Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“Yep, in December.”

“How many kids does this make for your daddy?”

“Six.” With five different women, but he didn’t need to tell Allie that. She probably knew better than anyone.

According to legend, it was her great-great-grandma who’d cursed his family, vowing the Dumont men would never be lucky in love. It must’ve skipped a generation, though, because Marc was real good at getting lucky. Some might say an expert. He had women all over the parish—willing women who didn’t ask for more than a night of sweaty, tangled flesh and a quick good-bye. And unlike his dad, Marc had enough good sense to keep it wrapped. So what if a Dumont man hadn’t made it to the altar in almost a hundred years? If you asked him, that was a blessing, not a curse.

Allie took a step closer and fanned the back of her neck, filling his senses with the candied scent that clung to her body. It made him want to lick her throat to see what she tasted like.

“Been behaving yourself?” she asked.

“Only by default.” Marc retreated a pace. “I’m taking over the Belle . She keeps me pretty busy.”

That seemed to surprise her. “Your daddy’s retiring?”

Marc shrugged. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

But truth be told, the news had surprised him, too. In all the years Marc had spent working aboard his family’s riverboat, his old man had never found a nice word for him, never clapped him on the back for a job well done or given any indication that he’d trust Marc with the Dumont legacy. When he’d deeded over the Belle, he’d left Marc with seven words: She’s yours now. Don’t muck it up .

The old man neglected to disclose how much work the Belle needed or how much it would cost. Or, more importantly, that he owed the waitstaff and cleaning crew two months’ back wages. But if everything went according to plan, the two-week Mississippi cruise he’d booked should draw enough income to pay off the bank.

Which reminded him . . .

“I should run.” He nodded toward the French Market Place. “There’s a lot to do before the next trip.”

“Good luck. Don’t be a stranger, baby.” She winked an eye—the one the color of aged bourbon—and pulled open the door to her shop. A blast of cool, delicious air rushed onto the sidewalk as she stepped inside, and Marc pulled it deep into his lungs while his mouth watered.

Damn, he wished he could stay, and not for a bear claw, either.

He peeked through the glass and watched the gentle sway of Allie’s hips, then exhaled in a low whistle. If only she weren’t a Mauvais.

Marc shook his head and strolled onward. For no real reason, he crossed to the other side of the street before continuing to the river.

Marc shielded his eyes and gazed at the love of his life. She was seventy-five years old, high maintenance, and she’d been ridden hard by thousands of men, but he’d never beheld a more glorious sight than the Belle of the Bayou .

Sunlight glinted off the solid brass roof bell, polished to a gleam by Marc’s own loving hand. You couldn’t see it from here, but his family crest was engraved deep into the metal, a testament to four generations of Dumonts who’d broken their backs to keep Belle riverworthy. The steam whistle perched nearby like an open-beaked eagle, ready to call travelers aboard for relaxation and adventure.

Marc took in all four white-railed decks, lined with arched windows and doorways, and pictured them teeming with guests, imagined the inimitable noise of conversation and laughter reverberating off the water. From there, his eyes moved upward to the twin black smokestacks and the pilothouse beyond, where he would soon stand at the helm for the very first time as captain.

Lord, he couldn’t wait.

Even though Belle threatened to drown him in a tidal wave of debt, he couldn’t deny the surge of pride beneath his rib cage every time he looked at her.

But there was work to be done. A rhythmic percussion of clunks pierced the air as workmen hammered at the oak paddle wheel, repairing damage from last season’s collision with a bridge. John Lutz had parked his familiar windowless van near the dock, which meant the mechanics were already in the boiler room. Now Marc needed to schedule the last round of interviews and meet with his managerial staff—his brothers and Pawpaw.

Time to quit standing around.

He jogged up the bow ramp onto the main deck, then took the stairs to the second-floor dining room, where they’d always held their staff meetings. It was no coincidence that the executive bar—and all the top-shelf liquor on board—was located in that room. A couple fingers of Crown Royal Reserve made working with family a whole lot easier.

Marc tugged open the door, relieved to find the air conditioner running again. Nothing put a damper on a cruise like the reek of three hundred sweaty vacationers. He noticed the ancient red-and-gold-patterned carpeting had been steam cleaned. He hated that carpet. It had always reminded him of the creepy-ass hotel in The Shining . Maybe next season he’d have the cash to replace it.

All the tables were bare, chairs were stacked along the wall, and clear plastic bags of white linens from the dry cleaner had been tossed in the corner. Marc crossed to the far end of the room, where three heads were huddled in conversation—two blond, one gray. At the sound of his footsteps, Nick and Alex glanced over their shoulders and gave him a wave.

“Cap’n,” Nick said with a mock salute, then took a deep pull from his Heineken.

“Cap,” Alex parroted.

Most folks would never believe Marc was related to the towheads. He had Pawpaw’s tawny complexion, while Alex and Nick had inherited their mama’s Swedish coloring: blue eyes, fair hair, and skin that had to burn a few times before it tanned. Of Daddy’s brood, these two were the only ones who shared the same mother, but that’s because they were twins. Identical—right down to the matching cowlicks that swirled the hair above their left brows.

Marc had resented his baby brothers when Daddy had left his mama for theirs, until the same thing had happened to them a few years later. It was then, at the tender age of seven, that he’d learned to quit blaming his siblings for the sins of their father.

“Papa was a rolling stone,” all right. But no matter which woman he shacked up with, he’d always made time for all five of his sons . . . if working them to death aboard the Belle counted as quality time.

Marc took a seat at the head of the table, and Pawpaw pushed a tumbler of amber-colored liquid toward him. Breaking out the hard stuff already? That wasn’t a good sign.

“Drink up, boy,” Pawpaw said. “You’re gonna need it.”

Marc ground his teeth and glared at his brothers. The last time Pawpaw said those words, Nick had seduced the state inspector’s daughter and nearly cost the Belle her license.

“What’d you do?” he asked them. “Or should I say who ?”

The two shared a quick glance before simultaneously admitting, “The jazz singer.”

“Both of you?”

Alex held his palms forward. “She came on to me in the ballroom and practically ripped my pants off. How was I supposed to know she thought I was Nicky?” He elbowed his twin. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing her.”

“Well, ‘seeing’ is a strong word,” Nick argued. “It wasn’t as serious as all that.”

“Mother of God.” And Marc thought he got around. Fresh out of college and still in frat mode, these two made him look like an altar boy. “I assume she quit,” he said.

“Yep,” Pawpaw answered. “Called in this mornin’. But jazz singers are more common than mosquitoes in July round here. That’s not why you need the sauce.”