Page 14 of Rafferty's Rules
‘Really?’ Her response is muffled against my chest. ‘You’ll help me? Again?’
‘Course.’ I’m usually more likely to help a girl out of her undies than help her get away from me. Despite last night’s drunken shenanigans, something tells me it’s a good job this girl isn’t sticking around.
‘Do you do this often?’ she asks, pulling away to wipe tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
‘What?’
‘Rescue people from their own stupidness?’
Ha. As if. Anyone who relies on me for any kind of a rescue better have a backup plan. But I’ll keep that to myself because who volunteers that kind of info or makes themselves sound like a fuckup on purpose?
‘You’re like a regular gallant.’
‘That’s me. Sadly, I had to give up the white horse.’ Her smile is sort of watery as she waits for the punchline. ‘Not enough space in the yard. Come on. Let’s go get this sorted.’
‘Three in the morning!’ Hands on her head, Lissa’s response is more of a wail.
‘Yep.’ For someone whose job is to assist holiday makers, the ship agent’s reply isn’t at all sympathetic. ‘Though technically, you were expected back before midnight at the latest. Three a.m. was the departure time.’ The woman smiles at Lissa, bright and completely insincere before her attention then turns my way, warmer by fucking degrees.
You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, love.
‘Oh my Lord,’ Lissa bemoans, flopping into the blue office chair facing the agent’s desk. ‘What have I done?’ she adds, propping her elbows on the chair arms as she lowers her head to her hands.
‘Not to worry, hun,’ the other woman replies with the same level of artifice. ‘We can sort it out.’ For a hefty price, the gleam of her shark-like smile seems to suggest. ‘Your passport wasn’t found in your room, so you’ll have that on you still, right?’
‘Yes.’ Lissa jerks upright, her forehead creased in a small frown. ‘The cruise information suggested you keep it on you when on land, so I did. But if my room was checked—’
‘Just the safe,’ she adds quickly. ‘That’s as far as they go.’
‘Weren’t my cases taken off, like they do with flights?’
‘No,’ the woman scoffs. ‘What sense would that make? People don’t pay for a cruise they don’t want to go on. They usually catch up.’
‘Oh. So this... happens?’ Raising her head, Lissa’s glasses move a couple of millimetres up her nose as she scrunches it in consternation. Maybe I shouldn’t find the action or her sun-kissed freckles so fucking adorable, but I can’t help it, can I? I try not to sigh as I slide into the chair next to hers. Who the hell goes to a brothel to sort out one problem but ends up leaving with complete other one?
At least her lips don’t look blue anymore. Must’ve been a trick of the light.
‘More than you would imagine,’ the agent murmurs as though tuned to my thoughts. The woman turns her attention to her computer screen, beginning to jab the keyboard on the desk in front. ‘So there are regular flights to Picton, that’s the first stop on the itinerary,’ she adds with a nod that Lissa returns.
Picton. South Island, New Zealand. Not exactly high on my list of places to visit but each to their own, I suppose. I stifle a yawn thanks to jetlag and lack of sleep. Now that I’ve sat down, I reckon the only thing keeping me awake is the noise of tapping talons, setting my teeth on edge. While I’d like to say having a strange girl in my bed kept me awake out of a sense of altruism or even chivalry, I’d be lying.
What kept me awake was that the girl was almost naked.
Instant and persistent hard-on.
The fact she’d clung to me like a joey clings to its mum. All. Night. Long.
See previous physical reaction.
And that her internal thermostat is truly fucked—her body must run at a thousand degrees or something.
Which brings me to another issue because, while I’ve been away, someone rammed a hole in the air conditioner pipes so now the brand-new, state of the art system is well and truly fucked.
And if that’s not enough of a reminder that I need to know a woman better before I start following her like a dog, I don’t know what is.
Jesus. That noise. Why the hell do some women insist on wearing their nails like lethal weapons? It must be fucking inconvenient in the day-to-day scheme of things as well as bloody prohibitive to their sex lives. I wouldn’t let those things anywhere near my dick. Them or the owner of them, come to think of it.
Because, note to self, I’m supposed to think with my big head before my little one. Get to know a girl before we bounce into bed. That’s the theory, anyway.
