Robert Browne: Down Among the Dead Men

It took them three tries to find a bar they liked.

The first was close to the bow of the ship-the Seafarer’s Lounge, a large, glow-in-the-dark cave that was packed to the gills with drunken karaoke lovers.

Beth told him she’d rather eat ground glass than go inside.

Taking the elevator to Deck Eleven, they were halfway to the next one, a place called the Vibe, when the sound of raucous laughter and a pounding bass beat assaulted them.

Without a word, Rafael took her by the elbow and steered her away-winning points in the process-then led her through a long hallway to a set of wrought-iron steps that wound downward to a small, enclosed piano bar.

This was more like it.

The place was sparsely populated, a slightly elevated stage featuring a solo pianist playing a slow jazz tune, Bill Evans or Herbie Hancock or- Beth wasn’t sure who. Peter had been the jazz buff in the family.

Rafael’s hand touched the small of her back, gently guiding her toward the bar itself, a wide semi-circle that dominated the place.

She had to admit she liked the feel of that hand.

“Shall we sit here?” he asked.

“Wherever you want.”

The bartender, a tall Norwegian whose name tag read edvard, nodded to them as they slid onto stools.

Beth was carrying nothing but a small clutch purse that held her cell phone, a packet of gum, lipstick, a couple of Band-Aids, and her seafarer’s card. The cards were given to passengers as they checked in at port, and not only unlocked their stateroom doors but also were linked to their identification.

And, more important, to their credit cards. The seafarer’s cards were used as cash aboard ship for paperbacks and trinkets and toiletry kits and drinks. Mostly drinks. Beth imagined that quite a few guests would be in for a shock when the final bill was tallied.

As she laid her purse on the bar, Rafael brought out his own seafarer’s card and handed it to Edvard.

“Tequila Tonic,” he said, then turned to Beth and waited.

She smiled. “Long Island Iced Tea.”

It was a strong drink-what her boss had once called, dollar for dollar, the best value in booze-but she knew her limits, and didn’t imagine she’d be flashing her boobs anytime soon.

Edvard nodded, carried the card to the register, passed it under a scanner, then handed it back to Rafael and began mixing their drinks.

“For the record,” Rafael said, “I don’t normally skulk around in the dark, spying on beautiful women.”

It took Beth a moment to realize she’d been complimented-something she wasn’t used to these days-but she said nothing.

“You know that, si? That you’re beautiful?”

She smiled again. “I’m sure that kind of flattery works on your typical tourist. Unfortunately, I have a mirror. More than one, in fact.”

Not that she considered herself ugly, by any means. Or even plain. But when she looked into those mirrors, what she saw staring back at her was no movie star. She was a slightly above-average woman who could stand to lose five pounds. At the very least. And when she wore the right makeup, the right outfit, the right shoes, she might even lean toward attractive.

But beautiful? That was Jen’s territory, not hers.

“True beauty,” Rafael said, “has little to do with the surface of the skin.”

Oh, brother. Deduct a boatload of points for that one. Pun intended.

She touched her heart. “Let me guess. It’s what’s in here that counts.”

He frowned. “Why do you mock me?”

“Sorry. But I know a line when I hear it. Especially when it’s not all that original.”

“I don’t claim originality. Only sincerity.”

“That’s sweet, Rafael, it really is, but you just met me. For all you know, I’ve got the heart of a Gila monster.”

“I know people,” he said. “Or perhaps I should say I sense them.”

“Sense them?”

“I am a student of the soul. I see things that most people overlook.”

Beth studied him. Was this more bullshit on top of the previous shovelful, or did he actually believe what he was saying?

Determined not to let the surface of his skin cloud her judgment-God, he was gorgeous-she decided to keep the red flag flying.

For now, at least.

She was not, after all, merely Beth the Dutiful. She was also Beth the Cautious. A trait that had served her well over the years. If you didn’t count her ex-husband, that is.

Of course, none of this kept her from thinking about that hand on her back. Or those eyes.

Edvard set their drinks in front of them and Beth reached for hers, took a sip.

Strong as predicted, but manageable.

“I’ve offended you,” Rafael said. “That certainly wasn’t my intention.”

“Just call me a skeptic. I make a living at it.”

“Oh? What do you do?”

She shook her head, suddenly sorry she’d brought it up. The last thing she wanted to think about was prosecuting rapists and pedophiles. That was buzz kill of the worst kind.

“Let’s talk about you, instead.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid I am not very interesting, but what would you like to know?”

“Where you’re from would be a start. Why you’re here.”

He took a sip of his tequila.

“My home is a place called Ciudad de Almas. But I do not spend much time there.”

“Why not?”

“My work requires me to travel. Mexico City. San Antonio. El Paso.” He gestured to their surroundings. “And sometimes I like to get away. Have some fun.”

“Alone?”

“That would be unusual?”

“Cruising doesn’t strike me as a solo sport.”

He smiled again. “You are right. I am traveling with someone.”

She knew he was too good to be true. But before she could give this too much thought, the lights began to dim and Rafael quickly checked his watch.

“Speak of the devil. We’re here just in time.”

“For what?”

He nodded toward the stage. “To meet my traveling companion.”

Beth turned as a spotlight came to life near the piano and a woman stepped onstage.

Tall. Brown. Exotic.

A cascade of raven hair. Dark eyes. A killer body in a black satin dress. A perfect combination of genes and breeding that sucked the life out of every other female in a room the moment she entered it. Including Beth.

In short, she was stunning.

Moving up to a microphone, she waited as the piano player tinkled a few keys, then she launched into a smoky Latin jazz tune-singing in Spanish, wrapping her voice around the words and melody in a way that Beth hadn’t quite heard before. Low, sultry, but with phrasing just unique enough to take her beyond the average lounge singer, into the realm of the anointed.

The cliche “oozes charisma” popped into Beth’s mind. And it was an accurate one.

Except for the piano and the sound of that voice, the bar was silent, all eyes riveted to the creature onstage. And Beth knew that the men in the bar-and possibly a few of their wives or girlfriends-were suddenly reevaluating their lives, wishing they could steal just a few moments away from their current entanglements to pursue this woman, no matter how futile such a pursuit might be.

Beth watched and listened, glancing at Rafael, thinking how well matched the two were. Perfect specimens-mirror images really-who belonged together.

As the song came to an end, the bar erupted into applause and whistles. The woman said a throaty “gracias,” then nodded to the piano player and launched into another tune, this one a bit more up-tempo than the first.

As Beth listened, she felt a hand graze her shoulder, then turned to find Rafael holding her drink.

“Don’t forget this,” he said.