Free Shell Game by Chris Keniston Page B

hypnotic voice was enough to turn her mouth dry, and make other places wet and moist. The best she could do was shake her head, and even then she wanted very much to nod and have him come check under the bed, around the bed, on the bed. Dear heavens, what was she doing to herself?
    “Good night.”
    His voice had dropped an octave, and the raspy sound had her almost regretting her no-flings rule. But learning he’d been a navy man only confirmed her initial impressions and explained the determined-bachelor thing. A girl in every port and all that.
    Swallowing hard, she croaked “Good night” and, closing the cabin door behind her, fell heavily against it. Her heart racing like an overeager thoroughbred. It was definitely time to make a change in her life. Someplace in South Florida there had to be a banker or an insurance salesman with piercing eyes, a voice that could melt butter and a body that screamed “take me for the ride of your life.” Right . And the Queen of England drank coffee not tea.
    * * *
    Too damn close for comfort . When Sharla had turned to face him, Luke swore he’d seen the same raw need reflected in her eyes that pumped through his veins. He also saw vulnerability and confusion and an emotion that had him taking a step back—fear.
    His every nerve ending was still hyperaware of her. She might as well be standing next to him and not in her cabin down the hall. Even though it had been hours since the casual hug, there was no shaking the feel of her. Walking past one of the many cocktail lounges, he was tempted to grab a beer to take off some of the edge, but he knew he’d need a hell of a lot more than a few drinks to get Sharla out of his system.
    Time to focus. Taking the stairs to the next deck up, Luke ran through the back of his mind what he’d observed today of Herbie and George, not allowing himself to think of Sharla. Finding an isolated cubicle in the far corner, and ignoring the grossly overpriced minutes, he logged onto the ship’s Internet. Five very long minutes later he was barely able to maneuver his way through the slow-moving cyberworld in search of a middle-aged George Bailey.
    This was insane. Going a different route, he typed in a personal message address for Kate, the tech genius at his office, and wrote Hi, beautiful . Within seconds, a box popped up in the corner of his screen.
    KATE: Back at ya, handsome. This is a surprise.
    Any past interaction between him and Kate had always happened on The Company’s accounts. Since this was neither business, nor did he want his boss to discover he was not totally resting, he approached Kate on her personal account. Besides, if anything came of his inquiries, it would be best if none of this were traceable through official channels.
    LUKE: On the high seas as ordered . I need a favor . Her lack of response lasted a bit too long, then the little stars that showed her typing finally appeared.
    KATE: If I lose my job, you get to supplement my unemployment.
    LUKE: Absolutely ! He didn’t need to worry about that. Techno geeks with the skill set of Kate—and honest to boot—were not that easy to find. The Company would turn many a blind eye before letting her go.
    KATE: Liar. Whatcha need?
    Steadily he gave her all the info, what little there was, on George.
    KATE: I may be good, Bigboy, but I’m not that good. I need something else. A birth date, hometown, high school. Even narrowing it down to men over forty and under seventy with wives named Gloria, and assuming he was born somewhere in New England because he’s a Red Sox and Bruins fan, I’ve still got triple-digit possibilities .
    LUKE: What about Herbert Klein? Former Philadelphia policeman, retired. Former Marine, probably around —Before he could finish typing, a new pop-up box sprang open.
    KATE: Wow. Two silver stars, a Purple Heart, commendations for valor. The list goes on. He should have his own TV show.
    That made Luke laugh. He could picture it now, Herbie and a