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

and started another. And another. I was floating around on a dreamy cloud, awash in a puddle of melted resolutions, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.
    I turned to see who it was and my heart sank.
    Oh, crud. It was Anton, the ice sculptor, decked out in Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, his ponytail specially greased for the occasion.
    “May I steal this lovely young lady for a dance?” he asked Robbie.
    Say no, say no, say no, say no! I pleaded silently.
    But my prayers went unanswered.
    I gulped in dismay as Robbie shot me a rueful smile and turned me over to Anton, who instantly clutched me in a death grip and dragged me around the dance floor, mauling my toes with his two left feet, yakking about some swans he’d carved out of kielbasa sausage for a Polish wedding.
    I counted the seconds till the song was over. But then, to my horror, I realized it was just the first in a medley of tunes, one song leading to another. And so I was trapped with Anton and his two lethal feet through a fox-trot, a mambo, and—horror of horrors—a jitterbug.
    At last the music stopped and the nightmare came to an end.
    “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Anton asked in all seriousness.
    “Yes, very.” Like childbirth with a crowbar.
    I couldn’t wait to get back to where I’d left off with Robbie. But when I looked around the room, there was no sign of him.
    So much for shipboard romance.
    “So,” Anton asked, “how about a moonlight stroll on deck?”
    Not if he were the last ponytailed, sausage-sculpting bad dancer on earth—which he may well have been.
    “Thanks, Anton, but I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to turn in.”
    And before he could stop me, I scooted to the exit. The last thing I saw as I headed out to freedom was Emily Pritchard out on the dance floor, still tripping the light fantastic with Graham.
    It looked like dancing was good for her digestion after all.

    I wasn’t lying when I told Anton I was exhausted. After all the tumult of my first day at sea, I was in serious need of a tranquilizer or three. When the heck was the relaxing part of this vacation going to kick in?
    I hurried along the corridor, checking over my shoulder to make sure Anton wasn’t following me. Then, with the unerring accuracy of a homing pigeon, I returned to the buffet, where I picked up some roast beef for Prozac and a restorative dose of brownies for me.
    It was too bad about Robbie ditching me, I thought, as I stowed my booty in some napkins. He probably saw a better-looking pair of functioning ovaries and decided to make a play for them. What did I tell you about the cute ones? Trouble with a capital T.
    Banishing all thoughts of the beach bum with the bad-boy grin, I took the elevator down to my cabin in the Dungeon Deck.
    I was feeling a bit guilty about leaving Prozac alone for so long, stuck in that tiny closet of a room. But it was her own fault, I reminded myself. Nobody asked her to sneak into the trunk of my car.
    As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about Prozac being lonely. Because when I opened the door to my cabin, I saw she had company.
    There, sitting in the cabin’s only chair with Prozac on his lap, was my steward Samoa.
    “Good evening, Ms. Austen,” he said, with a sly smile.
    After recovering from what I’m certain was a mild coronary, I managed to squeak, “What are you doing here?”
    “Samoa came to turn down bed.”
    Oh, rats. I’d forgotten to call housekeeping and cancel my maid service.
    “Such a pretty kitty,” he said, stroking Prozac.
    I only hoped he didn’t come from a country where she was considered an entrée.
    “Such a pity,” he said, “if kitty winds up in quarantine.”
    “Please don’t tell anyone,” I begged, then launched into a fevered explanation of Prozac’s adventures as a stowaway.
    “So you see,” I concluded at the end of my recitation, “I didn’t really mean to bring her on board.”
    Alas, he was unmoved by my tale of woe.
    “Kitty not