Recipe for Satisfacton(2)
“You’ve had it rough the last few months.” Neil clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I can pick up women on my own time,” Jack said. “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
The ship pitched and nausea rose in her stomach. It traveled north like a warning bell, alerting her to seek out a toilet or the railing of the boat—whichever was closer. She turned quickly and ran into a wall. Or rather, a boy carrying two trays of dirty glasses. Glasses that decided they no longer liked their position on the trays. They crashed to the floor, a loud, obnoxious taunt. Just one more reminder of how bad her luck had been the last twelve months.
She raised her hand to her mouth and mumbled through her fingers, “I’m so sorry.” With glass crunching under her feet, she crouched to pick up the pieces. At least the mess distracted her from her stomach.
“No, Miss,” the young man pleaded. “Leave that for me.” He bent down beside her and picked up his own share of glass. “Please, Miss, don’t—”
“What’s going on here?”
A shiver ran up her spine at the sound of the deep voice behind her. It was even sexier in closer proximity. She tilted her head and confirmed her suspicion. Jack Vaughn.
Beside him, Neil asked, “Sterling, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, Chef.” The boy tensed and stood steel-rod straight. She was waiting for him to salute. “I’ll clean everything up right away.”
“Nonsense.” She stood, too, and turned to face the two men. “This was all my fault. I’ll clean it up.”
Jack’s intense stare sent a wave of heat inching up her neck, and when he spoke, he held her gaze steady. “George, would you mind heading back to the kitchen to get something to clean this up?”
“Of course, Chef.” George turned on his heel with precision and headed off to follow orders.
She swallowed and tried to break from Jack’s hypnotic stare by darting her gaze to Neil.
“This is Penn’s friend Sterling,” Neil said to Jack with a grin. “I think she was roped into coming so Penn could utilize her super organization skills.”
She smiled. So not the case. She was here to meet a man. But she’d go with it. “You’d be right.”
Jack held out his hand, a wide grin stretching across his face, revealing even, white teeth and a sexy dimple. “Jack Vaughn.”
“I know who you are,” Sterling said softly and fit her hand in his.
“My reputation precedes me.” His flirty grin was no longer so flirty.
“You do have quite the reputation.” She squeezed his hand trying to let him know she was cool with his “reputation.” In fact, he was exactly what she was looking for tonight—as long as her stomach didn’t mess it up for her.
His gaze was definitely serious now. His demeanor had changed within a matter of seconds with one mention of his reputation. Well, hell. Flirting was so much harder than it looked on TV. She would have thought a man like Jack Vaughn would be proud of his reputation. Someone who took pride in the fact that he was infamous. But maybe not. She knew all too well that people’s assumptions were way off base most of the time.
“You’ve got a reputation and I’m uptight. We’ve all got our quirks,” she said. Perfect. Verbal diarrhea. Someone gag me. “I’m Sterling Andrews.”
“Sterling.” Her name came out in a whisper, and for the first time she noticed the silver ball piercing in his tongue. Her stomach clenched at the thought of that hard ball against her—
“I’m going to check on things in the kitchen. If you need anything, Sterling, my brother would be more than happy to help.” Neil patted Jack on the shoulder, and they exchanged a curious look as he walked away.
“Really, I should be the one cleaning up,” she said.
He ignored her offer to pitch in. “What are you doing down here, anyway? The party’s upstairs.”
Because she was a queasy mess. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”
“There’s a bathroom upstairs.” He pointed toward the ceiling, his eyes gliding over her body, from eyes to toes and back again. She smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt, the coarse crinoline rough against her sweaty palms, her heart beating faster as he stepped closer, the glass crunch-crunch-crunching under his feet with every step.
He stopped in front of her—too close—and cocked his head to the side. “Not your scene?”
Could he read her mind? She let out a breath of relief. “So not my scene.”
He grinned. “I know exactly how you feel. I was hiding out down here myself.” He crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. His left forearm was inked, and thick black designs crawled up his skin. She wondered just how far up they went. On his right forearm, what looked like two paws peeked out from under the fabric.