Make You Mine Read online

  Marc glanced around for Worm’s mom, not too surprised when he couldn’t find her. Their father didn’t have the most discriminating taste in baby-mamas.

  “What the heck are you wearing?” he asked his brother. “The Belle’s not a trash barge—she’s basically a floating hotel. Even busing tables, you’ve got to look good.”

  “I know, I know.” Worm tipped his shaggy brown head toward the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m fixin’ to change. Didn’t wanna get my good clothes all sweaty from walkin’ over here.”

  “You walked all the way from uptown?”

  “I’m not a kid,” Worm protested with an eye roll, then swore, “Sweet Cheez-Its.”

  Teens and their attitudes. Was Marc ever this snarky? “Don’t make me toss you overboard.”

  “We’re not even on board,” the smart aleck countered.

  God bless, it was going to be a long couple of weeks.

  “Well, let’s fix that.” Marc swatted his brother’s scrawny tail, eliciting another nonswear. “Get on up there and find Alex. He’ll take you to your bunk. After you change, come back here and be ready to help the porters haul luggage.”

  Worm hitched up his duffel and grumbled toward the ramp.

  “Hey,” Marc added, “and lose the attitude!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” came the retreating reply.

  When Worm disappeared through the dining hall entrance, Marc pulled in a calming breath and turned his gaze to the tranquil blue sky and the leaves stirring above his head. It was perfect weather for boating—sunny and mild, with calm water to boot. The Mississippi could be a harsh mistress, but she’d decided to favor him with some sweet lovin’ today, for which he was mighty grateful.

  He strolled toward the sidewalk and paused when his cell phone rang. A glance at the screen showed Phillip Regale calling. Marc swiped a finger across the glass and answered.

  “Bad news,” Chef said, never one to mince words.

  Marc hoped Regale hadn’t changed the menu again. He’d already sent Nick to the market. “How bad?”

  “I lost my pastry chef.”

  Marc damn near dropped his phone. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

  “He’s under quarantine with German measles.”

  “What?” Who the hell got German measles anymore? “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious!” Regale bellowed, clearly insulted. “First documented case in a hundred years. If that’s not some damned dirty luck, I don’t know what is.”

  “Can you get someone to cover him?”

  “That’s the crazy part,” Regale said in disbelief. “I’ve called every pastry master I know—even the ones I wouldn’t ordinarily work with—and I can’t get a single one to pick up the line. It’s like they dropped off the planet. I half wondered if there was something wrong with my phone, but I reached you just fine.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I left a message with an agency. If they don’t come through, we’ll have to use store-bought desserts. Maybe pick up a second chef when we stop in Natchez.”

  Suddenly, the wind kicked up, temperature dropping as clouds eclipsed the sun. The skin at the base of Marc’s neck prickled into gooseflesh, and he shook off a chill. He glanced at the now-dark sky, wondering what had just happened. He had seen no storm systems on the radar this morning. He turned to jog back on board but stopped short, breath catching as he came face-to-face with Allie Mauvais.

  Marc clapped a hand over his pounding heart while she stood there watching him—lips curved in a grin, raven hair whipping her cheeks, hands clasped behind her back as if she’d appeared by magic.

  Which she probably had.

  It took a few beats for Marc to find his voice. He told Regale he’d call him back and disconnected, then demanded, “What’re you doing here?”

  Allie gripped her waist with one hand, still smiling. “That’s not very nice, baby.”

  Holding up his phone, he demanded, “Did you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  The answer formed on his lips, but it was too absurd to speak aloud. Did you give my pastry chef an eradicated disease? Did you blow the throttle valve? And what about my old cleaning crew—did you get them deported? Saints alive, it sounded ridiculous, even to him. He was losing his marbles.

  “You okay?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Yeah, sorry.” He rubbed one temple, hoping to restore his sanity. “It’s not a good time for a visit.”

  “I know. I heard about your pastry chef. Does he really have German measles?” She shook her head and whispered to herself, “Who gets those anymore?”

  His thoughts exactly, but he wondered how Allie had found out.

  The question must have shown on his face. “The agency sent me,” she explained.

  He puzzled for a moment, and then the full meaning hit him like a sledgehammer to the skull: Allie Mauvais aboard his ship—for two weeks. No way in hell. He’d sooner wrestle a twelve-foot gator in a flaming vat of fish guts.

  Before he had a chance to tell her no, she held her palm forward, revealing a small yellow pouch secured at the top with twine. “I also came to wish you luck and give you this.”

  Marc hesitated. He didn’t trust Allie’s gris-gris any more than he trusted her in the galley.

  “It’s dirt from Memère’s tomb and a few pennies,” she said, stepping nearer. “For good fortune.”

  He took a step back, licking his lips.

  Allie tipped her head and studied him with those exotic eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course not,” Marc scoffed and plucked the sachet from her outstretched hand. He reminded himself that he wasn’t superstitious, but made sure not to touch her. “But you can go back home. I can’t use you here.”

  She heaved a sigh and narrowed her eyes at him. “You are afraid of me.” Defensively, she folded her arms. “Grow up, Marc.”

  Despite her criticism, the words sparked a flash of pleasure low in his belly. He hadn’t heard his name on Allie’s lips since junior prom, and he liked the way it sounded. A little too much. He kind of wanted to hear it again, this time low and breathy with a moan behind it.

  “I can help you,” she pressed. “I don’t have any catering jobs for the next two weeks, and I’m sure my sister will watch the shop while I’m gone.”

  “But the salary’s not—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “This’ll be a good way to get my name out there.”

  Marc scrambled for a valid excuse to say no. “Phillip’s really hard to please.”

  “Wait,” Allie said. “Phillip who?”

  “Regale. He’s cranky as—”

  “The Phil Regale?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The man who practically revolutionized flambé in haute cuisine?”

  “I guess so,” Marc said. “Is there more than one chef with that name?”

  She shook her head, then bounced in place. “I’ve been trying to meet him for years! I’d love to work with him!”

  Marc tried warning her that Chef was a misogynistic prick who didn’t like cooking with women, but Allie was too busy squealing and jumping in a circle to hear. Then she waggled one finger in the air and started dancing the Charleston. Marc couldn’t help smiling. In her half-hysterical state, she’d never looked so . . . normal.

  Allie Mauvais was human.

  Of course she’s human, you dickhead. What else would she be?

  While Allie shimmied her hips, he considered her offer. He did need a pastry chef, and there were no other takers. In the end, what choice did he have? Before Marc had a chance to change his mind, he said, “Okay. Go home and pack, but be quick about it. We launch in two hours.”

  She didn’t waste a second in turning and bounding toward the French Qu
arter, black curls springing freely down her back. She called over her shoulder, “You won’t regret this!” and then vanished around the corner.

  Marc wasn’t so sure about that, but he was still grinning like a fool. He pocketed the gris-gris bag she’d given him and sauntered toward his ship. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down, and the clouds broke, freeing the sun.

  The day was perfect once again.

  Chapter 3

  “Marc Dumont is like the St. Charles trolley,” Devyn complained. “Everyone in the city’s had a ride.” She grabbed a handful of socks from the dresser drawer and shoved them in Allie’s suitcase with enough force to shake the bed. “Why would you want to spend two weeks trapped on a boat with a skeezeball like him?”

  “He’s not that bad,” Allie told her sister, tossing her toiletry bag beside the socks. “And it’s a really big boat.”

  “Not big enough for his libido.” Devyn pushed a dark curl behind her ear and added, “Or his idiocy.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Allie said while scanning the bedroom floor for her work clogs. “I get to share an oven with Phillip Regale.”

  Devyn sniffed disdainfully and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I saw him on Satan’s Kitchen a few years ago. He’s an asswipe, and he spits when he talks.”

  “Hey.” Allie waved a hand in the air as if dispersing a cloud of perfume. “Enough with the negativity,” she said, laughing. “You’re harshing my glow.” The two sisters could pass for twins if it weren’t for Dev’s blue eyes and a few inches of height in her favor, but when it came to personality, they were like buttercream and rolled fondant—one sweet and fluffy, the other lovely but hardened. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  Devyn held up two nightgowns—a black lace teddy and a frumpy pink polka-dot sheath. “Which one?”

  Allie pointed to the teddy.

  “Aha!” Devyn cried, waving the lacy frock at her. “I was right. You want to get freaky with Marc!”

  “I’m a grown woman,” Allie reminded her ever so slightly older sister. “I can get freaky with whoever I want.”

  Devyn folded the long pink nightgown and placed it in the suitcase, then balled up the teddy and chucked it over one shoulder. “I’m just looking out for you. If Marc’s anything like his big brother . . .” She pressed her lips together and smoothed a wrinkle from a pair of shorts. Dev didn’t like talking about her short-lived romance with Beau, and today was no exception. “Well, let’s just say there’s a reason Memère cursed the Dumonts. Everyone knows they can’t be trusted.”

  Allie paused midreach for a fistful of undies. “You don’t really buy into that, do you?”

  “Of course I do!” Devyn gawked at Allie like she’d sprouted a second nose. “They’re practically sticking it someplace new every time the wind changes.”

  “No,” Allie said, “I mean the curse. You think it’s real?”

  Devyn shrugged. “Sure. Why else would they be so screwed up?”

  “Because it’s all they’ve ever known. Kids think dysfunction is normal when they see it every day. They learn by example; then they teach it to their own kids until someone breaks the cycle. It’s basic psychology, not voodoo.”

  “Then explain why none of the men have gotten married in four generations,” Devyn argued. “But the women have.”

  Allie didn’t have an answer for that. It’s not like marriage was truly permanent anymore. Thousands of feckless lovers married—and divorced—every day, no long-term commitment required. It was a little strange that no Dumont man had taken the vow since Memère’s time, but that didn’t mean a hex was to blame.

  “I don’t know,” Allie conceded. “But I’m sure there’s a logical reason.”

  “You and your logic.” With a light bounce, Devyn stood from the bed and grabbed the hair dryer. She held it up in a silent You taking this? and tucked it beneath a sundress without waiting for a reply. “Funny that you’re the one people come to see for charms, considering you don’t believe in your own gift.”

  “I know I have a gift,” Allie said. “It’s just not rooted in hocus-pocus.” She slipped her cell phone charger between a stack of shirts. “And more folks would ask for your help if you weren’t so scary.”

  “Me?” Devyn pointed at herself, brows forming a V above a pair of pale blue eyes so cold they could frost the sun. “Scary?”

  Allie laughed. “All your boyfriends end up in urgent care, and everyone assumes you jinxed them.”

  “Ex-boyfriends,” Devyn corrected. “And that was a coincidence—all six times. I’ve never hexed anyone.” She considered a moment and tapped her bottom lip. “Though maybe I should. There are plenty of jerks I could practice on . . .”

  “See?” Allie said. “Told you.”

  “You say ‘scary,’ I say ‘public service.’” Devyn flapped a hand. “Potato, po-tah-to.”

  Allie leaned around her sister to peer at the bedside clock. “I’ve got to run. Any last-minute questions?”

  “I don’t think so. Let me make sure I’ve got the important stuff down.” She began listing items on her fingers. “The alarm password is 1987; deliveries come on Tuesdays and Fridays; the credit card reader’s broken, so cash only; don’t take any checks from Mrs. Mason; and I need to be downstairs by four each morning to help the girls bake.” Devyn fired a glare after the last bit. “You so owe me.”

  “I’ll take you to Vegas when I get back,” Allie promised. “But just for the weekend, and no tequila this time.”

  “Fine.” Devyn zipped the suitcase, then held her arms out for a hug. “But you’re more fun after a few shots.”

  “You say ‘fun,’” Allie replied, squeezing her sister tight, “I say ‘half-naked in the hotel fountain.’”

  “Potato, po-tah-to.”

  “Thanks, baby.” Grabbing her suitcase, Allie shuffled into the hallway and called, “See you in a couple weeks.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Devyn hollered after her. “And I would not give Marc Dumont any nookie!”

  “Can’t hear youuuuuu,” Allie teased as she rushed down the stairs. On her way out the door, she paused to grab her backpack of gris-gris supplies: sacred soil, herbs, coins, flower petals, assorted fabrics, and twine. Her instincts—and Marc’s stress level—told her she’d need to mix a few bags on this trip.

  Though weighed down with twenty pounds of luggage, Allie’s feet barely touched the ground as she made her way to the river. Good things were in store. She could sense it.

  • • •

  “Ahoy, sir.” Allie set down her suitcase and stood at attention. “Private Allison Catrine Mauvais reporting for duty.”

  Marc turned from a crate of cargo, dark eyes smiling from beneath the bill of his hat. “Two things, Mauvais.”

  She gave her best soldier’s nod. “First?”

  The pages tacked to his clipboard ruffled in the breeze as he pointed it at the boat. “This isn’t a naval vessel.”

  Of course it wasn’t, but in his gallant uniform, Marc reminded her of Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman. He’d even donned white gloves. It was a side of him she’d never seen before, and her tummy had fluttered when she’d caught a glimpse of him earlier that morning. Now she couldn’t stop imagining herself as Debra Winger being scooped into his arms and carried off to his bed.

  “And second?” she asked, corralling her imagination.

  He flashed a smirk. “Allison Catrine?”

  “Yeah.” She folded her arms and stared him down. “What’s funny?”

  “Sugar, with that name, you leave me no choice but to call you Allie-Cat.”

  She smiled, not at the mocking nickname, but at the sugar casually tossed into the mix. Whether Marc realized it or not, his guard was slipping.

  “I’ve been called worse,” she told him.
>
  Just like that, his smile vanished. An expression she couldn’t place, hard and reflective, crossed his features, and she worried she’d said something wrong.

  Nodding at the boat ramp, he ordered, “Go find my brother Alex—he’s the personnel manager. He’ll give you a staff shirt and take you to your room. I’ll need you back out here in about thirty minutes to greet guests.”

  “Okay.” She grabbed her luggage. “And thanks, by the way.”

  “It’s just business.” The warmth in his voice was gone, making her wonder what had happened. “I should be thanking you.” But he didn’t. Instead, he turned his attention to his clipboard, effectively dismissing her.

  Allie refused to let his mood change bring her down. She had two weeks to chip away at Marc’s shell, and contrary to what she had told her sister, the boat wasn’t that big. Raising her chin, she clattered across the metal ramp and onto Belle’s main deck, then began searching for Alex.

  She thought she’d spotted him through one of the dining hall entrances, but when she made her way inside, she discovered it was his twin brother, Nick. His blue eyes widened a fraction when he saw her approaching, followed by a face-splitting grin.

  “Well, hey there, Allie,” he drawled, taking in her suitcase. “You staying with us?”

  Finally, a Dumont who wasn’t terrified of her. “Yep. I’m your new pastry chef. You know where Alex is? He’s supposed to show me to my room.”

  “Right here, hon.” He hooked a thumb at himself and offered to take her bag, all the while looking her up and down like a hungry dog at the butcher store window. “I’ll get you settled in, snug as a bug in a rug.”

  “Nice try, Nicky,” she said. “Where’s your brother?”

  He wrinkled his mouth in disappointment. “Shoot. How’d you know?”

  It was easy. Even as a kid, Nick had carried himself with more confidence than Alex. It was the slight arrogance in his gaze and the cocky tilt of his head that gave him away. That, and the name tag affixed over his left breast.