Countering His Claim. Rachel Bailey

Refusing to give in to her body’s blind response, she pulled herself to her full height—which leveled out in the vicinity of Luke’s chin—and found that professional smile again.

      “This way,” she said, indicating the direction with her hand.

      Luke inclined his head and stepped away from the dissipating crowd. When they walked farther into the foyer with its elaborate furnishings and chandeliers, she wondered if he noticed the eyes following him from every direction.

      “Tell me something, Dr. Walsh,” he said, his voice pitched somewhere between sexy-low and curiosity.

      Steeling herself against the shiver that threatened to run down her spine at the timbre of his voice, she led him through the foyer, to the bank of elevators. “If I can.”

      “Is there always a group that size waiting to greet guests?”

      The elevator arrived and after they stepped in, she pressed the button for the third deck. “No, but then you’re not an average guest.”

      He arched an eyebrow several shades darker than his hair. “What sort of guest am I?”

      The only guest who’s made my knees go weak. She paused for a long moment. He wasn’t merely the only guest who’d affected her this strongly, he was the only man who had since... She shied away from the thought and schooled her features into casual ambivalence. “We’ve heard you’ll likely inherit the Cora Mae today.”

      “Ah,” he said and sank his good hand into his pocket.

      He’d thought they wouldn’t know? Patrick Marlow had made no secret over the years that he considered his nephew his heir. “Rumors travel quickly around a ship.”

      “Rumors?” That eyebrow rose again. “There’s more than one?”

      Three hundred and thirty people lived and worked on the Cora Mae. Some were seasonal staff who wanted to see the world. They tended to work hard and party harder. But there was a solid core of people who did more than merely live on board—they’d formed a community. This ship was their home. And both groups were alive with speculation and snippets of information about Luke Marlow. Patrick had often spoken to her about his only nephew, mentioning his privileged background, his success with Marlow Hotels and the respect he garnered in the business world. But those stories from a proud uncle hadn’t prepared her for the toe-curling effect Luke had in person.

      The elevator doors slid open and she led the way down a narrow, carpeted corridor while the man in question waited patiently for his answer. “Several rumors,” she acknowledged, “most of which probably have no basis in fact.”

      “Humor me.”

      She allowed herself a small smile at the idea of telling the man who would soon control both her career and home about the gossip doing the rounds. “I don’t think so.”

      They arrived at the medical suite and Della stopped at the reception desk just inside the door to speak to the duty nurse. “Jody, is Dr. Bateman in?”

      Something about Luke Marlow affected her. Perhaps it was his power over her future as her boss. Or the strange magnetism he had as a man. Or simply her unsettled nerves about the reading of Patrick’s will in an hour and the accompanying sharp reminder of her friend’s death only twelve days ago. Regardless, she knew if she didn’t feel 100 percent comfortable, it would be more appropriate to hand him to a colleague for treatment.

      Hearing his name, Cal Bateman stepped into the reception room and Della’s shoulders loosened in relief.

      “Cal, Mr. Marlow might need some sutures in his hand.” She turned to their patient. “Dr. Bateman will take care of you.”

      But when she turned to go, Luke’s smooth, deep voice stopped her. “No.”

      Her heart skipped a beat and she swiveled slowly back around. “Pardon?”

      Luke stood facing her, dominating the room with his height and presence, his expression neither stern nor encouraging. “If I need stitches, I’d like you to handle them, Dr. Walsh.”

      Puzzled, she looked at him. Why should it matter to him which doctor he saw? “I assure you, Dr. Bateman’s surgical skills are second to none. He did some advanced training in plastic surgery, so he’ll leave less of a scar than I would.”

      “I don’t mind a scar,” Luke said, unconcerned. “I want you, Dr. Walsh.”

      Her chest tightened. Was he flirting with her? No man had tried since...her husband. She deliberately cultivated an unapproachable aura to prevent it. Though, Luke Marlow didn’t seem the sort of man who bothered taking notice of such things. She held back a sigh. Either way, it didn’t matter. She was a professional. She’d treat Patrick’s nephew, a man who made her pulse jump, and she’d do a good job of it.

      “Of course,” she said. She led him into her consulting room and began collecting the supplies she’d need. “Take a seat over here, please, Mr. Marlow.”

      “Luke,” he said and sank into the patient chair.

      “I’d rather keep to Mr. Marlow if it’s all the same to you.” She took her white coat from the hook behind the door and thrust her arms through the sleeves before turning back to him. “Chances are you’ll be my boss in a few hours.”

      “It’s not all the same to me. You’re about to pierce my skin with a sharp needle and I’d feel more comfortable if we moved past formalities.”

      Della regarded him for a moment as he stretched out in the black vinyl chair, shoulders relaxed. He wasn’t nervous, sutures or no sutures. But since he’d be inheriting the Cora Mae, he called the shots. She nodded once. “Luke, then.”

      He looked at the badge attached to her white coat. “Dr. Adele Walsh,” he read. “Can I call you Adele?”

      She held back the flinch. Only her husband had called her Adele. An image of Shane’s dear face rose up in her mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She focused on Luke. “I prefer Della.”

      “Della.” He blinked languidly as he regarded her. “I like it. Now that we’re on more intimate footing, tell me what the other rumors are.”

      Before she could restrain it, a chuckle escaped at the way he’d maneuvered. “Well played, Luke.” She leaned back on the sink and folded her arms under her breasts. “Do you really want to waste time here talking about rumors?”

      He met her gaze directly, deep gravity in his silver-gray eyes. “I suppose not. But there is something I would like to ask.”

      For less than an instant, her breathing stalled—she could guess what his question would be about. Still, the topic was bound to be raised sometime; better to have it dealt with before the will reading.

      She took a breath and found a reassuring smile. “Ask whatever you’d like.”

      “We’ve been told one of the doctors on the ship cared for my uncle through his illness. A woman.”

      “Yes,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

      “Was it you?”

      A ball of emotion lodged in her throat, so she gave a nod for her reply. Part of her still couldn’t believe Patrick was gone. He’d been such a vibrant man, full of personality, and suddenly he wasn’t here to chat and joke with. And Patrick’s death had brought her grief over losing her husband two years ago back to the surface.

      Luke’s gaze was steady and solemn. “Thank you for doing that for him.”

      She swallowed and found her voice. “You’re welcome. But there’s no need to thank me—I considered Patrick a friend. He deserved the chance to live out his days on the ship instead of ashore in a hospice.”

      “One thing confuses me. None of his family knew he was dying. He and I spoke several times on the phone over the past few months and he didn’t mention it. He used to stay with my mother every