A Doctor, A Fling & A Wedding Ring. Fiona McArthur
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speech. ‘You were going to tell how you became the world cocktail champion.’
‘Well, I boasted a little. There were two of us. And we had an idea for a drink that resembled a boat and tasted like an island. To be sipped, as I said, at sunset.’ He grinned. ‘Lots of rum.’
He stopped beside a little tuck in the deck that created an alcove and she stopped beside him. The waves were quietly relentless, insistently slapping the side of the ship as the big white hull sliced its way through the swell. The breeze was cool and laden with the tang of salt as they sped to their next port.
At the bow of the ship, to the side, the wheelhouse hung out over the sea and she could just discern figures on duty.
They both turned to look out over the ocean as they leant on the cool lacquered rail and the intensity of the moment that had sprung from nowhere eased. The tension she’d picked up slowly dissipated from her neck as, in the distance, tiny flickers of light twinkled on the horizon from the nearest land.
‘Gotta love the Italian coastline.’ His hand swept along the land mass.
‘Where do you think that is?’
He shrugged. ‘There’s so many cliff hewn townships plastered onto the side of Italy, I’d be guessing.’ Then he moved his hip until it was firm alongside hers and she forgot the lights as his solid thigh imparted insidious heat like a warm current through a cold sea.
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