The bride’s not happy with the stateroom.”

“Even though we comped all their tours?”

Ella nodded. “I invited them to sit at your table for supper, but they didn’t seem too excited about that.”

No doubt. If you asked Marc, the best honeymoon was the kind where nobody left the bed. What was the point in going through all that wedding bullshit—not to mention the divorce that would inevitably follow—if you didn’t get a week of nonstop sex out of it?

“I’ll stop by their table tonight and see if I can smooth things over,” he said.

“Thanks.” Ella grabbed her clipboard and slipped a pencil behind one ear. “That reminds me, I’ve got to run to the dining hall real quick.”

She asked Alex to hold down the fort until she returned, and after giving Marc a quick kiss on the cheek, she clicked off to her destination.

Worm leaned over the counter and pushed aside his shaggy brown hair to watch her leave, ogling her backside in clear appreciation while he murmured, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”

Marc’s jaw tightened. He swiveled his head and burned a warning glare into his kid brother’s forehead. “Don’t look at my sister like that.”

“Why not?” Worm asked. “She’s not my sister.”

Alex tried to stifle a laugh, then clapped an arm around Worm’s shoulders. “If you want to keep those ’nads long enough to grow hair on ’em, you’d better mind yourself around Ella-Claire. She’s off-limits to all of us.”

Damn straight she was.

None of Marc’s half brothers shared a drop of blood with Ella, but he still expected the drooling horndogs to treat her like family. And to keep their quick-fingered hands to themselves. That was nonnegotiable, and they knew it. Not even his older brother, Beau, had messed with Ella, and that bastard nailed anything that moved.

Marc sent Alex an unspoken message in the tone of his voice. “If our little brother has time to scope out tail, maybe we haven’t given him enough to do.”