It made her feel so pathetic. Especially after the fight they’d had when he’d first arrived. She had no illusions about the way he felt about her—he’d made it clear that he wasn’t here to make nice. In fact, she’d gotten the distinct feeling earlier that he’d been more than ready and willing to keep battling it out with her until the cows came home. There’d been something intense and almost desperate in his eyes as he’d goaded her. Then he’d called her that old, nasty name from school, and it had taken the wind out of her sails in an instant.
It was stupid to let something so ancient and dusty get to her like that. Before he’d walked in the door this morning, she’d been so sure that she’d come to terms with what had happened between them. But one look into his navy-blue eyes and she’d been awash in memories….
She’d noticed Ben from the first moment she walked into her first class. Along with every other girl, of course. He was tall, dark and handsome, with a cheeky smile and a laconic charm that encompassed everyone and everything—except, it seemed, her. He’d never once given her one of his lazy smiles. And he’d certainly never run his eyes over her in warm appreciation the way he did with the other girls—not until he had an ulterior motive, that is. She’d told herself that she was too busy acing her way through the Cuisine Institute to care. But she’d cared. She’d noticed him and she’d wanted him to notice her back. And then he had, and she’d fallen into his bed as though it was meant to be.
And the next day she’d learned the truth.
“You just going to stand there or are you going to pack up?” Ben asked.
Tory jolted out of her reverie and blinked at him. “Sorry?” She realized too late that the theater had emptied and they were alone again.
He shot her a searching look, and she busied herself disconnecting her notebook computer from the plasma screens and collecting her notes. She could hear the clang and clatter of him tidying the demonstration kitchen, and when she’d finished stowing her own gear, she automatically reached for a bottle of cleaning spray to wipe down the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said.
“I can’t just stand around and watch you work,” she said, spraying cleaner across the counter.
He looked thrown, as if she’d surprised him.
“What? I can’t help out in the kitchen now? You want to do your own cleaning as well as all the prep and cooking work?” She dropped the spray bottle and held her hands in the air as though he’d told her to stick ’em up.
“No. You don’t have to help, that’s all,” he repeated.
She frowned at him, then her hands found her hips and her frown turned into a glare. “I get it—you think I think I’m too good to clean, is that it?” she asked.
“You are Little Miss Haute Cuisine.” He shrugged. “Cleaning up is for the apprentices.”
She flinched, stung by his comment. Was that what he really thought of her? What he’d always thought of her?
“You have no idea who I am,” she said.
He picked up her cookbook, Island Style, and waved it under her nose. “You might be slumming it with us islanders for a little while, but you’ll be back serving up chateaubriand and chausson aux framboises at Le Plat once you’ve finished playing around.”
She was surprised to realize that he didn’t know that her father had closed Le Plat on his retirement rather than pass it on to her. She understood why Andre had made that decision, but she doubted Ben would and she wasn’t about to give him more ammunition. He’d just take enormous satisfaction from learning that she’d apparently missed out.
She made a grab for her cookbook, but he held on tight and she had to put all her weight behind it to tug it from his grasp.
“You know what, you can clean up on your own,” she said, tucking her book under her arm and grabbing her computer bag and notes.
She turned for the door but stopped in her tracks when she saw Patti, the cruise director, standing there.
Hot color stained her cheeks as she wondered how much of her and Ben’s exchange the other woman had heard. To say they were being unprofessional was a gross understatement. Immature, childish—both descriptions were much more accurate.
“Hi, guys. Welcome aboard, Ben. Nice to be offering you hospitality for a change instead of the other way around.” She smiled at Tory, obviously feeling an explanation was in order. “We try to dine at Ben’s restaurant every time we pass through. Best food in the islands.”
“You’re just saying that,” Ben said modestly. “But don’t stop—I like it.”
Patti laughed. “Plus he’s charming, but I’m sure you already know that.”
Definitely the other woman hadn’t overhead their exchange. Tory felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. Somehow she and Ben had to find a way to get through the next few days without sniping at each other. At least not in public, anyway.
“I came to let you know the captain has invited you both to dine with him this evening,” Patti said.
“That sounds great,” Ben said easily. “Tell Dominique I’ll be taking notes on her secret conch sauce.”
Tory rolled her eyes. Dominique Charest was the chef de cuisine on Alexandra’s Dream. Trust Ben to know her personally.
“The captain’s dining room is on the Artemis deck, Victoria,” Patti said. “I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind showing you the way.”
“Of course,” Ben said politely.
Tory waited until the other woman had gone before letting her smile fade.
“I have a map,” she said shortly as she turned once more for the door. “I can find my own way.”
“Good,” he said.
She gritted her teeth, a dozen pithy insults tingling on the tip of her tongue. But he’d turned his back, and she found herself measuring his broad, well-muscled shoulders with her eyes.
Confused, annoyed, flustered, she headed for the exit. How on earth could she find anything about this man attractive when he had such a low opinion of her? And then there was her opinion of him—also low. Positively subterranean, in fact. Really, it was an insane situation, and she hoped her stupid hormones would snap out of it soon. The last thing she wanted was to have the hots for Ben Cooper all over again. God forbid.
BEN SAT BACK IN HIS chair and took a sip from his champagne cocktail. Nikolas had opted to open the French doors on his private dining room this evening, and the cool night air almost made up for having to wear a suit. The one downside to eating at the captain’s table, he decided as he eased a finger beneath his collar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so trussed up. The Caribbean wasn’t exactly known for its formal dress code, but he’d suspected the Dream might have different standards and was glad now he’d packed his suit.
His eyes automatically flicked to his watch again, and he felt a curl of annoyance at himself. So what if Tory hadn’t turned up yet? So what if he suspected she was lost? It was no skin off his nose, after all. She was nothing to him. In fact, if anything, rather than being worried, he should be actively hoping she was lost, that she would be forced to make an embarrassingly late arrival. It was the kind of social faux pas that he imagined would send Tory and her blue-blood family screaming for the hills.
Despite himself, he was about to make an excuse to go scout around for her when she swanned in the door. He blinked as he took in the dress she was wearing. Made from some clingy, gauzy fabric in hot-pink and aqua florals, it had a halter neck and a plunging neckline. A single row of soft ruffles ran down the