Make You Mine Read Free Page A

board—was located in that room. A couple fingers of Crown Royal Reserve made working with family a whole lot easier.
    Marc tugged open the door, relieved to find the air conditioner running again. Nothing put a damper on a cruise like the reek of three hundred sweaty vacationers. He noticed the ancient red-and-gold-patterned carpeting had been steam cleaned. He hated that carpet. It had always reminded him of the creepy-ass hotel in
The Shining
. Maybe next season he’d have the cash to replace it.
    All the tables were bare, chairs were stacked along the wall, and clear plastic bags of white linens from the dry cleaner had been tossed in the corner. Marc crossed to the far end of the room, where three heads were huddled in conversation—two blond, one gray. At the sound of his footsteps, Nick and Alex glanced over their shoulders and gave him a wave.
    “Cap’n,” Nick said with a mock salute, then took a deep pull from his Heineken.
    “Cap,” Alex parroted.
    Most folks would never believe Marc was related to the towheads. He had Pawpaw’s tawny complexion, while Alex and Nick had inherited their mama’s Swedish coloring: blue eyes, fair hair, and skin that had to burn a few times before it tanned. Of Daddy’s brood, these two were the only ones who shared the same mother, but that’s because they were twins. Identical—right down to the matching cowlicks that swirled the hair above their left brows.
    Marc had resented his baby brothers when Daddy had left his mama for theirs, until the same thing had happened to them a few years later. It was then, at the tender age of seven, that he’d learned to quit blaming his siblings for the sins of their father.
    “Papa was a rolling stone,” all right. But no matter which woman he shacked up with, he’d always made time for all five of his sons . . . if working them to death aboard the
Belle
counted as quality time.
    Marc took a seat at the head of the table, and Pawpaw pushed a tumbler of amber-colored liquid toward him. Breaking out the hard stuff already? That wasn’t a good sign.
    “Drink up, boy,” Pawpaw said. “You’re gonna need it.”
    Marc ground his teeth and glared at his brothers. The last time Pawpaw said those words, Nick had seduced the state inspector’s daughter and nearly cost the
Belle
her license.
    “What’d you do?” he asked them. “Or should I say
who
?”
    The two shared a quick glance before simultaneously admitting, “The jazz singer.”
    “Both of you?”
    Alex held his palms forward. “She came on to me in the ballroom and practically ripped my pants off. How was I supposed to know she thought I was Nicky?” He elbowed his twin. “He didn’t tell me he was seeing her.”
    “Well, ‘seeing’ is a strong word,” Nick argued. “It wasn’t as serious as all that.”
    “Mother of God.” And Marc thought
he
got around. Fresh out of college and still in frat mode, these two made him look like an altar boy. “I assume she quit,” he said.
    “Yep,” Pawpaw answered. “Called in this mornin’. But jazz singers are more common than mosquitoes in July round here. That’s not why you need the sauce.”
    Marc brought the tumbler to his lips and belted it back, savoring the smooth, smoky burn of aged whiskey. He cleared his throat and clunked the crystal onto the table. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s have it.”
    “Well, for starters,” Pawpaw began, scratching his turkey neck, “someone double-booked the honeymoon suite. Now the head’s busted in there, so neither of them can use it.”
    That wasn’t so bad. “Call Herzinger Plumbing. He’s expensive, but he’s quick. Give the room to whoever booked it first, and offer the second couple the state suite. Then comp all their off-board excursions and give them a free bottle of champagne.”
    “There’s more,” Alex said from the other side of the table. “Lutz found an issue with the train linkage, and he says he doesn’t like the look of the throttle