“That eye wasn't hurt,” she protested dreamily, lifting her face like a flower to the sun.
“Stop complaining,” Jake ordered. “I threw that one in for balance.” His lips brushed the tip of her nose with infinite gentleness. “Now, is there anyplace that I've missed? I'm completely at your disposal.”
Jane slowly opened her eyes, feeling almost drugged by the honey sweetness of the moment. She felt as if he had wrapped her in a silken protective cloak of warmth and affection and irresistible tenderness.
Jake's face was close, only a breath away, his black eyes laughing into her own. Then suddenly the laughter was gone and his eyes held something else in their flickering depths. Something that charged the atmosphere with electricity and caused the blood to race in her veins as if she'd been running a marathon race. She felt radiantly alive and at the same time languidly dreamy.
“Jane,” Jake said huskily, his flickering eyes mesmerizing her with their dark flames.
“What's happening?” Jane whispered breathlessly, feeling suddenly as if she were captured in a melting pool of sensation whose nucleus was the intent face and virile body of the man before her. “What's happening to us, Jake?”
The words ripped the gossamer spell that surrounded them. Dominic drew a deep breath, and his eyes became shuttered and impenetrable. His hands dropped from her face, and his mouth twisted in familiar mockery.
“That, my innocent little nitwit, is what is known as chemistry. Or to put it more succinctly—sex. For a moment, there, you looked pretty good to me despite that black eye.”
“You looked pretty good to me, too,” she said quietly, her eyes shining serenely.
Jake shook his head wonderingly. “They shouldn't let you run around loose,” he said flatly. “Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't say things like that to a man like me? God, you'd be a pushover for a man who was really on the make.”
Jane's eyes filled with tears at the cynicism in his voice. “So I'm stupid,” she said huskily. “I'm not like you. I can't hide what I'm feeling. I wouldn't want to.”
She tried to slip off the vanity counter, but he stopped her with his hands on her shoulders. “I know,” he said resignedly. “Like I said, clear as glass. It's time you learned to put up a few defenses, Jane.”
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “You don't mean defenses, you mean armor,” she said quietly. “I couldn't live like that. Hiding behind a shield because I was afraid to reach out and touch someone.”
“There is a middle road, you know,” Jake observed.
“Not for me.”
Jake Dominic studied her determined face and clear, steady eyes for a long moment. He lifted her gently down from the vanity. “No, not for you,” he agreed quietly. “And may God help you, redhead!”
He touched her cheek gently with one long finger, before he turned away and said briskly. “I believe a dose of remedial whiskey is in order. I'll call Marc and tell him to meet us in the lounge.”
six
JANE WOKE UP TOO LATE TO HAVE BREAKFAST the next morning, having opted to sleep for a precious thirty minutes more, after her late night. As this was the first morning of her training as cook's help for Sam Brockmeyer and she did not want to be late, she was half running when she came up on deck.
Simon Dominic hailed her cheerfully and fell into step with her. He noted the black eye and cut lip with frank curiosity. “What a shiner!”
Jane made a face at him. “You should have seen the other guys,” she loftily. “I should have known that our little adventure would have been all over the ship by this time. And they say women are gossips!”
Simon grinned. “Well, you can't show up with a fighting cock in your arms, and the three of you looking as if you'd been in a barroom brawl, without exciting a little curiosity.”
“I can't tell you about it now,” Jane said briskly. “I don't want to start off on the wrong foot with Mr. Brockmeyer by being late.”
Simon gave her an understanding look. “I'll see you at dinner and help you lick your wounds. There may be even more of them by then. Brockmeyer is a terror to work for.”
“Don't worry. I cut my teeth on top sergeants,” Jane said flippantly. “You only have to remember to get in the first punch.” Ignoring Simon's answering chuckle, she broke into a brisk sprint in the direction of the kitchen.
She had only a moment to appreciate the stainless-steel cleanliness of Brockmeyer's domain, before a voice bellowed menacingly from the planning desk in the far corner of the room. “You're late!”
This was patently untrue, as could be seen by the large clock on the wall. Jane moved forward serenely to stand before the cluttered desk and forbore apologizing, which the archdemon of the Sea Breeze obviously expected of her.
“Good morning, Mr. Brockmeyer,” she said cheerfully. “I'm Jane Smith. I'm looking forward to working with you.”
Sam Brockmeyer was a tall, lanky man in his late thirties, with a slightly receding hairline and the creased, jowly face of a mournful bloodhound. His soft brown eyes should have been appealing, but there was nothing endearing about the stony glare that the chef was directing at her.
“And I thought they had given me the dregs before,” he said scathingly, his eyes running distastefully over her battered face and diminutive figure, in its oversized garments. “You must be Captain Benjamin's final revenge.”
Jane smiled at him sunnily. “No, actually I'm your reward for being such a brilliant chef,” she said sweetly. “My grandfather hated poor food, and since we often lived in less civilized corners of the world, he had me trained in Paris. Naturally, I'm not up to your standards, but I think you'll find I'm adequate.” She paused. “I think you can teach me a good deal more, and I'm not about to be intimidated by your shouting or slave driving. Do we understand each other?”
Brockmeyer stared at her for a long moment, his face impassive, before saying slowly, “We understand each other, Miss Smith.” He gave her a toothy grin.
In the next four days Brockmeyer appeared to be trying to make her eat those brave words. If Jane had not been absolutely sincere in what she had told the chef, he would have terrorized her, as he had her predecessors. Jane found herself working ceaselessly from six in the morning until nine at night in an atmosphere of turbulence that made a tropical hurricane appear as gentle as a summer breeze. The slightest clumsiness or mistake was met with a virulent diatribe from Brockmeyer's scourging tongue, and he obviously was taking malicious pleasure in singling out Jane for attention.
Jane accepted both the exhausting labor and verbal abuse with a cheerful serenity that frequently brought a look of baffled frustration to the chef 's face. Though only allowed to do the donkey's work to begin with, Jane was gradually permitted minor cooking tasks. She made it her business to be in the general area when Brockmeyer was cooking, in order to observe the master at work.
Brockmeyer considered himself personally responsible for lunch and dinner for the crew and all of Jake Dominic's meals. The meals for the crew, since they were presented cafeteria-style, were less elaborate, but Brockmeyer still insisted that they be excellent. The meals prepared for Dominic were epicurean delights.
Jane gradually became aware that her hard work and un-complaining attitude were earning Brockmeyer's grudging respect. This fact was brought home to her when a mistake by Ralph, the steward, who was entrusted with serving Dominic's lunch, threw Brockmeyer into a towering rage.
“What's the fool trying to do to me?” Brockmeyer howled, his spaniel eyes shooting fire. “I make Trout Almondine and the idiot serves red wine! I'll strangle him with my bare hands!”
As the guilty party had discreetly vanished at the first blistering words, this was not very likely to happen. However, Jane and the other kitchen minions busily went about their own tasks knowing that any word would immediately bring the chef 's wrath down upon their own heads.
“How can I be expected to tolerate these blunderh
eads?” he raged, storming to the phone and dialing rapidly. Jane could not hear what he said and was quite surprised when a frowning Marcus Benjamin strode into the kitchen. Jane hid a smile. So even the captain was not immune to Brockmeyer's autocracy.
“I won't use that ass of a steward again!” Brockmeyer declared explosively as soon as Benjamin walked in the door.
Benjamin shrugged. “So I'll assign you another one,” he said soothingly.
“And have the same thing happen again?” Brockmeyer asked caustically. “Your men are all ignorant philistines where fine cuisine is concerned.”
“They're all good seamen,” Benjamin said. “Ralph's mistake was surely minor.”
“Minor!” Brockmeyer roared, “You call red wine with Trout Almondine minor?”
“Well, perhaps—”
“It will not happen again,” Brockmeyer interrupted. “You'll assign her as Dominic's steward.” He punched a finger in Jane's direction.
Jane almost dropped the potato she was peeling. She looked up, her eyes wide and startled.
Benjamin looked equally startled. “You want her out of your kitchen?” he asked slowly. “I suppose that I could change her duty assignment again.”
“I didn't say that,” Brockmeyer snapped. “She's adequate at her job.”
Jane grinned happily at this grudging admission, which was the equivalent of the highest praise.
“She can be excused from her kitchen duties long enough to attend to Mr. Dominic. At least she can't be worse than those other idiots you sent me.”
“Then it's done,” Benjamin consented, relieved. He turned to go, obviously eager to escape.
“Just a moment,” Brockmeyer said. “We're not finished.” He waved a hand at Jane. “Look at her. Just the sight of her is enough to put anyone off his food. Even my food. You must get her out of those monstrosities she's wearing, before tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“We happen to be at sea,” Benjamin reminded him dryly, “or didn't that occur to you?”
“That's your problem,” Brockmeyer said tersely. “I won't have her serving my meals looking like a ragpicker.”
“I'll speak to Mr. Dominic,” Benjamin said, “but I can't promise anything.” He turned and left the kitchen.
Whatever the tenor of Benjamin's conversation with Dominic, that evening the Sea Breeze anchored off the tiny port town of San Juárez. The next morning a launch was sent to pick up a number of packages that had been flown there, first by jet and then by helicopter, from Mexico City.
When Brockmeyer piled the packages into Jane's arms a few moments after they were delivered by launch to the Sea Breeze, he had a grimly triumphant smile on his face.
“You'd best check to see if they fit,” he said gruffly. “You'll be serving lunch today.”
Jane hurried happily to her cabin, more excited by the gift of these garments than she could ever remember being before. It wasn't surprising, she thought wryly, after tripping around in clothes that made her look like the second banana in a vaudeville show.
She hurriedly ripped off the heavy expensive wrapping paper on the packages and stared blissfully at her treasures. There was not only a handsome steward's uniform much like Simon's, but also several pairs of designer jeans, blouses, sweaters, a swimsuit, a nightgown, low-heeled shoes, and bras and panties. There was even a lavish makeup kit.
For the next twenty minutes Jane tried on everything that she had received, with a growing appreciation for the person who had ordered her new wardrobe. Everything fit perfectly. Someone had a very good eye, and she rather suspected that that someone was Jake Dominic. After all, he had probably had a lot of experience in buying clothing for his women.
When Jane finally donned the uniform, she was more than pleased with the result. The white polyester slacks were a perfect fit, as was the white turtle-neck blouse. The caramel-beige waist-length jacket gave her rather the appearance of a bellboy, but it also fit beautifully, and the color went well with her hair, she noticed, pleased. She added a touch of peach gloss to her lips and brushed her hair until it gleamed. It was amazing what a little lipstick could do for the morale. For the first time in nearly three weeks, she felt truly feminine.
No, not the first time, she thought, remembering that dizzying moment in Jake Dominic's cabin when she had felt more a woman than she had at any time in her life. She dismissed the thought firmly, and hurriedly put away her new things in the small teak chest before returning to the kitchen for her final instructions from Sam Brockmeyer.
Brockmeyer had informed her that unless Mr. Dominic had a large party of guests aboard, he preferred to have his meals served in the lounge. Though the surroundings were casual, Brockmeyer's table arrangements were not. It took Jane a full thirty minutes to set up the table in the elegant manner the chef felt his creations deserved, and then to transfer the meal in specially heated trays from the kitchen to the lounge. She then carefully chose a suitable bottle of wine from the wine rack behind the bar and moved briskly to stand beside the table.
Jake Dominic entered the lounge a few minutes later, and his brows shot up in amusement as he noted Jane's almost military stance. “For heaven's sake, relax! You make me feel like the prince in a comic opera.”
Jane shot him an indignant glance but remained at attention. He looked like a prince, she thought with a little tingle of awareness. The dark prince Lucifer dressed in fitted black jeans and a black long-sleeve sport shirt. Jane had not seen him since she had started her duties with Brockmeyer, and she stifled the unreasoning surge of pleasure at the sight of that dark face.
“I have my instructions, sir,” she said sedately, as he strolled to his chair. She was immediately behind it and ready to seat him.
He frowned threateningly. “You do that and I'll smack that pert little bottom, brat.”
Jane's face drooped with disappointment, but she obediently moved back to her former position and poured the wine with a little flourish. His crooked eyebrow rose mockingly as she uncovered the soup and set it carefully before him.
“You're overplaying it, Jane,” he said dryly, picking up his spoon. “Why don't you pull up a chair and join me?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn't,” she answered, shocked. “Mr. Brockmeyer would be positively furious.”
“And I will be equally furious if I have an attack of indigestion from all this hovering,” he said silkily. “Sit down!”
She reluctantly drew up a chair and perched on it gingerly, her face stormy. “You're not being fair. I'm only trying to do my duties properly,” she said. “You wouldn't invite Ralph to sit down and have lunch with you.”
“The same rules don't apply,” he said coolly. “I wouldn't threaten to smack Ralph's bottom, either.” Ignoring her sudden rush of color, he commented casually, “That uniform fits very well. I thought it would.”
This confirmed her earlier suspicion, and she said gratefully, “Everything fits beautifully. Thank you.”
Jake shrugged, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Personally, I was growing rather fond of your Orphan Annie image,” he drawled. “But it was either garb you decently or court ptomaine poisoning for the remainder of the cruise. How did you tame our Tiger of the Kitchen in just four days?”
“Mr. Brockmeyer is not a tiger,” she protested stoutly. Then, meeting his skeptical look, she conceded, “Well, if he is, he has good reason to be. He's totally dedicated to his work and is a great artist. It's no wonder that he's so difficult. Just look at his background.” She paused for effect. “He was born in Cleveland!”
Jake took a sip of his wine and said solemnly, “How very unfortunate.” There was a suspicious twitch to his lips as he added, “I suppose that does have some significance, but I can't quite grasp it.”
“Well, of course, it does,” Jane said impatiently. “Whoever heard of a great chef from Cleveland, Ohio? The entire restaurant world is prejudiced in favor of French chefs. Even Italian chefs are given more opportunities than Americans.” She lea
ned forward, warming to her subject, her cheeks flushed. “I read an article in Gourmet magazine a few years ago about Sam Brockmeyer. Do you know that, as great as he is, he wasn't able to get work in any four-star restaurant in the world until he assumed the name of Pierre LeClaire?” Her voice rose indignantly. “Why, he even had to fake a French accent to get his first prestigious job! Can you imagine what that would do to a man of his temperament?”
Jake was grinning unashamedly now, his ebony eyes dancing. “I can see that a delicate flower like Brockmeyer could suffer irreparable psychological damage.”
Jane smiled reluctantly. “Well, he is a brilliant artist. He must be very sensitive under that gruff exterior.”
Jake's smile was cynical. “It doesn't naturally follow. I'm considered rather brilliant myself in some circles, and I assure you that I'm as hard as nails.”
She shook her head, her face troubled. “Don't say that. You couldn't be that tough and still be so kind to me. I'd probably be behind bars now if you were.”
“Don't make the mistake of putting me on a pedestal, redhead,” he corrected her wryly. “I'm a selfish bastard, and I always do exactly as I please. If I'd been in a different mood that night, I'd have turned you over to the authorities without a second thought.”
“I don't believe that,” Jane said quietly, her eyes steady on his.
“Then you're a fool,” he replied softly, his dark eyes ruthless. “Ask Marc what kind of man I am.”
Jane's gaze dropped. “I trust my own judgment,” she insisted stubbornly.
“You'll forgive me if I fail to be impressed by your efforts in that area to date. Well, I've warned you, Jane, and that's more than I've done for any other woman. Just don't expect me to be better than I am.”
“I don't think you know what you can be,” she said daringly. “Or who you really are.”
Jake's lips tightened, and his black eyes flickered. “And you do, I suppose,” he remarked caustically.
Jane shook her head hesitantly. “Not yet,” she said quietly, “but I'm beginning to think I may soon.”