Anchors Aweigh - 6 (18 page)

She started the show with crowd-pleasers that featured lots of energy and lots of attitude. Songs about vanity, surviving, starting over, getting even. She suddenly changed course, shifting from ‘tude to substance.

“This one goes out to a new friend. Tressa. This one’s for you, babe,” Coral said, before she launched into a song Babs Streisand was best known for, a song about, you guessed it: “Memories!”

Cheeky woman!

I listened as Coral sang, and as I watched her I sensed, despite her dedication, that she was not singing for me. A movement at the entrance caught my attention and I looked over to discover Security Sam Davenport standing near the entrance, his eyes never leaving Coral.

Easy now, Sam, I cautioned. One look at that face and there was no doubt of his feelings. Or, from Coral’s breathless delivery, hers.

I suddenly remembered that I was sitting with the guy who’d delivered Sam Davenport’s room service order, and decided no way did I want Davenport to recognize Joe, see me sitting with him and come over to demand why a passenger was posing as room service. And I really, really didn’t want to hear how Joe tried to talk his way out of it.

I excused myself from the table and preempted a strike by Davenport, sorely wishing I could trust the security chief enough to confide in him. But I just couldn’t put out of my mind the image of Security Sam slinking into a darkened sickbay shortly after I’d almost been smothered with a pillow.

“She’s good,” I said, joining Davenport near the door and tipping my head in Coral’s direction. “Very good.”

“That she is,” Davenport replied, noncommittal.

“That husband of hers is different,” I said. “Not the type I expected to see someone like Coral married to,” I told him.

“Oh? And what type did you expect?” Davenport asked, his arms folded across his chest in a deceptively casual pose.

“I don’t know. Someone with a little more substance and a little less…veneer,” I said.

He didn’t respond.

“So, what does a security guy like you do when the ship is in port?” I asked. “Do you have to work or can you do the sightseeing thing like a tourist?”

“Whether I remain on the ship is up in the air right now,” Davenport said. “I’ve done most of the port activities,” he said, “but it’s always nice to see beautiful yet familiar scenes through the eyes of people seeing them for the first time.”

Good-looking and poetic, too. No wonder Coral was in lust.

I looked back at her.

“I wonder what Coral plans to do,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see if I can tag along with her when we go ashore.”

“I can answer that,” I heard from the entrance behind me. “Coral’s actually booked time at the spa,” David Frazier Compton supplied. “The full treatment. So she won’t be disembarking in Montego Bay.”

“What about you?” Sam asked David.

“Why, I wouldn’t miss a Jamaican sunrise for the world, Davenport,” David remarked. “Not for the world.”

The hostility between the two men was so thick a pirate’s cutlass couldn’t touch it.

“If Coral changes her mind and decides to go ashore, you will let her know I’d love to accompany her. Right?” I said to David.

“Of course,” he replied. “But if you need an escort…I’d be happy to volunteer my services,” he offered.

I wondered if my expression revealed I was trying to clamp down on the old gag reflex.

“Uh, I’ll get back to you on that,” I said, backing away—and coming up against a big, hard chest.

“Hey, babe,” I heard. “Get Manny’s gift?”

“About that,” I said.

“Let’s take a stroll around the ship, shall we, Barbie?” Manny suggested.

I let him take my hand and lead me away.

I could imagine what everyone was thinking: The odds were shifting in Manny’s favor.

And what was Tressa thinking?

That Barbie was courting catastrophe.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I spent the rest of the evening with Manny, trying to block the image of him without a shirt from my mind. And failing miserably.

We parted ways around eleven, Manny dropping a rather nice good-night kiss on my surprised lips, pledging to stand as my escort when we dropped anchor the next morning. I dropped into bed, my high-def television certificate tucked beneath my pillow. Sweet dreams, indeed.

I was up early the next morning, but not early enough to beat Taylor out of the cabin.

I stretched, retrieved my TV certificate from my pillow, set it on the chocolate box, started to open the chocolate box, resisted the urge to open the chocolate box, and got up and around for the day.

A white top trimmed in pink, pink shorts, pink and white short socks, pink and white Skechers for walking, pink softball hat, and trademark Javelina bag made me look all put together even though my previous night’s sleep had been disturbed by sword-wielding foes, hooded villains with hideous hook arms and alligators with huge, snapping jaws. Oh, and Peter Pan made a cameo appearance looking a lot like Michael Jackson. I know. Weird.

I stuffed my swimsuit in my bag just in case and decided to forego breakfast—and hunt down the real thing once on land. Getting ready to disembark, I looked around and spotted the Farley couples ahead of me in line. I shoved my way up to them, apologizing as I cut in front of others. After all, I was out to foil a capital crime here. What was a little line cutting when the stakes were so high?

I greeted the couples.

“Oh, hi, Tressa!” Courtney called out. “Isn’t this a mess?”

“What’s the holdup?” I asked, thinking the line was moving really slow.

“Can you believe they’re weighing us?” Courtney said.

I stared at her. “What? Why?”

“It’s strictly voluntary,” Sherri assured me.

“They’re giving prizes to those who have the least weight gain while on land,” Courtney said. “Or in some cases, even lose weight. In other words, they want us to have fun but not so much fun we forget what this cruise is all about,” she added.

“Well, I’m not getting on any scale,” I said. “No matter what the prize is.” I hesitated. “What is the prize, anyway? A stair stepper? Treadmill? A lifetime membership to a fitness center?”

“Money!” Courtney said.

“Money for clothes!” Sherri elaborated.

Money? For clothes?

“And shoes?” I asked.

“Of course,” Courtney replied. “So, are you changing your mind about weighing in, Tressa?” she asked.

Was I?

I looked around.

Nobody I knew was in sight.

And I really could use some new clothes.

“Sure. Why not? Don’t I strike you as a team player?” I asked.

“Of course,” Sherri stated.

“Absolutely,” Courtney said.

The pace picked up as scores of passengers opted not to risk public humiliation and made their way off the ship and onto dry land. And gastronomical freedom.

A little girl in line coveted my Harry Javelina bag and asked her mother if the souvenir shops would have a peccary pack. I had to break the news that unless she convinced her folks to visit the Grand Canyon, I suspected she was out of luck.

It was my turn to tip the scales. I steeled myself to accept the result. I took a step up onto the machine, deciding to shut my eyes. Nothing said I had to actually look. Ignorance could be bliss. Especially when you were talking about a woman’s weight.

“That’s one hundred seventy nine pounds,” I heard, and my eyes flew open.

“What!” I yelled, looking at the digital reading on the scale. “One hundred seventy-nine pounds! That can’t be right!” I yelled.

“You’re right,” the trainer recording my weight said. “It’s now a hundred and eighty pounds.”

“Now, just a minute—” I started to object, when I caught movement at my feet and looked down to discover somehow I’d grown an extra foot. A much larger foot.

One sneaky ranger’s foot.

I turned around.

“You!” I said. “You almost gave me apoplexy,” I told him, “manipulating my body mass like that.”

He grinned and, as always, his smile had the ability to take my breath away—along with coherent thought.

“I couldn’t resist. Besides, I couldn’t pass up the chance to find out a secret more closely guarded than the nuclear codes. Tressa Jayne Turner’s weight.” He started to remove his foot from the scale just as I jumped down off the platform.

“Sorry, sailor,” I said, “but that’s one secret that goes with me to the grave. Or the occasional doctor’s visit.”

He shook his head. “You never let me have any fun,” he scolded.

I laughed. “Right, right. I suppose golfing at a beautiful resort golf course qualifies as torture,” I said.

“Not at all,” he agreed. “But it could be even more enjoyable for me.”

“Oh?” I said, lifting a brow.

“You could caddy for me,” he suggested. “You know. Hand me the right club. Keep track of my balls.”

There was that grin again, accompanied by a Groucho Marx lift of his dark brows.

“I get it. We’ve just docked on Ranger Rick’s Fantasy Island, haven’t we?” I told him. “The place where all your snow-cones’-chance-in-Jamaica fantasies can come true.”

“My fantasies concerning you go a long ways beyond caddying, Calamity,” Rick said. “And, if I’m not mistaken, my
odds
in seeing that fantasy come true are, oh, at least fifty-fifty, depending on the day.”

My mouth flew open. The ornery ranger knew about
The Epiphany
pool—and I didn’t mean the rectangular one on the main deck.

I remembered Manny’s courtship token. You know. The one that measured about fifty-two inches.

“Maybe it’s time to up the ante then, Ranger Rick,” I said, my voice breathless, my demeanor, hopefully, seen as provocative rather than slutty as I ran my fingers up his tanned, muscled arm.

“Sounds like good advice, T,” Ranger Rick said, and promptly picked me up and stepped up on the scale. Before I could scream, “Unhand this fair wench!” the traitorous trainer had reset the scale and our total weight was prominently displayed.

I shot the megaphone-mouth trainer a dark look, as it appeared he was about to herald the number.

“Don’t even think about it!” I threatened, aware a simple mathematical calculation—one that Ranger Rick had probably already completed in his head—would reveal a number I’d never divulged to anyone. Most of the time, including me.

I wiggled out of the diabolically clever ranger’s arms.

“If word gets out about a certain number, I will hunt you down like the cur that you are,” I warned, “and the only way they will be able to identify you is by that tasteful raccoon tattoo on your behind. Have fun smacking balls with my brother and dad,” I said and, tired of treading water with Townsend, I made my way to the cruise terminal.

As I stood waiting and wondering where the heck Manny was, I was joined by the Farley Foursome.

“So, what have the four of you got planned?” I asked, addressing my question to Steve.

“The girls planned today’s outing,” Steve said, and I could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled with what they’d come up with.

“We’re river rafting,” Courtney said.

“River rafting?” I repeated, alarmed at the very real danger inherent on any white-water trip yet surprised that both men looked as if they’d rather be poked in the eye with a sharp stick than participate. “That sounds exciting,” I said.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Steve said. “Until you find out the rafts are these squatty little two-person bamboo river rafts that are pushed along the river by means of a pole,” Steve said.

I blinked. “Bamboo rafts?”

“It’s romantic,” Courtney insisted. “Each raft has a captain who steers you along the river while he entertains you with local folklore. You know. Like one of those gondoliers in Italy. Or is that France?”

I shrugged. It was all Greek to me. And why hadn’t I known to include the low-speed, low-risk bamboo rafts in my arsenal last night when I talked Joe and Gram out of their snubaing experience?

“We’d better get going. We don’t want to miss the Mountain Valley transport,” Courtney said. “We take a short ride through the mountains to a village and then board our rafts. What are your plans, Tressa?”

I’d intended to eat myself into a stupor, slip into my swimsuit (if it still fit), drag my tail to a place on the beach and bake, baby, bake. But now? With Steve Kayser and Ben Hall still on my list of possible suspects, I was uneasy simply waving them off to enjoy a leisurely day of rafting on nothing more than lengths of flimsy bamboo!

“I’m not sure. Manny was supposed to meet me,” I said.

Ben made a show of looking at his watch. “Hey, folks. We better hit it if we’re going to catch our ride,” he said, tapping his timepiece.

“Oh, you’re right, Ben. Gotta go, Tressa. See you later!” Courtney said, and I watched them leave.

I looked at my own watch. Where was Manny? I needed him.

I frowned. That was a reversal for me. I’d never admitted to needing a man before. Wanting one? Yes. Lusting after one (or two)? Absolutely. But needing one? Nuh-uh. Not me. Not Tressa Jayne Turner, legend in her own mind.

I chewed a nail.

Good gawd. I
was
changing.

The old Tressa would have gone off with the two couples without a care and B.S.ed her way through any difficulties that arose. But this new Tressa found herself cooling her heels waiting for—of all things—a man. So not my SOP.

“Hey, Barbie. Sorry to be late. I had to make sure Mo got with her tour group.”

Oh, crap. I guess there was still enough old Tressa left in me, because I hadn’t given a thought to Aunt Mo’s shore excursion experience.

“Shouldn’t you be with your aunt?” I asked, and Manny shook his head.

“Mo met a nice man,” he said by way of explanation.

“Oh? What are they doing?”

“Lunch. Exploring shipwrecks off Cheeseburger Reef,” Manny said.

“Cheeseburger Reef?” I said, just the mention of beef making my mouth water.

He nodded. “So, what’s Barbie up for?”

I looked up at him and grabbed his arm. “Does the sound of a river ride for two float your boat?” I asked, and pulled him in the direction the couples had gone earlier.

“River ride? On what?” Manny asked. “Sea spi? Jet ski? Power boat?”

“Bamboo raft,” I said, dragging him along. “Trust me. You’re gonna love it.”

Manny shook his head and reluctantly hailed a taxi. Was ignored. I moved down from him—as if on my own—and hailed one and almost caused a traffic jam of taxis trying to grab the blonde tourist all alone. I yanked open the car door.

“Welcome to MoBay!” the taxi driver greeted me. “Where you going?”

“Mountain Valley. The bamboo river-rafting experience,” I said. “But we’re in a hurry,” I said, climbing in.

“We?” the cabbie said, and I motioned to Manny, who was folding his long length in beside me. The cabbie’s face got a puckered look. Like I do when my hipsters ride up.

“Yes, we. And step on it!”

The cabbie did just that. I’m thinking it was because he wanted Manny out of his cab ASAP because he kept giving Manny looks in the rearview mirror. And the driver was sweating. A lot.

I oohed and ahhed at the scenery as we traveled through the mountainous interior. Manny limited his responses to nods, grunts, and uh-huhs.

“You act as if you’ve seen all this before,” I commented, and he grunted again.

I looked at him. “You
have
seen this before,” I accused. “Haven’t you?”

This time he shrugged.

“Manny’s been here and there,” he said.

“Business or pleasure?” I asked, still itching to discover Manny’s vocation.

He smiled. “Both,” he said.

“Do you travel a lot in your job?” I asked.

“It varies,” he said.

“Does Aunt Mo know what you do?” I asked, and his hesitation and subtle shift in the seat told me I’d gotten him with that one. “Does she?” I pressed.

“Aunt Mo knows all she needs to know,” Manny said. “How’s the head?” he asked. He’d shifted gears so fast I got mental whiplash.

“Better,” I said. “Does your ‘job’ require knowledge or skills of a, shall we say, criminal nature?” I asked, sending my own volley back to his side of the net.

“From time to time,” he said. “Memory update?”

“The same,” I said. “Where did you acquire these, uh, special skills?”
Heh heh. Right back at you, babe.

“Around,” Manny said. “Do you love Rick the Dick?”

The question hit me with the force of a line drive.

“Wh…wh…wh?”

“Do you love Rick the Dick?” Manny asked again and slid close enough that I felt the heat radiating from him.

The taxi slowed and stopped.

“We’re here!” I said, escaping both the vehicle and the need to respond. “Oh, isn’t this cool?”

I hurried to the area where a number of bamboo rafts approximately thirty feet in length floated alongside the shore. Each raft featured a bamboo bench-type seat just big enough for two located in the center of the raft, a red cushioned back and seat providing a comfortable sitting experience.

I scanned the length of the river that was visible, trying to find the Farley group. The greenish water, bordered on either side by tall, green trees, was calm and serene.

“I don’t see them,” I said. “They can’t be that far ahead.”

“Who?” Manny asked.

“Courtney, Steve, Ben and Sherri,” I said.

“They’re here?” Manny asked.

I nodded. “And we need to catch up to them,” I said. “Hello there.” I approached one of the “captains” dressed in a light blue shirt and long, navy blue shorts. “We really need to get rollin’ on the river,” I said. “You see, our friends are ahead of us and we sort of want to keep an eye on them.”

The captain frowned. “Keep an eye? Not following.”

“Look after them. Watch them,” I said

“You want to…watch?” El Capitan frowned.

“Now wait—” I said.

A shadow hit the captain, covering him. “All aboard,” Manny said, handing the guy some green.

“Right away, mon. This way, mon. I am Odell. So happy to be of service.”