Rachel Bailey - Countering His Claim

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?”

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