Chapter 9
The rest of the week followed pretty much the same pattern as the first day.
Theo driving the boat around islands, stopping here and there as the whim took them.
Water sports, swimming, beer drinking, tenders taken into island villages, freshly caught and cooked seafood bought straight from fisherman plying their catch from their berths in stone-walled harbours.
And in the evenings, his daily dose of torture thanks to Tiffany and that uniform.
He’d seen her during the day of course, serving drinks and meals and being friendly and chatty with the guys, usually about Australia and her family cattle station in the Top End – as it was apparently known.
They loved her, a fact they never tired of telling him.
And as far as crew went, she was exceptionally good.
Efficient, friendly, no drama. Fitting in with not just his guests but the crew, who also loved her and never tired of telling him, either.
But it was evening Tiffany that had him tossing and turning in his sheets every night.
Sexy, bossy, in charge. Running the tables with a strict decorum but always with a sassy flash of her red lips and that wicked sense of humour.
Goading, charming, daring them to part with their chips.
Until finally the last night which, frankly, despite the good times this past week catching up with his old friends, Theo had been looking forward to, far too much. Only one more session with Tiffany in that uniform.
He might actually manage to keep his sanity intact.
Because it was their last night on the boat – and probably because Theo just wanted it over and done with – the guys were apparently indefatigable, and by the time he ordered their drunk and comically disorderly asses out of his saloon at almost two in the morning, he was unaccountably twitchy.
There was an itch in his blood and a tension in his muscles and a throb in his groin that made him want to peel his skin off.
Partly because, unlike his friends, he’d barely had anything to drink. Mostly because tonight, instead of keeping eye contact with him to a minimum, Tiffany had side-eyed him so often it was a wonder she hadn’t developed a nystagmus.
Which was the tuxedo’s fault.
When Fabian had suggested a few days back that they should have some tuxedos delivered to the boat and wear them for their last casino night to surprise Tiffany, it had seemed like a fun idea and the guys had been all in.
And she had been surprised.
In fact, she’d gaped as they’d sauntered into the saloon in their black pants and black jackets complete with black satin lapel, snowy-white shirts and black bowties. Then she’d laughed, inspecting each man and nodding with approval, dropping a quip about being in the presence of the Rat Pack.
But then her gaze landed on him and it seemed like the dumbest idea in the history of dumb ideas.
Because there’d been no brisk approval, no quick quip.
Just the parting of that red mouth and the cling of her gaze as it had lingered over the contours of his tux.
From the broad cut of his shoulders down to the tips of his shiny black leather shoes.
And up again.
In that instant Theo’s entire world narrowed down to the thorough caress of her gaze. The noise and chatter of the guys helping themselves to drinks had receded as the tempo of his heartbeat, a slow thud in his ears, had taken over.
When her eyes had returned to his, Theo had seen the same hunger in her gaze he’d seen the night of the wedding. When he’d also been wearing a tux.
But she’d merely said, ‘Don’t scrub up too badly there, boss,’ as she’d pulled her gaze off him to the activity at the bar and asked, ‘Who wants to lose their money first?’
Unanimously, the guys had nominated Fabian and laughter filled the saloon, breaking Theo out of his daze, his surroundings coming back into sharp focus again, his body systems coming back online.
Air had rushed in and out of his lungs, his legs had solidified beneath him and, consciously, he’d slipped his business mask on because it was going to be the only way he’d remember that Tiffany fucking Wainwright was totally off limits.
And he’d needed it every time her hazel gaze had strayed in his direction.
Unlike other nights, she hadn’t rationed her interactions with him, hadn’t kept a tight rein on how many times she looked at him. Sure, they may have only been brief lapses, but every single one of them had left sticky fingerprints all over his libido.
And now here they were. Alone again. His one-and-done rule and that fucking no-sex dare doing little to cool the fever running though his blood.
Would Ari know if he broke it? No. But Theo would know…
‘I’m sorry about keeping you up so late,’ he murmured as he headed for the bar and the whisky like he’d done that first time but not since.
Because he hadn’t wanted to put himself in the path of temptation.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t feeling rational. He owned this goddamned boat – he could sit in this bar all fucking night if he wanted. Of course, he should not do that. He should not have the drink he was pouring. He should not do anything other than get his ass to bed.
But the path to temptation was littered with should nots.
‘I don’t mind.’
Her voice was quiet and stilted and Theo glanced in her direction to find her head down, sorting chips, stacking methodically, denying him eye contact, denying him the hunger he knew still lurked in her pragmatic hazel eyes.
And it felt like a spike was being driven into the base of his skull because he wanted her to look at him, he wanted to see that hunger again now they were alone.
Even if he couldn’t touch. Even if he could only look.
Taking a sip of his drink, he lounged against the bar as he’d done that first night, arms spread akimbo, the glass dangling from his fingers as Tiffany’s fingers sorted and stacked. Sorted and stacked. Sorted and stacked.
They were quick and nimble, obviously accomplished at the activity.
As accomplished as they’d been at other activities that had created havoc across his body.
His belly heated at the memories and he was instantly annoyed at his lack of control where she was concerned, the nail driving in a little further.
‘Just leave them,’ he said testily. ‘Go to bed. It’s late and the equipment doesn’t have to be returned until tomorrow afternoon. You’re officially off the clock.’
Her chin lifted and she pierced him with a haughty glare.
‘I’m a grown adult, Theo. I decide when I go to bed, not you.
’ The frost in her voice belied the fire in her eyes.
‘It’s stacking chips, not digging ditches.
It’s hardly difficult. And it’s part of my goddamned job.
On or off the clock, I’ll leave when it’s done. ’
Theo blinked at her outburst. Was this tension between them getting to her, too?
If he’d been another kind of boss, he could have chided her over her insubordination or for defying a direct order, but he was too busy revelling in the fire that had flared like brimstone in her eyes.
Fire that lit an answering flare in his body, licking heat to every inch.
He held up his palms in a do as you like gesture, and she got back to the task, the blur of her fingers and the clink of chips keeping him company as he sipped his whiskey.
‘Must you watch?’ she asked after a minute, interrupting the wild churn of his thoughts.
She didn’t look up from the table, but the thick thread of exasperation in her voice was clear.
Theo almost laughed. Her question implied he had some control over this thing when he decidedly did not.
He couldn’t not look at her. But he wasn’t about to admit to that, so he settled for answering her question with another.
‘Can I help?’ He hadn’t asked last time but her mood hadn’t been so hostile and the tension between them hadn’t been as thick and knotted as it was now after six nights of this tango. ‘Two hands are faster than one, right?’
Her head snapped up, her eyes flashed. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
Theo, unperturbed by her irritation, shrugged. ‘Not tired.’ Which probably made him sound like a petulant child, but he knew another long night of thinking about her in that uniform awaited him and if he was going to be haunted by it, he’d rather see the real thing.
Finishing his whisky, he straightened and half turned to pour himself a second, adding three fingers to the glass before sliding the stopper into the neck of the decanter.
Taking a sip, he placed the tumbler on the bar then shrugged out of his jacket and threw it around the back of a high-backed stool.
Between the fever in his blood and the brimstone in her eyes, he was too damn hot for a jacket.
When he glanced at Tiffany again, she hadn’t returned to her chip sorting. She was just standing there, her eyes roving over his chest like she was trying to decide where might be a good place to take a bite.
And fuck if that didn’t feel like a sledgehammer to his dick.
There was nothing for it now as the devil took hold. The frankness of her gaze only made him hotter and there was no way was he stopping at his jacket. Casually, he reached for his bowtie and pulled on a tail, a surge of very male satisfaction flaring through his body as her eyes bugged.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice a breathy thread of air suspended between them.
The entire bow came undone with that one movement and he left the tails hanging down to look all James Bond and badass as he reached for the top button of his shirt.
It felt like a noose around his neck as a well of desire flushed from his groin to his belly to his chest, surging like a tsunami to flood his throat.
‘It’s hot in here, don’t you think?’
‘No.’ She shook her head as her gaze fell to the twist of his fingers.