Jill Shalvis - The Trouble With Paradise

Dorie gripped the railing. “Hello?”

The voices-low, probably male, but with the wind and the water hitting the sides of the boat, she couldn’t swear to it-went silent.

She strained her ears but could hear nothing. Real or Memorex? After all, she’d had that glass of champagne, and her brain had been scrambled by Cute Guy Overload Syndrome. Maybe she’d return to her room, change for the Meet and Greet, and ice her ankle. Maybe sip some more champagne. Turning back the way she’d come, she limped down the stairs.

“Shh, goddamnit.”

She hadn’t imagined that. She went still. “Hello?”

Nothing.

Creeped out now, and just barely managing not to break her neck, she hurried, heading for… she didn’t know, except she needed to see another human being. She headed back to the last person she’d seen.

Grumpy Gorgeous Doctor.

Given that she’d clocked him in the head and spread iced tea all over him, he wouldn’t be happy to see her. Even without those things he wouldn’t be happy to see her, because she hadn’t made much of an impression.

No problem. He didn’t fit her qualifications either. Hell, she wasn’t even entirely sure he was human-which in no way explained why she was heading straight for him, bursting into his office without knocking.

He stood there, being swallowed whole by a tall, leggy, buxom blonde who even on a very good day for Dorie, which this was most definitely not, would have made her feel extremely inferior.

At her sudden entrance, both the beautiful hottie and the grumpy hottie looked up. The beautiful hottie had a canary-eating smile on her face. Dr. Christian Montague had lipstick all over his jaw.

So much for kicking her life into gear.

Definitely Life Kicking Dorie Day.

Damn it.

Dorie stared at the couple for one beat before she managed to come to her senses. “I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”

The woman smiled. “No problem.”

Dorie whirled, hightailing it back down the hallway.

“Dorie, wait.”

That French accent made her name sound so exotic. She moved faster. Not easy with the twisted ankle and splinter in her tush.

“Damn it,” she heard him mutter, which only fueled her into moving faster. “Ow, ow, ow…” Painfully aware of him catching up, she grabbed her butt and limped as fast as she could. At least her tongue wasn’t swelling, but she could feel her ears flaming and her left eye began to twitch as she made it back to her room. Alone.

The champagne was warm, which was a damn shame because if ever there was a need for a drink, it was right now. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. Everything was going to be fine. Fun.

Or it would be, but first things first. The splinter had to go. She limped into the bathroom, where she searched the fathomless depths of her purse and pulled a pair of tweezers from her first-aid kit. Now all she had to do was reach the damn splinter, which wasn’t exactly in the most accessible place. She stripped out of her still wet sundress and undies, and then eyed the mirror over the pristine, sparkly sink.

Too high.

She had to climb on top of the closed toilet, twisting around, just barely managing to catch sight of her own pale behind.

Make that two splinters. With her handy-dandy tweezers she actually managed to get one. Holding it up in triumph, she did the pretzel twist again to reach the other, but no matter how she bent, she just… couldn’t… get to it-

She broke off trying at the knock on her stateroom door. She stared at herself in the mirror, naked except for her bra.

The knock came again.

“Uh… just a minute!” Hopping down, she limped to her bed and dug through her suitcase for a fresh pair of panties-

Another knock, this one more firm. “Dorie?”

Gorgeous Grumpy Doctor. Was Sailing Barbie with him? “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you.”

His French accent made him sound so formal, yet beguilingly intimate at the same time. “I’m a little busy.” Where were her panties?

“Come on, open up.”

Okay, forget her underwear, she had no time for underwear. She snatched another skirt and shoved her legs into it. “Now’s really not a good time.” She found a matching tank top, pulled it on, and hopped to the door, opening it just as Christian was lifting his hand to knock again. “Hi,” she said, breathless.

“Salut.” His gaze settled on her face, which she knew had to be beet red from the wild exertion. Not to mention the no-panty thing. He held a bag of ice in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Because you look like you have a fever.” He pushed his way into her room without waiting for an invitation, dropped the ice next to the champagne, then turned to face her.

She stood her ground in that small space, her skirt brushing her hips and legs… and various other parts that weren’t usually so intimately brushed against. “Perfectly fine.”

He arched a brow, silently reminding her of how she’d just burst in on him in his own office as if there’d been a fire on her tail, so how fine could she be.

“Okay, not so fine,” she admitted, letting out a long breath of air. “But I’ll handle it, thanks.”

Please go.

He was quiet a moment, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see far more than she liked. “I was with a patient-”

“Yes, I could see that.”

“I think you misunderstood what you saw-”

She lifted a hand. “None of my business.”

“Clearly you needed something.”

She’d needed comfort. Now all she needed was underwear. “No. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

A silly mistake. So she’d overheard a strange conversation. A really strange conversation. Big deal.

“Coup de grace, huh?”

“What?”

“I’ve irritated you to the final straw, and now you’re done talking.”

“Oh. Well…” Not irritated exactly.

He scrubbed a hand over his face so that she could hear the rasp of his day-old beard. Then he pulled off his baseball cap and ran his fingers through his hair, which was several weeks past a badly needed haircut, and yet somehow the long dark waves looked right on him. Slightly scruffy.

Edgy.

Dangerous.

Thanks to his fingers, his hair stood up a little, but he either didn’t realize or didn’t care. She voted for option number two, and when he jammed on his hat again and looked at her with frustration brimming from that steely gaze, the oddest thing happened.

A frisson of heat coursed through her.

Uh-oh.

Where was this coming from? She didn’t know, but it was going to stop. He was clearly involved with Sailing Barbie. She gestured to her door.

With a long look that she couldn’t even begin to interpret, he moved-but not out. He came right toward her, stopping only when he was so close she could see his eyes had black flecks swimming in the flinty gray. So close she could smell his soap, or shampoo, or whatever it was that smelled woodsy and cedary and really quite amazing. Close enough so she could see that although his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were, a phenomenon that did something to her, something that definitely hadn’t happened when Andy had smiled at her, or any of the other men.

Not that she wanted to think about what that meant.

“One thing,” he said, lifting a hand to the wood above her head, then leaned in even closer. His long, lean, rangy form surrounded her now, his every exhale brushing the hair at her temple. He had a scar that bisected his left eyebrow, and her finger inexplicably itched to touch it.