“Tenth!” threw out Alligator Boots, her expression growing serious. “That’s the one that comes after the Ninth, right?”
Western Hat coiled a strand of her long, glorious hair around her finger. “I thought the Tenth was the one that abolished alcohol.”
Snakeskin Jeans gasped. “The government abolished alcohol? No kiddin’? Even during Happy Hour?”
I suspected the trio would have to do some serious cramming to qualify for an appearance on Jeopardy, but they possessed a quality that was far more marketable than instant game show celebrity.
They were jaw-droppingly beautiful.
Their hair was so blonde that it looked like liquid sunshine shot through with skeins of spun gold. It cascaded around their shoulders in the kind of long, sexy waves that invited a man’s touch and roused a woman’s envy. They looked to be related by either birth or sorority affiliation, flaunting toned muscles, even tans, and complexions so flawless their faces looked airbrushed. Their cheeks were tinted the perfect shade of pink; their eyelids dusted with shadow that created depth and allure; their full, collagen-injected lips so highly glossed that looking at them in direct sunlight might cause blindness. I’d noticed them aboard ship, so I knew they were part of our tour group, but this was the first time I’d seen them without a wall of men forming an impenetrable circle around them.
“Group photo, group photo!” Western Hat waved her camera above her head, then, spotting me, brandished it in my direction. “Honey, would you mind doin’ the honors?”
Flattered to be acknowledged by the fetching threesome, I flashed a smile that I hoped was every bit as blinding as their lip gloss. “You bet.”
Western Hat sashayed toward me in her bare feet, walking with the kind of hip swivel that could eject both joints from their sockets. I met her halfway, so dazzled by her looks, I couldn’t help staring.
She handed me her camera.
“Thanks.” I fought off a twinge of jealousy that my gene pool hadn’t included Rapunzel’s hair, spray-on leggings, and a cowboy hat worthy of a Vegas pole dancer. “Nice hat,” I said in a burst of chattiness.
“Idn’t it though?” She trailed her fingers around the brim. “I have a whole closetful back home. And they’re crushable, so I packed a slew of ’em for the trip.” She glanced at my name tag, her exquisitely plump lips curving into a smile. “Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit.”
I didn’t normally wear a name tag, but I’d grudgingly hung one around my neck this morning to give guests a chance to see that I was one of them.
“You’re on our tour?” she tittered. “Shame on me for not noticin’ you sooner, sugah.”
“No problem.” If I had to fend off a crush of admirers every time I poked my head out my cabin door, I might not notice anyone else with mammary glands on the tour either.
“Hey, y’all, this is Emily. She’s on the tour with us.”
Waving. Half-hearted smiles. Quick mirror checks to remove errant particles of food from their teeth before the big photographic event.
“I’m Bobbi,” said the blonde, “and you’re a real doll to do this.”
Her guest ID indicated her full name was Bobbi Benedict, from Corpus Christi, Texas. I couldn’t guess her age, but unlike movie stars whose fading youth can be masked through the miracle of soft focus camera lenses, Bobbi Benedict was even more gorgeous up close than she was far away. As she sashayed back to join her friends for a group shot, I studied the settings on her camera and wondered how my hubby would react if I flew home as a blonde.