Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise Read Online Free PDF Page A

Austen,” Emily said, as our waiter trotted off with our orders, “you really must tell us all about your exciting life as a writer.”
    What on earth was I going to talk about? My ad campaign for Big John, the extra-large commode for extra-large people? Or my award-losing slogan for Ackerman’s Awnings ( Just a Shade Better )?
    “I’m afraid it’s not all that exciting.”
    “I’m sure it must be!” Emily beamed me an encouraging smile. “We want to hear all about your books.”
    “I haven’t exactly written any books. I write advertising mainly.”
    “How marvelous!” Emily gushed. “Did you write Got Milk? I just love that!”
    “No, I’m afraid not.”
    “So what have you written?” Nesbitt challenged.
    “My clients are mostly local Los Angeles businesses. You’ve probably never heard of them.”
    “Go ahead,” Nesbitt said, fixing me in her steely glare. “Tell us anyway.”
    She wasn’t about to let this go. She liked seeing me squirm.
    But I’d be damned if I’d let her intimidate me. So what if my credits weren’t all that impressive? What could they do to me? Banish me to the buffet?
    I squared my shoulders and began reeling off the names of my clients: “Toiletmasters Plumbers, Ackerman’s Awnings, Fiedler on the Roof Roofers—”
    “Good heavens!” Emily exclaimed. “You wrote Fiddler on the Roof? Why that’s one of my favorite musicals!”
    “No, you don’t understand—”
    “We saw that on a theater cruise to London!”
    And before I could straighten her out she was off and running about her cruise to London. It was pretty much that way throughout dinner, Emily rattling on, lost in memories of past cruises. I never did get to talk much about my life as a struggling writer of toilet bowl ads, and for that I was grateful.
    When my chicken showed up, it was tasty enough, but I couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the filet mignons around me.
    Every once in a while Emily’s stories were interrupted by Kyle snapping at his wife. ( Must you eat so fast? Do you really need another helping of those potatoes? For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve spilled gravy on your blouse. ) By the time dinner was over, I was ready to bop him with my butter knife.
    Maggie ate her meal, eyes downward, absorbing his barbs, saying nothing. Across from her, Ms. Nesbitt polished off a disgustingly healthy vegetable plate, pausing only to shoot me a fish-eyed glare when I asked her to pass the rolls.
    But most disconcerting was Adorable Robbie. Every time I glanced over at him, I saw him eyeing me appraisingly, grinning that lopsided grin of his.
    Honestly, I was so discombobulated, I almost ordered the fruit cup for dessert.

    Finally, the meal was over. Believe it or not, I hadn’t eaten much. I’d felt awkward digging into my chow with my usual gusto, not with Robbie watching me like I was a contestant on The Bachelor .
    “It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said to the others when we got up to go.
    I was about to take off for the buffet to make up for lost calories when Robbie asked, “How about joining us in the lounge for an after-dinner drink?”
    Whoa! Was this cutie actually interested in me? Or had he only asked me along because I was one of the few women on board not yet in menopause?
    Whatever the reason, no way was I getting involved with him. After thirtysomething years on this planet, if I’ve learned one thing it’s this: The cute ones are dangerous . Sooner or later, they’re bound to make you miserable. And not only was this guy cute, he was Bad Boy cute. And they’re the most dangerous of all.
    Yes, red flags were waving. Klaxons were sounding. It was time to make my excuses and head for the buffet. For once in my life I’d do the smart thing and play it safe.
    The words that actually came out of my mouth, however, were:
    “Sure. I’d love to go.”
    What can I say? As my thighs would be the first to tell you, I’m seriously deficient in the will-power gene.
    We all trooped