She stood up unsteadily, swished tepid ginger ale in her mouth, and spat it over the side.
“Sea sick is the worst kinda sickness,” Jason said. He pronounced it “wust.” His voice was deep; his Jamaican accent strong. “You feelin’ bettah?”
“I can’t wait to get off this tub,” she said.
His sunglasses hid all expression. “May you wish be granted soon,” he said, and went sure-footedly to the cockpit.
When she passed through the saloon to change into her clothes, Salustrio was bellowing into the ship-to-shore about a deal. He muffled the radio against his shoulder. “Cap’ll take you ashore,” he said. “I’ve got a situation here.”
Liz stood with his legs apart, working the tiller behind his back. He steered the dinghy slowly, producing only a ripple of wake, and still Els gripped the gunwales and had to manage her breathing. She stared at a scar that zigzagged through the golden hair of Liz’s left calf.
“Something went sour between you and Mr. S,” he said.
“Your captain radar working overtime again?” she said.
“Servants are wallpaper with ears,” he said. “I want Iguana’s guests to enjoy themselves.”
“Meaning him or me?”
“Shouldn’t be mutually exclusive,” he said. “Most people use what they have to get what they want.”
“What, you think like he does, that I would try to fuck my way into a job?” She turned around on the thwart so she was faced forward and stared at the slowly approaching wharf.
In her first summer at Standard Hebrides Bank, Coxe had insisted she go for burgers with him and some of the other new recruits—younger men, eager ass-kissers all. After paying the tab, he’d asked her to stay behind to discuss something important, to the unvarnished envy of her colleagues. Saying the topic was sensitive enough to require confidentiality, he led her into an empty function room. When he grabbed her breasts, pinned her against the closed door, and stuck his tongue into her mouth, she’d stomped on his instep with her spike heel and fled the restaurant. She’d agonized all weekend about facing the repulsive wanker on Monday, but he’d been unfazed, even jaunty, apart from a slight limp he faked occasionally ever since, always drawing chuckles from the guys. Every time, she seethed about the story he’d surely concocted and the impossibility of a rebuttal.
Salustrio’s arrogance clung to her like a petrol stench. Her chosen career was a testosterone obstacle course, and the prize had begun to seem a meager reward for the relentless rigors of the race.
Liz snugged the dinghy against the wharf and tossed her tote onto the planks. She ignored his hand and sprang up as if out of a pool.
“There’s a dare on the table,” he said. “Have the guts to venture underwater.”
“Pigs will fly first.”
He revved the engine; blue smoke curled around his waist. “Then how about this one,” he said. “Try going a whole hour without saying something bitchy.” He sat on the dinghy’s gunwale and sped back toward Iguana.
CHAPTER 3
Els rounded the planter of ferns and philodendron at the entrance to the dining room and saw, too late, the Salustrio family clustered at the ma?tre d’s podium. Challenge with a hint of apprehension flickered in Salustrio’s eyes before he looked away.
Marlena waved her freshly manicured nails. “Paul said you had a lovely sail.”
“He would,” Els said, and strode out the side door and onto the spongy grass. From the safety of the dark garden, she looked through the French doors to see Marlena finger-wagging at Salustrio, whose shoulders, hands, and eyebrows were all busy shrugging.
Els strode to the beach and, sandals dangling from her fingers, dawdled along the line of chaises. She sat on the last one, out of reach of the lights from Sunshine’s, the beach bar just beyond the Resort’s boundary. Patrons stacked the bar three-deep and filled the picnic tables on the sand. Conversation and laughter mingled with Jimmy Cliff singing “You Can Get It If You Really Want.” In her strappy dress, she felt all dolled up compared to Sunshine’s T-shirted patrons. Though accustomed to eating alone all over the world, she couldn’t brave this boisterous crowd tonight.
Someone near the water picked up the song’s chorus—Liz, playing air guitar and singing in a tuneful falsetto. Behind him, Jason glided along in an erect, loose-hipped stride, sunglasses in place.
Liz saw her and angled toward her chaise. “What an unexpected pleasure, Ms. Gordon,” he said. “Or is it Lady Eleanor?”
“Either beats bitch,” she said.
“It’s a fine line we rental captains walk,” he said. “On the one