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  “Thought you could use some lunch,” Chewy said, and stood back up. He motioned to a tray loaded with a shrimp salad, crusty fresh-baked bread, and a stack of Chef Maura’s trademark potato chip cookies.

  “You are so kind,” she said, and smiled at the young steward. He helped Rania to her feet and leaned close. He suddenly licked his index finger and tried to dab her forehead. Her training took over, and she ducked easily away from his hand.

  He jerked back and said, “Sorry, you don’t want my spit. I raised many of my sisters, you see.”

  “It’s not a problem,” she said, giving him a lopsided grin. She took the rag she’d been wiping her hands with and wiped her forehead. “Is all the oil gone now?”

  “Yes. You are once again pretty, and you have my vote for best-dressed engineer I’ve ever worked with,” he said.

  “You are too kind, but I doubt it.” Rania knew her uniform consisting of white overalls covering a black bikini was unusual for an engineer, but the places she had to work on yachts were frequently steamy-hot.

  She’d finished changing the oil, which entailed draining the hot liquid from the engine, topping up with new oil, and then re-checking the level, three of the dirtiest maneuvers in an engine room. She was ready for a break before moving on to monitoring the cooling system.

  “Thanks, Chewy. Fortunately, only the crew sees me like this.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I think it’s very sexy.”

  She wrinkled her nose and waved him away.

  He stood in the entry for a moment and gave her a calculating look. “You don’t believe me, but I’ll bet you a beer if you meet our client, and get his reaction, you’ll see. Trust me, that outfit is hot. You’re wasted down here.”

  Inside, Rania did a slow burn. She knew he meant well. However, this was the reaction she constantly encountered aboard yachts. She was tired of having to prove herself a competent engineer and forever explaining that, no, she was not the head stewardess. What she looked like, or how she dressed, shouldn’t matter.

  At first, she wasn’t going to take Chewy’s bet. Then she remembered the smooth way Moj had stood at the microphone and held his thousands of fans in thrall. He was a man so comfortable in his skin, she was sure uncertainty and self-doubt were not even on his radar. Suddenly, she wanted to meet him face-to-face, wanted to see if the hunger she’d seen the night of the concert would still be there.

  “You know what, Chewy? You’re on.”

  “All right, then,” he said, and grinned. “Why don’t you serve him drinks and apps at five? Showtime!” He backed through the entryway with a wave and pointed at her lunch on the bench. “Meet me in the galley at a quarter ’til, and I’ll set you up. You can pretend you’re his stewardess today.”

  After he disappeared to the top deck, Rania shivered a little. What had she gotten herself into?

  * * *

  Rania was nervous but remembered her early stewardess days and focused on balancing the tray of drinks and a basket of Chef Maura’s cheese sticks as well as a plate piled high with oysters chilling on a silver bowl of ice.

  She stepped onto the deck. The Indian Ocean couldn’t be greener under a sapphire sky dotted with clouds. A ferry churned water in the distance, moving past faded fishing boats and men throwing nets. Other superyachts lay anchored around the Bonnie Blue.

  When Rania approached the forward lanai with its deep cushioned benches, Moj had his back to her, pacing back and forth across the deck, still shouting into his phone. His wisp-like girlfriend frantically moved both thumbs across the screen of her phone, texting in silence with small, hot-pink buds corked inside her ears, a cord snaking down to her iPhone. It wasn’t a satellite phone, but she was connected to the Internet. The Bonnie Blue had Wi-Fi® broadcasting from an egg-shaped emitter attached to the mast.

  Something snapped inside Rania at the sight of Moj stalking across the deck. This poor man deserved a better escape from his worries and grief. He deserved a real vacation.

  After carefully placing the tray on the center table, she padded silently toward Moj in her Musto deck shoes. He still had his back to her, so she reached around his muscled arms from behind and deftly plucked the offending satellite phone he’d been shouting into all day.

  She would later wonder what in the hell came over her. But for now, she did the only thing she could think of. She tossed the offending device overboard and watched it disappear beneath the waves.

  Moj whirled, disbelief on his face.

  “Who do you think you are?” he demanded, “and why the hell did you think you could do that?” He ran to the safety line and leaned over, as if he could will his lost phone to rise from the sea. Then he marched back to her, his pointer finger raised and shaking. Back and forth he stalked, nearly sputtering with fury.

  Rania’s gut gave a lurch and plummeted to her shoes. The next time he headed to the safety line, she disappeared down the companionway and raced toward the crew quarters near the bow.

  * * *

  Mid-flight, Rania slammed into Lindsay’s first mate Tommy walking out of the crew galley with a snack.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Missy,” he said, and slid his arm around her shoulders while steering her back to the galley. He balanced an enormous hoagie in his other hand. “What happened?”

  She lifted her head numbly, unable to explain, her heartbeat an erratic accompaniment to dry-mouthed terror.

  Chef Alton Maura bent over an ice chest in the corner, stocking the crew fridge with vegetables and fruits, but looked up, a question on his face, when they charged through on their way to the crew mess behind the galley.

  Tommy pointed toward the booth. “Sit,” he said, “and tell me what caused you to nearly bowl me over.”

  “I did a terrible thing,” Rania confessed in a rush. “But I did it for Moj.”

  Tommy’s eyes widened while he listened and took an occasional bite from his sandwich, munching thoughtfully.

  She poured out her heart.

  “He’s been on that sat phone for days. Not just talking, but shouting his rage at everyone. It’s not good for him, and Captain Lindsay said he needed to relax. I guess I was brought up to honor and take care of the men in my life, and I finally snapped.” She looked for some kind of confirmation from Tommy, but he was silent and motioned for her to go on.

  “And I hate to admit this… I did feel a connection with him a few nights ago at the concert. Alton, Captain Lindsay, and I were in the VIP section, and Moj looked at me so intently, I could feel a connection. His soul shines out from his eyes.” The admission made her face glow red from embarrassment.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Tommy finally said, after hearing her shaky confession. “You felt you had to protect this guy even though you’d only seen him once before at the beach concert. Right? And listening to Lindsay’s cockeyed explanation of why he needs to ‘get away.’”

  She nodded her head in agreement.

  “Well, here’s the thing. I know you’ve worked a lot of gigs on yachts bigger than this glory tub, but you need to listen to Uncle Tommy, now.

  “Moj is our client, and although he’s a real stand-up guy, treats us all like family, he isn’t. He isn’t our friend, he isn’t one of the crew. He’s our client. You have to take a step back, think this through, and then go to Cap’n Lindsay and grovel, after which I’m sure she’ll tell you to apologize.

  “Knowing Moj,” Tommy added, “he’ll have a new phone by tomorrow, if he hasn’t dispatched a chopper already to bring him one tonight. He’s a good guy, but he’s super-famous, wicked-rich, and, Cowgirl, you know they’re different from us.”

  * * *

  Moj felt as though his head would explode. He kept reaching for the holster where his sat phone should be — but wasn’t, because of some vengeful Shiva goddess with sea-green eyes.

  Was it the same woman he’d seen at the concert? He couldn’t be sure.

  It didn’t matter. Who the hell did that sexy li
ttle stewardess think she was? And what the hell was Lindsay thinking, putting the woman in a uniform like that? The white overalls did little to hide the black bikini peeking out the side slits, not to mention her tall, lithe body when she glided across the deck.

  Cloude lay beside him, splayed out on a cushioned chaise in nothing but a bikini bottom, her head swaying back and forth in time to some kind of Eurotrash beat pounding into her earbuds. So loud, he had to wince at the amateurish blend. If she’d witnessed the shapely stew pitching his life-force phone overboard, she didn’t show any sign.

  Moj knew Cloude had seen it all. Though she might come across as the most self-absorbed chick ever, she wasn’t. Not a bit. Cloude might be willing to listen to him rant, but she wouldn’t be able to address the real issue.

  No, he owned this ship for a month, and he knew exactly who would listen to his bitching. Captain Lindsay Fisher. She had a personnel problem.

  He stalked aft to the wheel where Lindsay stood, an Aussie-style hat clamped over her blonde ’do. She was whistling, her eyes glued to the mainsail while she made a slight adjustment to the stiff easterly wind.

  Tommy popped up from the companionway and headed their way.

  “Captain Fisher, we have to talk,” Moj shouted over the wind.

  Lindsay gave him a smile, said, “Sure,” and turned the wheel over to her first mate.

  Moj noticed the look that passed between the two. Did Tommy know what had happened already?

  Lindsay motioned for him to follow her below, and she led him to the navigation area.

  “Take a load off,” she said, and gestured toward a cushioned bench along the bulkhead separating the station from the passageway through the center of the yacht.

  “I’m too angry to sit,” he said without preamble. “That stewardess of yours has to be disciplined.”

  She gave him a blank look.

  “You know, your stewardess,” he said, waving both hands in the air. “Tall, long dark hair, a body like there’s no tomorrow… and that crazy uniform. White overalls and a bikini? Really?” He paused and drew in a shaky breath. “She slapped down my happy hour stuff and then grabbed my phone and threw it overboard.”

  Lindsay sucked in a deep breath.

  “Moj, I don’t have a stewardess. Chewy is our only steward. Anything you need, he’s your guy. But really, any of us can help you. We aren’t specialists here.”

  “Then who is that woman? I thought Cloude and I were your only passengers.” Moj stopped suddenly. He was shouting at Lindsay, for God’s sake. “I saw her before, at the concert, I think.”

  “She’s my engineer,” Lindsay said, “and a damned good one. This ship is complicated. I needed help. She’s Egyptian and has two degrees, one in mechanical engineering from MIT and a master’s in naval architecture from Sweden’s Royal Institute of Technology. I was lucky to get her and gave her a two-year contract.

  “I have no idea why she would have served your drinks and apps, but I will speak to her immediately, and I promise you won’t see her for the rest of the cruise.”

  For some reason, Moj’s stomach roiled at the thought of never again seeing the vengeful goddess in overalls.

  “No, no, don’t do that,” he said in a rush. “I guess I’m just not used to someone attacking me and trashing my phone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lindsay said, with a wry smile. “Maybe you drove her to it. Anyone with the balls to stop your yapping on that brain-burning, soul-sucking sat phone joined to your ear either has a death wish or she’s sweet on you. You’re lucky Tommy didn’t serve your drinks. He might have chucked you over the gunnels along with the phone.”

  He crossed his arms and frowned. This conversation was not turning out the way he’d planned.

  “C’mon, for cripes sakes,” Lindsay pleaded. “Have your people fly a new one into Malé. I’ll take you to pick it up and knock off a thousand from your tab.”

  After a long pause and many dark looks, Moj took a sip from the sweating cold wine glass he still held. He pointed toward a snack tray on the nav table.

  She nodded and said, “Of course.”

  He leaned over and spread one of Alton’s creations onto a cracker.

  “That isn’t lobster cheese dip, is it?” he asked.

  “Um hmm,” Lindsay said, and leaned back in her chair.

  “I’ll forgive her this time,” Moj said, “but no more high-handed destruction of my stuff.” Then he asked, “Does Alton have more of this in the galley?” and pointed to his second dip-loaded cracker.

  “Um hmm,” she repeated. “Just let us know if there’s anything you want, anything at all. We’re all here to make you happy and help you relax.” She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I will talk to Rania and make sure she keeps a low profile for the rest of the cruise. She has plenty of maintenance and upgrades to keep her busy below decks.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rania ate dinner in her quarters on her bunk, the sunset glowing through the porthole. As she ate, she listened to the engine purring. Captain Lindsay had decided to motor away from the busy Malé harbor to a more remote anchorage. They’d stop before nightfall.

  Rania wasn’t hungry, but Alton had been cooking all day, making a variety of Indian cuisine, from blackened threadfin salmon to spicy lentils to chickpeas in a luscious butter sauce. While the food smelled divine, it was really her old drill instructor’s command, soldiers have to eat, that got her to pick up a fork.

  And Lindsay had made it clear Rania was a soldier on the Bonnie Blue, not only when it came to security; she also was expected to toe the line like the rest of the crew.

  The captain had ordered her to apologize to Moj, and Rania would need all her strength for the task.

  At least Chewy had let her out of the bet. There was no way to know what Moj thought of her outfit, dammit all. Now she had to beg his forgiveness. She thought about putting on a dress, maybe a little makeup for the job, but decided she didn’t care how she looked. Operation Apology didn’t require beauty, only honesty.

  Still, she brushed her hair and washed her face before taking the dishes to Alton in the galley. He was singing along to an old Merle Haggard song, “Okie from Muskogee.”

  When he saw her, the handsome chef plucked out his earbuds and smiled. “Are you on your way up to do your duty to God and country?”

  Rania wasn’t offended, but being a Muslim woman from Egypt, God and country were loaded terms.

  “I’m going to do the right thing,” she said. “I shouldn’t have thrown his phone overboard.”

  “Plucky,” Alton said. “Go up there and give him hell. In an apologetic sort of way. Was the food good?”

  “I ate way too much,” she said, and grabbed a circle of naan from a serving tray. “I can’t stop. You are the best. And you have a good taste in music.”

  “Tell me again why you like American country music?” he asked.

  “My father,” she said. “He loved Hank Williams for some odd reason.”

  “Not odd at all,” Alton shot back. “Hank Williams was a genius. Your father must’ve enjoyed the tragedy and heartbreak.”

  “That he did.” Rania had lost her mother young, and the death had been hard for her father, nearly impossible.

  Rania left the chef and padded up the companionway, out onto the top deck. The Bonnie Blue slid easily across the still ocean. Cloude had finally put on some clothes and seemed to be sleeping on the cushions on the top deck.

  Moj stood at the bow, looking off at the sunset lighting up the ocean in oranges and reds. The air, while still humid, wasn’t so hot now that the day was ending. A dhoni fishing craft glided past them, nets full, making for the harbor.

  Rania took in a deep breath and walked the dreaded steps toward the music producer.

  He turned and gave her a stern look.

  She approached cautiously.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown your phone overboard.”

  Moj folded his arms ac
ross his chest, the flexing muscles visible under a white linen shirt.

  “Go on. I want an explanation.”

  “Can we sit?” Rania asked.

  They sat at the V of cushions at the bow.

  Rania touched his arm, and he jerked away as if burned.

  “You felt what I felt, didn’t you?” She quaked inside at the risk she was taking. What if he thought she was just another crazy groupie?

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, surprise in his tone.

  Undaunted, Rania continued.

  “Before, at the concert, you looked at me, and I looked at you, and something passed between us. Maybe I’m crazy, but I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not crazy,” Moj said, watching her closely.

  Rania’s heart soared, but she caught it before it could get away. Whatever she and Moj might have had was just an empty fantasy after what she’d done. Besides, there was the waif pop star to consider. Even if Moj dumped her, would Rania want to get involved with a man who preferred young girls? No. And shipboard romances were stupid.

  “Glad to know I’m still sane,” Rania said.

  “Just because we may have connected, that doesn’t give you the right to destroy my property,” Moj said, his voice sharp. “And yeah, I came aboard to escape, but with my life, I can’t escape too far. I had a few more details to handle. The Devil is in the details. It’s why I’m so good at what I do.”

  Rania felt her anger rise. He wasn’t understanding her point.

  “You and I both know the details never end. That’s why your Devil is there, the details lead right to hell. You weren’t going to stop. You’re kidding yourself if you think you could.”

  Moj cocked his head.

  “How is this an apology?”

  “That part is over,” Rania said firmly. “I apologized, and I will pay for the phone. Whatever. The phone isn’t the point. I felt a connection to you, and I know that connection is over, which is fine. However, that doesn’t mean I was going to sit by and watch you destroy your vacation by spending all your time working.”