“Make a wish.”

A kiss. In that moment all Luke wanted was to turn her to face him, to lean down and touch her sweet lips with his.

“Like to know what I wished for?” he asked, voice low.

Della’s eyes drifted shut. “You’re not supposed to tell. It won’t come true if you do.”

“Maybe,” he said, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips brushed her lobe as he spoke. “But if you knew what the wish was, perhaps you’d grant it.”

He pressed a light kiss on her neck, just below her ear. Della held herself still but didn’t pull away. “I don’t have any magical powers to grant wishes.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Countering His Claim

Rachel Bailey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHEL BAILEY developed a serious book addiction at a young age (via Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck), and has never recovered. Just how she likes it. She went on to earn degrees in psychology and social work but is now living her dream—writing romance for a living.

She lives in a piece of paradise on Australia’s Sunshine Coast, with her hero and four dogs, where she loves to sit with a dog or two, overlooking the trees and reading books from her evergrowing to-be-read pile.

Rachel would love to hear from you and can be contacted through her website: www.rachelbailey.com

For Amelia.

For all the fun and love you bring.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Extract

Copyright

One

With a final, fond look at the Melbourne skyline, Della Walsh stepped onto the boarding bridge of the Cora Mae, the luxury cruise liner she called home.

Ahead on the deck, she spotted a group of people in business suits clustered around a tall man with his back to her. She hesitated, assessing the crowd. All she could see of the man in the center was broad shoulders encased in a tailored business jacket, a straight confident bearing and hair of darkest blond that tapered in against his neck. But that was enough to draw her attention and keep it there. The ship’s captain stood beside him and from various vantage points, beyond the grand foyer, groups of curious staff intently watched the interaction.

Which meant, most likely, the man in the middle of the action was him.

Luke Marlow, the man about to inherit the Cora Mae, had arrived.

Curiosity nibbling, she stepped into the foyer. Many senior crew members, including herself, had been invited to the reading of Patrick Marlow’s will today, and all of them had one question uppermost in their minds—what would his nephew and heir, Luke Marlow, do with the ship once he had control? Sell? Refurbish? Interfere with the day-to-day running?

Della was probably more interested in their guest than most—she’d been hearing snippets of Luke’s life from Patrick for years. It was possible she knew more about this man than she knew about some of her friends.

As she drew closer to the small crowd, she could hear Captain Tynan say, “We’ll get that cut seen to straight away.”

Luke Marlow held up a hand wrapped in what looked like a blue handkerchief. “No need. I’ll run it under the tap and throw on a bandage.”

The captain spotted Della. “Dr. Walsh! Good timing. Mr. Marlow has a cut that might need a couple of stitches.”

She pasted a smile on her face, and stepped forward, prepared to offer medical assistance as if he was any other patient, not the man who would soon be her boss. “Good afternoon, Mr. Marlow. If you’ll follow me to the medical suite, we’ll take a look at your hand.”

As she spoke, Luke Marlow slowly turned to her, his steel-gray gaze scanning her face before coming to land on her eyes. The air seemed to sizzle and spark; a wave of goose bumps rushed across her skin. Was she nervous because he held her future in the palm of his hand? Or was it his fallen angel’s face—sculpted cheekbones, strong straight nose and sensual lips—that unsettled her? Whatever it was, the effect was unwelcome and she squashed it.

“Now that you mention it,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes not wavering from hers, “I think it might need stitches.”

The captain nodded, satisfied. “I’ll take care of your staff and a purser will collect you from Dr. Walsh’s office and bring you to us when you’re done.”

As if in slow motion, the crowd parted and Luke Marlow covered the distance between them. He stood within touching distance, looking at her expectantly, and her heart thumped hard and erratically. Tall and charismatic, he filled her vision, making her breath come too fast, as if casting a spell over her....

Her smile slipped. This couldn’t be happening. She’d vowed never to let herself feel attraction to a man again. Ever. And this man was about to become her boss. Perhaps determine her future. Refusing to give in to her body’s blind response, she pulled herself to her full height—which leveled out in the vicinity of Luke’s chin—and found that professional smile again.

“This way,” she said, indicating the direction with her hand.

Luke inclined his head and stepped away from the dissipating crowd. When they walked farther into the foyer with its elaborate furnishings and chandeliers, she wondered if he noticed the eyes following him from every direction.

“Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice pitched somewhere between sexy-low and curiosity.

Steeling herself against the shiver that threatened to run down her spine at the timbre of his voice, she led him through the foyer, to the bank of elevators. “If I can.”

“Is there always a group that size waiting to greet guests?”

The elevator arrived and after they stepped in, she pressed the button for the third deck. “No, but then you’re not an average guest.”

He arched an eyebrow several shades darker than his hair. “What sort of guest am I?”

The only guest who’s made my knees go weak. She paused for a long moment. He wasn’t merely the only guest who’d affected her this strongly, he was the only man who had since... She shied away from the thought and schooled her features into casual ambivalence. “We’ve heard you’ll likely inherit the Cora Mae today.”

“Ah,” he said and sank his good hand into his pocket.

He’d thought they wouldn’t know? Patrick Marlow had made no secret over the years that he considered his nephew his heir. “Rumors travel quickly around a ship.”

“Rumors?” That eyebrow rose again. “There’s more than one?”

Three hundred and thirty people lived and worked on the Cora Mae. Some were seasonal staff who wanted to see the world. They tended to work hard and party harder. But there was a solid core of people who did more than merely live on board—they’d formed a community. This ship was their home. And both groups were alive with speculation and snippets of information about Luke Marlow. Patrick had often spoken to her about his only nephew, mentioning his privileged background, his success with Marlow Hotels and the respect he garnered in the business world. But those stories from a proud uncle hadn’t prepared her for the toe-curling effect Luke had in person.

The elevator doors slid open and she led the way down a narrow, carpeted corridor while the man in question waited patiently for his answer. “Several rumors,” she acknowledged, “most of which probably have no basis in fact.”

“Humor me.”

She allowed herself a small smile at the idea of telling the man who would soon control both her career and home about the gossip doing the rounds. “I don’t think so.”

They arrived at the medical suite and Della stopped at the reception desk just inside the door to speak to the duty nurse. “Jody, is Dr. Bateman in?”

Something about Luke Marlow affected her. Perhaps it was his power over her future as her boss. Or the strange magnetism he had as a man. Or simply her unsettled nerves about the reading of Patrick’s will in an hour and the accompanying sharp reminder of her friend’s death only twelve days ago. Regardless, she knew if she didn’t feel 100 percent comfortable, it would be more appropriate to hand him to a colleague for treatment.

Hearing his name, Cal Bateman stepped into the reception room and Della’s shoulders loosened in relief.

“Cal, Mr. Marlow might need some sutures in his hand.” She turned to their patient. “Dr. Bateman will take care of you.”

But when she turned to go, Luke’s smooth, deep voice stopped her. “No.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she swiveled slowly back around. “Pardon?”

Luke stood facing her, dominating the room with his height and presence, his expression neither stern nor encouraging. “If I need stitches, I’d like you to handle them, Dr. Walsh.”

Puzzled, she looked at him. Why should it matter to him which doctor he saw? “I assure you, Dr. Bateman’s surgical skills are second to none. He did some advanced training in plastic surgery, so he’ll leave less of a scar than I would.”

“I don’t mind a scar,” Luke said, unconcerned. “I want you, Dr. Walsh.”

Her chest tightened. Was he flirting with her? No man had tried since...her husband. She deliberately cultivated an unapproachable aura to prevent it. Though, Luke Marlow didn’t seem the sort of man who bothered taking notice of such things. She held back a sigh. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was a professional. She’d treat Patrick’s nephew, a man who made her pulse jump, and she’d do a good job of it.

“Of course,” she said. She led him into her consulting room and began collecting the supplies she’d need. “Take a seat over here, please, Mr. Marlow.”

“Luke,” he said and sank into the patient chair.

“I’d rather keep to Mr. Marlow if it’s all the same to you.” She took her white coat from the hook behind the door and thrust her arms through the sleeves before turning back to him. “Chances are you’ll be my boss in a few hours.”

“It’s not all the same to me. You’re about to pierce my skin with a sharp needle and I’d feel more comfortable if we moved past formalities.”

Della regarded him for a moment as he stretched out in the black vinyl chair, shoulders relaxed. He wasn’t nervous, sutures or no sutures. But since he’d be inheriting the Cora Mae, he called the shots. She nodded once. “Luke, then.”

He looked at the badge attached to her white coat. “Dr. Adele Walsh,” he read. “Can I call you Adele?”

She held back the flinch. Only her husband had called her Adele. An image of Shane’s dear face rose up in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She focused on Luke. “I prefer Della.”

“Della.” He blinked languidly as he regarded her. “I like it. Now that we’re on more intimate footing, tell me what the other rumors are.”

Before she could restrain it, a chuckle escaped at the way he’d maneuvered. “Well played, Luke.” She leaned back on the sink and folded her arms under her breasts. “Do you really want to waste time here talking about rumors?”

He met her gaze directly, deep gravity in his silver-gray eyes. “I suppose not. But there is something I would like to ask.”

For less than an instant, her breathing stalled—she could guess what his question would be about. Still, the topic was bound to be raised sometime; better to have it dealt with before the will reading.

She took a breath and found a reassuring smile. “Ask whatever you’d like.”

“We’ve been told one of the doctors on the ship cared for my uncle through his illness. A woman.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

“Was it you?”

A ball of emotion lodged in her throat, so she gave a nod for her reply. Part of her still couldn’t believe Patrick was gone. He’d been such a vibrant man, full of personality, and suddenly he wasn’t here to chat and joke with. And Patrick’s death had brought her grief over losing her husband two years ago back to the surface.

Luke’s gaze was steady and solemn. “Thank you for doing that for him.”

She swallowed and found her voice. “You’re welcome. But there’s no need to thank me—I considered Patrick a friend. He deserved the chance to live out his days on the ship instead of ashore in a hospice.”

“One thing confuses me. None of his family knew he was dying. He and I spoke several times on the phone over the past few months and he didn’t mention it. He used to stay with my mother every three months for a couple of days, and we knew he was too unwell to come recently but no one suspected things were that bad.” Elbows resting on the chair’s armrests, he steepled his fingers under his chin. “Why didn’t we know?”

She thought back to several conversations she’d had with Patrick where she’d suggested he tell his family how serious his cancer was—or closer to the end, that he let her call them. But he’d been adamant. He didn’t want them to see him frail and wasted, and he didn’t want to endure their reactions to seeing him in that state. He said he wanted them to remember him as he’d been, but she’d wondered if it was denial—if a distraught family had arrived, he would have had to face his own mortality head-on.

She tightened her crossed arms a little. “Patrick was a proud man and he thought it would be for the best this way.”

“How long was he unwell?” Luke asked quietly.

“He’d had cancer for almost a year, and he’d been ashore for two rounds of chemotherapy, but it became more serious about four months ago. Even then, he was still mobile and involved with the running of the ship until about three weeks before he died.”

“Was he in any—” he frowned and seemed to think better of the word “—much pain?”

“I administered morphine and other medications as required, so his discomfort was minimal.” On occasions she’d even had to convince him to take the pain relief. Patrick had been of the soldier-on mold.

“Was there...” Luke hesitated and ran his good hand through his hair. “I honestly mean no disrespect, but was he seeing any other doctors, as well?”

He needn’t have worried; she understood. If their situations had been reversed, she’d ask the same question, want to know that her uncle had been given the best possible treatment.

“He was under the care of a specialist at the Royal Sydney Hospital, and I had regular contact with her. I can give you her details if you’d like to talk to her yourself.” Luke gave a single shake of his head so she continued. “For the last two months of his life, Patrick personally paid for an extra doctor to take over my regular duties so I could focus solely on him. We also brought a specialist nurse on board so there was someone with him twenty-four hours a day.”

Though, even when the nurse had been on duty, Della had found it difficult to leave him, and had checked in often.

Luke nodded his acceptance of the information as he let out a long breath. “Will you be at the will reading?”

“Yes.” Patrick had made her promise to attend, saying he’d left her a little something. Telling him he didn’t need to had made no difference. “Quite a few of the crew have been invited.”

“I hope Patrick left you something for what you did for him, but if he didn’t have time to change his will, I’ll make sure you receive something of meaning.”

With a twinge of grief in her chest, she realized that the generosity in his expression reminded her of Patrick, and of the stories he’d told about the man before her. She’d often wondered if Patrick had exaggerated his stories about his nephew or if Luke really was a prince among men.

“That’s sweet of you,” she said. “But there’s no need. I was doing my job and as I said, I had a lot of respect for Patrick. I counted him as a friend. I wouldn’t have had things any other way.”

“Either way, I’m grateful you were able to be there for him.”

“I appreciate you saying that,” she said and meant it. She’d often wondered if Patrick’s family would blame her for their not knowing about his illness. “And if you’re going to make that will reading, we need to take a look at your cut now.”

He glanced down at his watch. “You’re right.”

She washed her hands, sat down across a table from him and set out the sterile cloth. “Lay your hand over here,” she said as she slipped on a pair of gloves.

* * *

Luke looked into Dr. Della Walsh’s eyes and laid his hand, palm up, on the table. She was an intriguing woman. It couldn’t have been easy caring for his stubborn uncle out at sea, yet the information from the ship’s captain when he’d rung the family twelve days ago was that Patrick’s care had been second to none. But it was something else that had compelled him to insist she handle his stitches—something that radiated from within her. She wore no makeup yet her toffee-brown gaze captivated him more than any preening society woman. Her eyes held depth, intelligence and the promise of something more.

Breaking the eye contact, he frowned. It didn’t seem right to think this way about the doctor who’d cared for Patrick until his death, especially when that had been so recent that he could still feel the permanent punch to the gut the loss had created.

Della looked down and gently unwrapped the blue handkerchief he’d tied around his hand. It wasn’t much of a cut, more a good-size nick at the base of his thumb, but she was treating it seriously. That made him feel even better about Patrick’s care in the past few months.

“I’ll just give you some local anesthetic,” she said as she drew up a needle. The two jabs into the fleshy part of his palm stung, but Della’s hand, soft and warm through the gloves, stabilized his as she administered the drug. Then she swiped the area with an antiseptic and gave it a quick wash with clear fluid from a bottle marked sterile saline.

She bent her head and scanned his palm closely. “How did you do it?”

“Car accident.”

Her eyes flew to his, then roved down his neck, across his shoulders, assessing everywhere she could see. “Are you hurt anywhere else? And the others in the car with you?”

“We’re all fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “To be fair, you could hardly class it as an accident. I was pouring some sparkling water from the minibar into a glass—”

She blinked. “I thought this was in a car?”

“Stretch limo.” He’d needed to meet with several of his staff, and hated wasting time traveling, so the price of a larger vehicle to accommodate the meeting was easily worth it. “The driver had to swerve hard in traffic, just hitting the bumper of another car. The glass in my hand caught the corner of the fridge as I swung forward, and it shattered.”

“You were lucky,” she said, returning her attention to his palm.

The cut was minor, but it had led him here, so perhaps he had been lucky. His gaze was drawn back to the doctor’s silky brown hair as she bent her head forward.

“Can you move your thumb for me? And the index finger?”

Obediently, he bent his thumb and finger in turn.

“Okay, good. Tell me if you can feel this.”

The featherlight touch of her gloved fingertip ran across the planes of his fingers and thumb. “Yes.”

She nodded, satisfied, and picked up a pair of tweezers. “I’m just checking for glass fragments while the anesthetic takes effect. This shouldn’t hurt,” she murmured.

Her dark lashes swept down over creamy pale cheeks as she worked. Under normal circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink, maybe dinner, but that would cross a line now that she would soon be an employee.

Besides, he doubted Della would take him up on the offer. The signals she’d been sending had been limited to professional concern, both for his hand and because he was Patrick’s nephew.

She skimmed a finger over a long, straight scar along the length of his thumb pad. “This looks like it would have been a nasty cut.”

A faint smile pulled at his mouth. “Childhood accident.” Though, it had been far from an accident—it had been with conscious, purposeful intent that, at thirteen, he’d sliced his thumb with a pocketknife and pressed the injury against similar ones on three friends’ thumbs. They’d become blood brothers that night in a darkened boarding school dorm room. He looked at the scar, remembering how his youthful enthusiasm had made him slash long and deep—as though more blood would deepen the bond. Maybe it had, because he was still closer to those guys than any other person on the planet.

Della put the tweezers down, then picked up the needle.

“How does it look?” he asked.

“It’s only minor,” she said, all polite reassurance. The needle pierced his skin and he felt a slight tugging as she sewed the stitch. Della worked quickly and efficiently after the first one was in place, knotting and cutting. Her hands as they worked were graceful and capable, like Della herself.

After she tied off the third one, she rose and removed her gloves, saying over her shoulder, “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

“About a year ago.”

“That will be fine. You shouldn’t need antibiotics—the cut was clean, and there was no foreign material.” She washed her hands then turned back to him. “You’ll need the stitches out in about seven days. If you’re still here, come to the clinic and either Cal or I will do it. If you’ve left by then, see your local doctor.”

A twinge of regret surprised him. “I’m only here for a couple of nights.” He’d come for the reading of Patrick’s will and to spend a few days assessing the ship’s operations. He’d disembark when they reached Sydney.

“You’re not staying for a full run?” A fine line appeared between her eyebrows. “To experience the Cora Mae out in the Pacific?”

“That won’t be necessary.” His plans for the ship didn’t include her cruising the Pacific or anywhere.

“Then you’ll need to see your own doctor in a week, Mr. Marlow,” she said with her courteous, professional smile. “Ring him earlier if you have any concerns or your hand shows signs of unusual pain, redness or swelling.”

With a start, he realized the appointment was over. He was seconds away from walking out the door and in all probability wouldn’t see her one-on-one again. Which was probably for the best—that impulse he’d had to invite her for a drink might reemerge, and he wouldn’t start anything with a future employee who never spent more than one night in any given city.

He nodded, and rested a hand on the doorknob. “Thank you for the medical care, Dr. Walsh. I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Marlow,” she said, her voice even, unaffected.

Something about this woman intrigued him, and that was rare. What if, despite the obstacles—

Walk away now, the sane part of his brain said. This is not a woman for you. Which was true. He shook his head ruefully and stepped through the door, only just reining in the impulse to turn back for one final look over his shoulder at Dr. Della Walsh.

Two

Less than an hour later, Della rushed along a carpeted corridor to the boardroom where Patrick Marlow’s will was probably already being read. She hated being late. Hated it. Being late meant drawing attention to herself and that made her uncomfortable anytime. And this was such an important occasion.

The life of a shipboard doctor wasn’t frantic like a medical career based in a hospital, but occasionally there would be a run of patients. Just after Luke had left the clinic, they’d had a minor influx of passengers returning early from shore—a child with a bee sting, another with a twisted wrist after a fall, a young woman with a migraine and a man with a bad case of sunburn. She couldn’t have left them all to Cal.

She flicked a glance at her watch. Only three minutes past two—hopefully people were still taking their seats. Arriving late to Patrick’s will reading seemed disrespectful, and the thought made her skin prickle.

Gently pushing open the door, she let out a breath—although people were seated, there was still murmuring as the short, gray-haired man at the front table shuffled papers on his desk. Most chairs were taken, but she was relieved to see a vacant aisle seat in the back row. She slipped in and greeted the woman beside her.

“Have I missed anything?” Della whispered.

“No,” Jackie said. “He just asked everyone to take their seats. It’s a bit surreal, isn’t it? I still can’t believe Patrick’s gone, let alone that we’re all sitting around to talk about his money.” Jackie ran the housekeeping department and had been friends with the ship’s owner, as had many of the senior staff.

Tears stung the back of her eyes but Della blinked them away. “Even knowing how sick he was at the end, part of me kept believing he’d pull through.”

“Well, he thought he’d pull through,” Jackie said, shaking her head, her smile a bittersweet mix of admiration and sadness. “He was still making plans the last time I saw him.”

Breath tight in her lungs, Della had to pause before her voice would work. “Determination and optimism were probably what kept him going longer than his specialists expected.”

“You were a big part of that, too, Della.” Jackie took her hand and squeezed, and Della appreciated the warmth, the solidarity. “We all know the long hours you put in with him, going above and beyond. The way you devoted yourself to making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. And Patrick knew it, too. He sang your praises whenever he could, told us he was indebted to you.”

Della managed something of a crooked smile, but this time her constricted chest wouldn’t let her reply. Thankfully, the man at the front of the room cleared his throat and introduced himself as Patrick Marlow’s lawyer and executor of his will.

As he spoke, Della’s gaze drifted to Luke Marlow, also in an aisle seat, but in the front row beside the captain. His back was tall and straight in the chair and, just as when she’d first seen him when she was boarding a few hours ago, she found it difficult to drag her attention away. There was something magnetic about that man.

Then he slowly turned and searched the crowd before his gaze landed on her. A shiver of tingles ran down her spine. His head dipped in acknowledgment, and she nodded back, before he turned to the front again. Della tucked a curl behind her ear and tried to put Luke Marlow from her mind as best she could. She was here for Patrick.

The executor had finished his preamble and come to the division of assets. He’d left a collection of rare and first edition books to his sister-in-law, Luke’s mother, who, the executor noted, hadn’t been able to attend; he left some personal effects such as cuff links and a tie clip to various members of staff.

“Regarding the ownership of the cruise ship, the Cora Mae...” The executor paused for a muffled cough and darted a quick glance around. “I leave a one-half share to my nephew, Luke Marlow.”

The room was silent for the longest beat as though everyone was too shocked to move. Then a wave of murmuring washed over the small crowd.

Luke had inherited one half? As Della struggled to make sense of the phrase, her gaze flew to Luke. He sat very straight, very still.

One half meant...there was someone else. She could feel the sudden wariness of every crew member present—if their future had seemed uncertain five minutes ago, it was now even more unpredictable. She ran through Patrick’s stories of his family in her mind for possibilities, scanned the rigid bodies sitting in the front row. Although their tension was nothing compared to that emanating from Luke as he sat motionless, waiting, focused.

“The other one-half share,” the executor continued, “I leave to Dr. Della Walsh.”

What? Her heart skidded to a halt then leaped to life again, thumping hard in her chest, each beat a painful hammer in her ears. Oh, God.

Surely there was a mistake. She replayed the words in her head, looking for where she’d misunderstood, but found nothing. What had Patrick done?

People turned in their seats to face her, some with mouths open, others with confused frowns, a few whispering her name in incredulous voices.

Even through the bewilderment, the irony struck her—despite rushing and managing to arrive before the proceedings had begun, every pair of eyes in the room was on her, after all. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose up, then died again when Luke pinned her with fierce gray eyes.

She leaned back against the chair, away from the force of his unspoken accusation. Abruptly, he stood and the crowd’s attention switched to him. Her skin went cold as he stalked down the aisle then stopped to loom over her.

“Dr. Walsh,” he said through a tight jaw. “A word in private, if you please.”

He held his hand out, plainly expecting her to rise and precede him out of the room. Her jellied joints felt unequal to the task but after a moment she managed to force herself to her feet. As she swiveled, she nearly stumbled. A firm warm grip encircled her elbow, steadying her, saving her from that ignominy.

She turned to thank him but her throat seized as she met the hard glitter in his eyes. Her stomach flipped. With all the grace she could muster, she allowed him to guide her out to the corridor.

Once the door to the boardroom had shut behind them, he looked from closed door to closed door. “An empty room where we can talk undisturbed?”

Willing her brain to work, she indicated the door on the left and he headed for it, still gripping her elbow. It was smaller than the room they’d come from, designed for meetings of no more than ten people, furnished with a rectangular table surrounded by chairs and one porthole.

As soon as the door clicked closed, Luke released her and his hands moved to his hips, suspicion and anger radiating from every inch of his six-foot-plus frame.

“Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice harsh and a sneer curling his top lip. “What exactly did you do for my uncle to earn yourself half a ship?”

It took a moment but then his meaning slammed into her. He thought she’d used her body, sold herself to manipulate sweet, lovely Patrick for financial gain. Rage charged through her veins, hot and wild. Before she’d even realized her intention, her hand was swinging toward him. His eyes widened. He began to turn away, but it was too late.

A crack echoed as flesh met flesh. The force of her slap jerked his head sideways. Heat and pain streaked across her palm, leaving the rest of her body icy cold, and the jolt shuddered all the way up her arm to her shoulder.

And then she froze. She’d struck another human being in anger. The violence felt ugly, alien...she felt alien. She looked down at her upturned palm. Warily her gaze crept up to Luke’s face, to the red imprint of her hand on his cheek and a wave of nausea cramped her stomach.

* * *

Luke swore under his breath. He’d never been slapped before. Now that he had, it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat in a hurry. His cheek hurt like hell.

Della’s hand still hung in the air as if she didn’t know what to do with it now. Her face was blanched of color. Whatever else he may think of her, he could see the slap was out of character. Not that it mattered. What mattered more was that he’d lost his temper. If he were to succeed, control would be his friend. Control over himself, leading to control of the situation. No more angry outbursts—a cool head would win the day.

He spun away and strode over to the other end of the room, trying to find his bearings. He glanced up at a framed photo on the wall of the original Cora Mae proudly entering Sydney Harbour over fifty years ago. Patrick’s Cora Mae had been named after the ship in the photo, which had been Luke’s grandfather’s, and that ship had been named for Luke’s grandmother, Cora Mae Marlow. Now he was effectively sharing his heritage with a stranger...at least until he could rectify the situation. A heaviness pressed down on his shoulders.

What had Patrick been thinking to put him in this position? He scraped both hands through his hair and blew out a breath.

“I have to know,” he said, still facing the photo of the Cora Mae. “When we met earlier and you stitched my hand. Were you aware then that Patrick was leaving you half the ship?”

He turned to face Della. She’d slipped into a chair, her head was bowed, her hands in her lap—her left hand held her right wrist as though she was afraid of what it might do next. Those were the long slender fingers that had stitched his wound with such dexterity, such tenderness. Who’d have thought they’d be capable of delivering such a stinging rebuke.

“No.” Her gaze didn’t waver. “I had no idea.”

He surveyed her, curling his fingers around the top of the chair, feeling the padding give under his fingertips. She was the doctor who’d nursed Patrick through his final illness, when he’d been at his most vulnerable. Had she used that time to sway him? To garner a financial reward? Perhaps exerted subtle—or not so subtle—influence over a susceptible, sick man?

He released the chair, dug his uninjured hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “It’s a pretty big gift to be a surprise.”

“Patrick had said on more than one occasion that he was grateful I’d arranged for him to be cared for on the Cora Mae. The ship was his home and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here. Which was why he tried to hide his symptoms as long as he could.” Her eyes closed tight for a long moment, and when she opened them again, she focused on the ceiling. “He also said he’d leave me ‘a little something’ in his will.”

Luke let his silence ask the questions.

She folded her arms under her breasts. “I told him it was unnecessary, that I was just doing my job.”

“But you did more than your job, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “You were with him almost constantly.”

“Yes.” Her eyes flashed but her voice was even and calm. “I loved Patrick and I would have done anything for him. I know what you’re implying but I didn’t care for him for any reward. He was part of my onboard family as well as a mentor and a friend.”

Luke paced across to the porthole, giving himself a few moments to regroup. Patrick was her family and her friend?

Why hadn’t his uncle asked for him? He’d have dropped everything in an instant if he’d known Patrick was so seriously ill. He’d have wanted to be at the old man’s side, wouldn’t have cared that he was frail or tired or any of the other things that the illness had caused. He just wished he’d been there, to talk to him, to hold his hand, to watch over him. A hot ball of emotion lodged in his throat.

Was this part of his problem with Della? She had been here, she had talked to Patrick, helped him, perhaps comforted him in his hours of need. Her competence had provided succor, and Luke wished he’d been a part of that care. It made his voice harsher than he’d intended.

“He was a friend with the capacity to make you a rich woman.”

“Challenge the bloody will, then.” She looked glorious in her anger, her dark eyes shining bright and color high on her cheeks. “Drag it through the courts. Make it look like Patrick wasn’t of sound mind. Knock yourself out.”

Her angry words brought him up short. It would go against the grain to tarnish Patrick’s memory by publically claiming his uncle was incompetent. But he might not have a choice. This was his heritage—how could he just let that go?

The silence was thick and heavy, and when a knock came at the door, it startled him back to the surroundings.

Della turned and wrenched open the door. A crew member stood on the other side. “The executor would like Mr. Marlow back in the room. He’s outlining personal effects, so I expect you’ll be mentioned again.”

Luke nodded then turned to Della. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“I look forward to continuing it,” she said, and stalked from the room.

He watched her leave—the movement of her hips under the soft fabric of her trousers, the bounce of her dark curls at her shoulders—and shook his head. Wasn’t this going to make it hell for negotiating? The last thing he needed was this simmering desire, this spark with his uncle’s doctor—and the part-owner of Luke’s ship. He’d already paid the price of handling her with uncontrolled emotion. A stinging slap and the knowledge that his fierce self-discipline was not as unassailable as he’d believed.

Next time they met, his control over his temper and his body would once again be ironclad.

* * *

Della sat in the back row for the remainder of the will reading, listening to various possessions being allocated to family as well as crew members who had been treasured friends. Although she tried to prevent it, her gaze kept straying to Luke Marlow, his accusations replaying in her mind. The first—that she’d been more than a doctor to Patrick—still sat in the air like a blight on Patrick’s memory. And the second—that she’d somehow influenced Patrick to leave her half the ship when he was in a vulnerable state—was abhorrent. But admittedly, Luke didn’t know her well enough to know she could never stoop to doing something like that. Which didn’t stop the insult from eating at her gut like acid.

There was an aura of restrained tension in and around Luke’s body as he sat facing the front. Others may not notice, but she’d been watching him before the executor had announced that Patrick had left them half the ship each and there was a definite difference in the set of his shoulders now. She could imagine he was probably grinding his teeth, as well. Life had probably come so easily to him—born into a wealthy family, having the advantages of looks, charm and intelligence—that being disappointed like this was likely a new experience. Luke and disappointment probably hadn’t even been on speaking terms until now.

But that wasn’t her problem. And if he wanted to challenge the will in court, so be it. Patrick had been lucid until the last couple of days and there was a large group of people on board who’d be able to testify to that. She might not have been expecting to be left a gift this size, but neither was she about to throw it away simply because a rich man was used to getting his own way. She needed time to think about it all, to let it settle in her mind.

As the executor wound up and said he’d be in touch again with all the beneficiaries, Della sneaked out the door. She wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with the questions and comments from the crew, or for Luke to pick up their unfinished conversation.

Temples pounding, she hurried down the corridors until she reached her cabin. After a cup of coffee and half an hour to catch her breath, she rang her parents to see if they’d known of Patrick’s intentions. Despite her father becoming close friends with Patrick while he was captain of the Cora Mae, they were as surprised as she, but they were thrilled.

She skipped lunch, her stomach in too many knots for food, and sat staring out her porthole, playing the morning’s events over in her mind. By dinnertime, she hadn’t come to any conclusions, but knew one thing. She had to face the ship. There was no doubt that this would be the hot topic of gossip and the thought made her cringe, but she refused to hide out. The captain was expecting her at his table tonight. She dressed for dinner in her favorite teal satin dress, which always made her feel good—but it would have a tough job tonight.

One final deep breath before she opened the door, ready to face the questions that were surely coming. Face the stares. Face the man.

* * *

Luke sat at the captain’s table, engaging in small talk with the captain to his left, but most of his attention was on scanning the crowd for Della Walsh. He’d spent the afternoon trying to track her down. First stop had been the medical suite but she hadn’t been on duty and the staff had been protective, refusing to give out her details. In fact, wherever he’d tried, he’d come up against a brick wall—the crew of the Cora Mae were like a shield around their doctor. But the captain had told him Della was expected at dinner tonight and she’d never missed dinner at his table when she was expected. So Luke had arrived early and bided his time. He would talk to Dr. Walsh about Patrick’s will tonight.

His gaze flitted from person to person, taking in the suited men, the women in richly colored evening gowns, the sparkling jewelry. Then he saw her weaving her way around the tables and his heart skidded to a halt. The fabric of her dress caught the light from the chandeliers and shimmered, her brown hair in soft waves on her shoulders. Her dark eyes met his for a sweet moment before her attention was snared by a woman at her elbow. Beautiful was such an inadequate word.

He stared at her for a full five seconds after she looked away, only vaguely aware of whatever the captain was saying beside him. Then he pulled himself up. He’d met a lot of attractive women in his life—some he’d dated, some he’d merely admired, one he’d married. But he had a golden rule: never be distracted by a woman; never rely on anyone.

Aside from his disastrous marriage, he’d managed to live his life pretty much according to that rule. The only exception was for his three friends—the blood brothers he’d made at boarding school, where he’d made the cut in his thumb that Della had noticed when she’d done his stitches. He still saw them regularly, particularly to play billiards, but even with them he’d always managed to keep part of himself hidden. Safe.

He wasn’t in danger of breaking the second part of his golden rule—to never rely on anyone—with the ship’s doctor. But it seemed he might need to watch himself in terms of being distracted by Della Walsh.

He’d admired her this morning when she’d done his stitches, but watching her now as she came another few steps closer before she was waylaid again, his reaction was stronger. Deeper. Perhaps it was seeing her in an evening dress. Perhaps he was more keenly attuned to her since the will reading. Whatever it was, he would not be distracted from the pressing issue: the unresolved questions involving ownership of the Cora Mae.

Della finally made it to their table, and an usher seated her in the vacant seat to Luke’s right.

“Good evening, Dr. Walsh,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow, obviously noting his use of her title after making a fuss about using first names in her medical suite. But he needed to remind himself that they were now locked in a business situation. He wouldn’t jeopardize the future of his family’s assets over a beautiful woman. He’d learned that lesson already and wasn’t in a rush to repeat it.

Luckily, when his ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners, his father had still been alive and Luke had yet to inherit the family business. If he’d been blind to Jillian’s machinations for another year or two, the outcome would have been much worse.

Della shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap. “Good evening, Mr. Marlow.”

“I hope you had a pleasant afternoon. Unfortunately, I had no luck locating you to continue our discussion.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said pleasantly enough, but it was clear she wasn’t sorry in the least. “How fortunate that you’re on a cruise ship equipped with many ways to fill your afternoon.”

Before he could reply a middle-aged man in the crisp white uniform that indicated his senior crew member status stopped at Della’s shoulder. “Della, I was so pleased when I heard the outcome of Patrick’s will. We’re all so glad for you.”

“Thank you, Colin.” Her chin lifted ever so slightly, as if she was meeting a challenge. “I appreciate it.”

He glanced at Luke, as if remembering he was there. “And you, too, Mr. Marlow.”

“Thank you,” Luke said. But he’d caught the undercurrent—the crew was pleased that one of their own had inherited a share of their home and workplace. Understandable, even if the situation wouldn’t stand like this for long.

Colin turned back to Della. “You’ll be resigning your post as doctor, I assume.”

“I haven’t made any decisions yet,” she said calmly. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to leave Dr. Bateman in the lurch.”

The man laid a hand on her shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze before moving along. Uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t liked seeing another man’s hands on Della’s bare flesh, Luke watched her over the rim of his wineglass as she straightened the cutlery beside her plate. She’d changed when the man had said he was happy for her. And now a woman sitting two seats farther along than Della leaned over and congratulated her, and again, Della seemed uncomfortable. Almost as if her colleagues being happy for her made her nervous. Interesting.

When Della turned back, Luke laid a hand over her forearm to ensure her attention wouldn’t be stolen this time. She glanced up, as if startled by the touch, but he left his hand on the warmth of her skin. “We need to talk. To finish the conversation we started earlier.”

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I know.”

A man hovered at Della’s shoulder and she began to turn, but Luke tightened his grip on her forearm to a firm but gentle hold. Della held his gaze and the man stepped away.

“We can’t talk privately here,” Luke said. “As soon as dinner is over we’ll go somewhere where no one can interrupt.” He glanced around at the people nearby who were subtly—or not so subtly—watching them. “Or eavesdrop.”

She scanned his face for long moments before nodding. “I know a place.”

“Good,” he said and turned to face the table again. “As soon as we’ve finished eating, you’ll take me there.”

He’d prefer to go at once, but was prepared to be civilized. And it was better for the crew to see them handling this in a calm manner. Skittish crew members would spook the passengers.

As would a challenge to Patrick’s will through the courts. Which was why he’d prefer to resolve this as quickly and as privately as possible. Of course, if he couldn’t obtain the outcome he wanted privately with Della, a legal challenge was still plan B.

Della smiled at an older couple taking their seats on her other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Flack, Mrs. Flack.”

She turned back to Luke. “Mr. Marlow, this is Mr. and Mrs. Flack. They’re regular patrons of the Cora Mae.”

Mr. Flack leaned across to shake Luke’s hand while his wife said, “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Marlow.”

Luke stood and reached down in front of Della to shake the guests’ hands, an action that gave him a burst of her perfume, a brush of her arm. He refused to let it affect him, and took his seat again.

The wine waiters came and delivered their drinks, and soon all ten seats at the table had filled and Captain Tynan led the conversation among the group. He was obviously an old hand at this, and it gave Luke an opportunity to observe Della some more. Preparation was the key to any confrontation, and he had a lot riding on their meeting after dinner.

After the waiter had taken their meal orders, the main conversation trailed off and Luke turned to Della. “Tell me about yourself.”

She took a sip of her wine before answering. “You didn’t come to dinner to talk about me. How are you finding your cabin?”

Luke toyed with the stem of his glass as he watched her. In some ways, Della reminded him of a cat—detached and ready to turn and walk away at the slightest provocation. What would make a professional, independent woman like Della feel that way? Was it the conflict with him over the Cora Mae, or her reaction to him personally? It was an intriguing question. But he allowed the change of subject to pass without comment.

“Surprisingly comfortable,” he said and leaned back in his chair. The duplex suite they’d been able to find him at short notice was much more spacious and luxurious than the cruise ships of his childhood. Ships had come a long way in twenty-five years, or at least his uncle’s had. “To be honest, I’m a little surprised at the high standard.”

“The Cora Mae is a luxury cruise liner. Our guests expect nothing less than absolute quality.” She tilted her head to indicate the expansive dining room, decorated in opulent whites and sparkling crystal, its walls draped in lilac gauzy fabric. In the soft glow of the room’s light, she was breathtaking. His pulse picked up speed. She wore a simple teal evening gown and the lightest of makeup, her nut-brown hair hanging in loose, shiny curls. Yet, for all her understatement, there was a magnetic charge that surrounded her.

He cleared his throat. “Have you had a busy time in the medical rooms since I was there?”

“I was only on duty until the will reading, so there wasn’t too much,” she said, absently wiping a finger through the condensation on the side of her glass.

“No other stitches?”

One side of her mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “You were the only one. After you left I saw a case of sunburn, a twisted wrist from a fall over a mat and one child with a bee sting.”

“Was the mat on the ship?” he asked casually, words like liability and lawsuit flashing through his mind.

She shook her head. “A guest who’d been ashore for the day.”

He nodded and sipped his wine. He’d only just inherited the ship—well, half the ship—and legal action or other complications weren’t the best way to start.

He tipped his glass toward her. “So I was the most interesting patient of the day?”

“You could say that,” she conceded with a smile.

“Then I’m glad my suffering was of service,” he said slowly. For a fleeting moment, the veil lifted and awareness flashed in her toffee-brown eyes. Something in that awareness, in the yearning that lay behind it, called to him on a primal level, made his blood pump faster, hotter. His muscles tensed, then she blinked and the expression, and the moment, were gone. He’d felt a similar pull when she’d first arrived at the table. There was some chemistry between them, no denying it. Also no denying that Della wasn’t happy about it.

He’d never had to try too hard with women before—even Jillian, the wife who’d left him in such grand style, had practically handed herself to him on a platter. The fact that Della—despite her attraction to him—would be more comfortable somewhere else fascinated him more than he would have predicted.

Their meals arrived and Della was drawn into other conversations. Luke talked to the captain beside him and others around the table, but part of his attention remained on Della, whether he wanted it to or not. He knew when she took a bite of her roast vegetable salad. Knew when she touched her mouth with her napkin. Listened to her gentle laugh. Smelled a faint vanilla fragrance when she ran her fingers through her hair. And he silently cursed himself for it. Because in less than an hour, she’d once again be his opponent.

Three

Della unlocked the door to the ship’s library and led the way, flicking on the lights as she went. The room was usually staffed by a crew member for the few hours a day it was open, and outside those times it had become her secret space.

Luke glanced around at the shelves of books and nodded. “Will we be interrupted by people needing a book for nighttime reading?”

“Opening hours are long over. No one will come in until ten tomorrow morning.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Is it normal for the ship’s doctor to have a key to the library?”

“Not especially,” she said and felt the corners of her mouth tug into a smile. “My father used to be captain of this ship, and he gave me the key because he knew how much I loved it in here. I let the new captain know after Dad’s retirement and he was happy to leave the arrangement as is.”

The librarian had also told the new captain that Della helped keep shelves in order on her frequent visits, so on that point alone he’d been keen to keep her access unfettered. When she couldn’t sleep, she liked handling books. Putting them in their proper place. Creating calm and order from chaos. She’d also occasionally bought books when she went ashore and donated them to the library, loving the feeling of being part of this special place.

“Of course,” Luke said. “Your father is Dennis Walsh. Patrick mentioned him occasionally.”

She wasn’t surprised Patrick had mentioned his friend, but she didn’t want to discuss her family with Luke Marlow. So she indicated two upholstered armchairs, arranged at right angles to each other, and they sat. Then she waited.

Luke rested an ankle on his knee and steepled his fingers. “I’ve been thinking. For whatever reason, Patrick wanted to leave you something more than, say, a rare bottle of wine. He didn’t have much cash or other assets since most of his wealth was tied up in the Cora Mae, so by giving you half the ship, knowing I’d buy you out, he was able to leave you a generous financial gift.”

Luke seemed so sure, so confident of himself and his words. It was in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. She hadn’t had that sort of confidence in years—and she certainly didn’t have it about Patrick’s intentions.

She tilted her head to the side as she studied him. “What makes you think he didn’t want to leave me half a ship?”

“Patrick’s father was Arthur Marlow, my grandfather,” he said without hesitation. “He started a company called Marlow and Sons. It owned many ships, including the original Cora Mae, which was named after his wife.”

She knew the ship’s history from Patrick, and had a feeling where Luke was going with this. “There’s a portrait of your grandmother hanging in the lobby. I’ll show you later if you like.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her offer. “When Arthur died he split the company equally between his two sons. My father sold his ships and bought hotels instead, which he passed to me when he died. Patrick stayed in ships—he started with several but during some lean times, consolidated down to the flagship, the Cora Mae. After it became apparent he wouldn’t have children of his own, Patrick made it very clear that he wanted to reunite the family company through me.”

She leaned back in her chair. There was logic to his story, to his sense of expectation of inheriting, but life didn’t always fit into neat boxes, or sit on the shelves in the correct order like the books that surrounded them. Sometimes the unexpected and the irregular were part of life, too. She had no idea what Patrick had been thinking, but he must have had some reason for leaving her half a ship. She just had yet to understand his purpose.

“So,” she said, choosing her words with care, “because the Cora Mae has been in your family, it should simply stay in your family?”

His eyes narrowed. “Cora Mae was my grandmother. We’re talking about more than an asset owned by someone I’m related to. This ship is part of the fabric of my family.”

“And you think Patrick didn’t intend for me to keep the half he gave me?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’ll buy your half-share and you get the windfall my uncle wanted you to have.”

She glanced through the porthole at the moonlight glinting on the rippled surface of the ocean. Allowing Luke to buy her out was the easiest option, sure, but she wouldn’t be railroaded.

“What happens if I don’t sell my half to you?” she asked, turning back to him.

“An untenable situation is created. Both of us would have 50 percent so neither would have a controlling interest. We’d have to agree on all major decisions for any real management to happen.”

She could see his point, and understood the inherent problems in the current arrangement, but one thought kept floating to the surface—what if Patrick had wanted her to have half the ship for some reason? He’d known how much Della loved the Cora Mae. Della had grown up on the ships her parents worked on, and her father had been captain of the Cora Mae until his retirement twelve months ago. When he’d offered her a job as a doctor working alongside her mother, she’d jumped at the chance, then spent a year working and cruising with her family. Her mother had retired at the same time as her husband, but Della had stayed. She felt more at home out to sea than she did on land. And the Cora Mae was her favorite of the ships she’d lived on, so the sense of ownership she had for the ship probably wouldn’t surprise anyone.

She stood and smoothed her hands down her dress. “I’m going to have to think about this, Luke. Selling you my half isn’t something I’d do lightly.”

In a flash, he was standing beside her. “How about this. Sell me a 10 percent share. I’ll pay double its worth, so you’ll still end up with a substantial lump sum.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “This is the valuation of the ship that I had done a few days ago. Take 10 percent of that bottom figure and double it.”

Della felt her eyes widen as she gripped the page. It was more money than she’d dreamed of.

“There will be stability to the management,” Luke continued, “and you’ll still get to keep your connection to the ship, plus the cash. Everybody wins.”

Her breath caught. The idea of having a hand in the future directions of her beloved Cora Mae, the promise of the money and the freedom that would bring...it was overwhelming.

Yet, what if Luke was wrong and Patrick had wanted her to have half the ship for some reason? The will reading had only been a few hours ago and in that short time there had already been twists and turns to the situation. It was too much to take in at once.

“I need to think it over.” She refolded the page and handed it back to him. Instead of taking it, he enfolded her hand in his, crumpling the paper inside their two sets of fingers and infusing her hand with warmth.

“The longer this draws out, the worse it is for the ship and her crew. They need stability,” he said, his voice and eyes both urging her to agree.

Her stomach dipped. So many people would be affected by her decision. But that only made it more imperative that it was the right one.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marlow,” she said, straightening her spine. “This is too big a decision to rush. I’ll contact you when I’ve made up my mind.”

He gazed at her for a long time, far from happy. “I won’t wait forever,” he said, and walked out, leaving her in the library alone.

* * *

Thirty-six hours later—thirty-six hours in which he’d neither seen nor heard from Della—Luke walked along a path in the Sydney Botanical Gardens. They’d docked in Sydney that morning, and before he could find her, Della had left the ship. He was out of time and patience, so, after finding out the direction she’d headed in, he’d followed her.

He didn’t have the luxury of time to sit around and wait any longer. Even without the mess of Patrick’s will to sort out, he had a full-time job running Marlow Hotels. He would not twiddle his thumbs waiting for a summons from Dr. Della.

Scanning the crowd, he finally saw her up ahead. The graceful way she moved, the cloud of soft brown hair that sat like a halo around her head. His pulse picked up speed and for a few dangerous seconds, he forgot why he needed to see her and simply appreciated her. But he wouldn’t allow himself the indulgence for long. Too much was at stake.

“Nice day for a walk,” he said when he drew alongside her.

As she turned, her eyes flared in surprise then narrowed. “Mr. Marlow. What a coincidence.”

“Not so much,” he said with a casual shrug. “The captain told me you had the day off.”

“And you guessed that in a city of four and a half million I’d be in this exact spot.” She arched a dark eyebrow. “Impressive.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite his best intentions. “The captain might also have mentioned that you have a fondness for the Gardens.”

“Ah.” She glanced across at a display of native flowers. “Considerate of him to throw that information around. Crew privacy is usually respected.”

“I’m not a random passenger. And you’re no longer a mere crew member of the Cora Mae.”

“Perhaps, but I am still the ship’s doctor.”

Yes she was, but a young doctor with the world at her feet cloistering herself away on a ship made about as much sense as Patrick’s will. He glanced over, looking for a clue, but he found nothing. He needed to understand—to work out what had happened with his uncle, it was important to figure out the woman who was at the center of it all.

“I’ve been wondering something,” he said and dug his hands into his pockets.

Her eyes flicked to him then back to the trees they were passing. “I have a feeling I’ll regret this, but tell me.”

“I’ve seen your résumé. Why are you wasting your medical skills on a ship where you’re hardly using them?”

“I see patients every day.”

“For seasickness and sunburn?”

“Some of the issues are minor, but we’re trained to handle outbreaks of contagious diseases and disasters out to sea. And passenger death is not unheard of. It’s imperative that the ship’s medical staff is highly trained and capable.”

“I don’t doubt it. But why would someone as young as you, with her whole promising career ahead of her, want to settle into a job where she could do ninety-nine percent of the tasks with her eyes closed?”

“I like the job,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Is that what you tracked me down to ask?”

Cupping her elbow, he led her to the side of the path so he wouldn’t have to share her attention with the plant life of Sydney. “We need to resolve the ownership of the Cora Mae sooner rather than later. I have a job to get back to—I’d only planned to sail this first leg to Sydney then fly back to Melbourne. I need an answer to my offer.”

Her hand fluttered to circle her throat. “So soon?”

“Our situation has been reported on the news and if we leave it much longer, the uncertainty could affect my company’s shares on the stock market.”

“I don’t know—” she began, but he cut her off.

“How about this? The ship is scheduled to leave Sydney at midnight. Come to my cabin for dinner tonight. We’ll have privacy to thrash this out and come to an agreement. Then I’ll disembark before the Cora Mae sets sail for New Zealand.”

A tiny frown line appeared between her brows, then she blew out a breath. “You’re right. How does five-thirty suit?”

“Perfect,” he said and relaxed his shoulders. He’d resolve this and be on a flight to Melbourne in the morning.

They walked for a minute in silence, Luke’s thoughts dwelling on Patrick and what he could have intended by leaving half the ship to Della Walsh, if he’d been thinking at all when he wrote the will. But the other thought that had been pestering at the edges of his mind was why Patrick had felt it necessary to keep his illness a secret from his own family. That’s what family was for—to support each other in the hard times.

And if Patrick hadn’t made the call, then his doctor should have.

He planted his hands low on his hips and found the gaze of the doctor in question. “I need to know something. Once you knew how serious Patrick’s cancer was, once you knew he wouldn’t survive it, why didn’t you override his wishes and ring his family?”

Uncertainty flashed across her features. It had been fleeting, but he’d seen it. Then she found her calm composure again and crossed her arms under her breasts. “I have a question for you. Why didn’t you ever visit Patrick?”

Regret and grief and guilt coalesced into a hard, hot lump in his gut. “That’s irrelevant,” he snapped. He didn’t have to justify himself or his actions to a virtual stranger.

“Patrick invited you often.” Her voice was soft, probing. “If you’d come aboard, especially in the last year or so, you would have found out for yourself that he was seriously ill.”

“I’ve never been fond of sailing. Besides, I saw him when he came ashore so there was no reason.” But that answer didn’t satisfy the guilt that was eating at his gut, so he offered her a tight smile. “I need to get back to the ship to make some calls. I’ll see you at five-thirty.”

He turned on his heel and left.

* * *

At five-thirty, Luke showered and changed for dinner with Della. Walking down the stairs of his duplex suite, delicious anticipation sizzled through his bloodstream, making him pause. How long had it been since he’d looked forward to dinner with a woman this much? Della intrigued him—every word she’d said, every action, raised questions that begged him to find answers. Or challenged him the way she had this afternoon about Patrick. Either way, he was thinking about the lovely doctor far too often.

There was a danger in this.

He straightened his spine. He would not be distracted by a woman. His ownership of the Cora Mae was at stake.

He glanced around the suite’s dining room. The concierge had offered him staff from the butler service for the night, but he’d declined. These negotiations were delicate and they’d need privacy.

He strode from the carpeted staircase to the living room bar and found it well stocked with spirits, wines and soft drinks. All contingencies covered. He knew little about Dr. Della other than that she lived on a ship and had medical training, but at least he’d be able to cater for whatever drinks she preferred.

As he was reaching for a bottle of white wine, there was a knock at the door. Bottle in hand, he crossed the room and drew the door open. His breath caught deep in his throat. She wore a simple floral summer dress and heeled sandals that accentuated her shapely calves. Her loose hair shone in the hall lights, and his hand twitched, wanting to reach out and wrap one curl around his fingers.

Della smiled, but her eyes remained wary, as if still considering the wisdom of this meeting.

He cleared his throat and opened the door farther to allow her to pass. “I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, but didn’t enter.

Placing a hand under her elbow, he gently guided her over the threshold. “Come in.” When she took two small steps into the room, he closed the door and held up the bottle still in his hand. “Would you like red, white or champagne?”

She swallowed, her posture watchful and guarded. She was obviously deciding whether this meeting would be strictly business or whether she’d concede to a certain level of social nicety. He held her gaze, not pushing, not giving her the easy escape, either.

She nodded once, decision made. “White, please.”

A spark of satisfaction zinged through his system—she was going to play nice. It would allow him more opportunity to resolve the situation just between themselves, without getting courts and lawyers involved.

He poured them both a glass of sauvignon blanc and showed her to an armchair. “Are you hungry?”

“I only had a light lunch, so yes, I am,” she said.

He offered her the in-suite dining menu. “Since you’re hungry, we should order now.”

Della took the spiral-bound booklet but didn’t open it. He realized she lived here—she probably knew the options by heart.

He leaned back on the couch and laid an arm along the top. “What would you suggest?”

“Depends what you like. Everything is delicious so you can’t make a bad choice.” She shrugged a shoulder then sat, still and watchful. He saw a way to create some trust that could move them past her guardedness and help the negotiations that would begin soon.

He closed his menu. “Why don’t you order for both of us?”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, assessing the sincerity of his suggestion. “How do you feel about Italian?”

“I could be tempted.”

“Can I use your phone?”

“Please.” He reached for the handset on the table behind the lounge and passed it to her.

She dialed, then lifted her gaze to him. “Hi, Angie, it’s Della. Is Edoardo on tonight?” She smiled. “Can you ask him if he has enough of his eggplant parmigiana to send two servings up to Luke Marlow in the starboard owner’s suite?” There was a pause. “Excellent,” she said and disconnected.

He took the phone from her outstretched hand. “Am I right in assuming you’ve ordered us something that’s not on the menu?”

“You would be right.” She inclined her head, acknowledging his guess. “Edoardo used to occasionally make this dish for himself, then as people started tasting it, they’d put in a request for some the next night and it grew into a bit of a legend. Now he comes in early for his shift and makes a dish for any of the staff who want some. So he usually has a few plates’ worth of it at the back of the kitchen.”

There was a bigger story here—a piece of the Della Walsh puzzle. He gave her an unhurried appraisal. “You have three hundred and thirty staff members aboard the Cora Mae. He makes enough for them all?”

She shrugged. “Many work over the dinner shift, either in food service or entertainment, and on their break they eat at the staff canteen.”

“There would still be a lot of staff off duty,” he said.

As her lashes swept down then up, she reminded him of the movie stars of the sixties—beautiful, sophisticated and unattainable. One step removed from her surroundings, as if watching the world—him—from behind an impenetrable facade.

“Not all staff know about the secret parmigiana, do they?”

“We have a large amount of casual workers. They come on for a year to see the world, and then they leave to settle down somewhere.”

“Not you.” He took another sip of his wine and watched her over the rim.

“I live here,” she said simply. “As do a core group of employees.”

The people who’d formed the protective circle around Della after the will reading. The people who seemed to constantly stop to congratulate her on her windfall. “The parmigiana crowd.”

“If you like.”

He placed his empty glass on the coffee table and sat back. “Don’t you think you’ll want to leave to settle down on land at some point? Marry?”

“I won’t marry,” she said with certainty.

There was more to that, but he could see by the set of her chin she wouldn’t share. Not that he blamed her for that attitude—his marriage to Jillian had been the worst mistake he’d ever made.

He changed tack, still trying to build some rapport so she wouldn’t be so resistant to him and would finally agree to sell her share of the ship. “Tell me about the Cora Mae.”

Her eyes warmed. “She’s a beautiful ship, a floating piece of heaven. A sanctuary.” The last word was a murmur, as though it slipped out as an involuntary afterthought. She cleared her throat and continued. “The architecture of the shopping deck alone was a huge design task and won several awards.”

Luke listened with half an ear as Della continued to espouse the merits of the ship, but one word replayed in his mind. Sanctuary. Why would Dr. Della Walsh— attractive, intelligent, well-educated—need a safe haven? She should have the world at her feet.

Perhaps it had something to do with that guarded expression he’d seen a few times, the one hiding an old hurt.

He caught himself, annoyed. What was he doing wondering about the private thoughts of this woman? That was a completely different matter to building rapport. He blew out a breath then met her gaze. Time to finish this charade.

“Dr. Walsh, what will it take for you to sell me all or part of your share of the ship?”

Four

Della cast a quick glance around Luke’s suite—one small microcosm of the ship she loved, its gold-and-maroon furnishings, the rich wood and curved walls. What would it take for her to sell her share of Patrick’s ship?

“It’s not that simple,” she said, shifting in her seat. “If I’d known Patrick was leaving me half the Cora Mae, naturally I would have told him not to. And in that conversation, he would have been able to explain why he was doing it. But I never had the chance to discuss it with him, so I’m not privy to his reasoning. And make no mistake, his reasoning faculties were sound till the end. How can I give it up if I don’t know why I have it in the first place?”

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