The Importance of Being Alice (3 page)

I looked at the ship. “Position? Aren't they all along the banks?”

“If you look behind you, you'll see that the latecomers
have to anchor alongside other ships rather than the shore. Captain Manny prefers to claim the premium spot since the other captains are such beasts about our company. Petty, quite petty, and so very cutting with their comments about our fleet. Now, this is my concierge desk. Do you have your passport? I'll just hold on to it for you so you won't be bothered by all the trivialities of border crossings. Here is your room key.” She handed a small key to me as she continued rushing ahead. “Through here is the lower lounge. It's a bar, really, and although it's empty now, you'll find it's quite the jumping nightspot, as you Americans like to say. Your cabin is just up the stairs here, and down the corridor. Mind your step. To the left is the upper lounge, and a wee little library to the right, just there. Around the corner we go. You have the veranda cabin, so you'll be able to enjoy the pleasure of a firsthand view from your own deck chair while cruising down the rivers. We just ask that you not sit outside when the wind is from the north due to noxious fumes from the engines. Carbon monoxide poisoning can be so unpleasant, can it not? And here we are! Your deluxe veranda cabin awaits you. Do take your time unpacking. There will be an informal drinks and nibblies party promptly at four p.m. in the upper lounge. Dinner is at seven. You needn't dress for the first night out. Do feel free to tell me if you need anything.”

*   *   *

My head was spinning by the time she hustled off down the narrow hallway.

“Alice, my dear,” I said softly. “You are in Wonderland, which means that has to be the White Rabbit.”

I watched until she disappeared, feeling like I'd been deposited in a whirlwind. I turned to consider the doors
before me. There were three cabins on this level of the ship, but the blank doors told me nothing about what the next two weeks held for me.

“It may be Wonderland, but it's also on a river,” I said to myself under my breath, using the key in the door, “so even if the ship
does
sink, you can swim to shore. Just relax and enjoy two blissful weeks of Europe unblighted by the presence of any egotistical, narcissistic, backstabbing men.”

I entered the cabin, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of a chestnut-haired man who was seated at a minuscule table, hunched over a laptop. The man looked up with a start and stared at me with an expression of surprise that was probably identical to the one plastered all over my face.

“Um . . . ,” I said.

“Um?” he asked, a little frown pulling down his eyebrows. “Really? That's how you greet people? The laxity of customer service these days. Well, it's of no matter; as I told that chatty concierge, I do not need anything, and don't wish to be disturbed. I have a book to write, and I need quiet to do so.”

What on earth was this arrogant man doing in my cabin? Judging by his comments, he had probably snuck in thinking it was empty and thus available to be used as his personal office.

He had one of those rich British accents that made me think of Stephen Fry at his most pompous, and although he certainly wasn't hard at all on the eyes, he was most definitely not what I wanted in the form of cabin accoutrements. “You can blame the ‘um' on jet lag. I've been awake for over twenty-four hours, and frankly, I don't give a damn whether or not you wish to be
disturbed. You're in my cabin, and I would appreciate you writing your book elsewhere.”

“
Your
cabin?” he said, frowning even more.

I went out to the hallway and pulled my suitcase in, noticing then that there were two small bags stacked against the wall next to one of the two twin beds that dominated the small room.

“I beg to differ,” the man said, observing me with what might have been alarm. “This is my cabin.”

I held up my key. “Beta deck, room four. That's what it says on the door, and it's where Tiffany left me, so would you please mind finding yourself another place to write?”

He stood up slowly, his eyes—which I noticed were a particularly clear gray—roaming over me in a speculative, wholly impersonal way. I will admit that the woman in me was a bit annoyed about that. I might not be seeking male attention or appreciation, but dammit, he didn't have to look me over like I was a particularly uninspiring view. “Your name wouldn't happen to be Anise, would it?”

“Alice,” I corrected. “Who are you?”

He started to answer, checked himself, then said hesitantly, “Elliott Ainslie.” I was about to tell him that I was tired and would appreciate him vamoosing when he added, “You're Patrick's ex.”

A chill ran down my back, curled around my side, and settled in my stomach with a sick feeling. “You know Patrick?”

He nodded. “We were at school together. It would appear that there has been a gross miscommunication. Patrick gave me his travel tickets saying that his ex-girlfriend had decided not to take the trip, and since he had more important things to do, he'd let me have his cabin.”

“Our cabin,” I said, righteously indignant about many things, but mostly that Patrick felt so little about a vacation that I had long anticipated that he had tossed it away on a pal. “We went in halfsies on the cabin.”

“I see. No doubt you will wish to take that matter up with Patrick. I'm sure he will see the justice in having to reimburse you for the cost of a different cabin.”

“Different cabin?” I plopped down on one of the beds, the one nearest the tiny bathroom. “I
have
a cabin. There's no reason for me to get another one.”

“But I am already in possession of this one—”

“Yeah, and you didn't pay for it, did you? You said Patrick gave you the tickets. Well, I
did
pay, a lot of money, four grand to be exact, so if anyone is finding a new cabin, it's you, not me.”

Oh, he didn't like that. “Now, see here, Miss . . . Miss . . .”

“Alice Wood.”

“See here, Miss Wood.” He strode the three steps over to where I sat like a limp bit of broccoli on the bed. “I recognize that the situation is not of your making—although Patrick was quite adamant that you had made clear your intention to not take the trip as planned—but neither is it of mine, and since I was in possession of the cabin first, it only makes sense for you to be the one to relocate. You haven't even unpacked.”

I lay down on the bed, wincing a little at both the mattress's lumpiness and the fact that it was inclined at a slight angle. “My cabin. I paid for it, I'm staying. Besides, if you were a gentleman, you'd offer to find a new room.”

He swore under his breath for a moment, stomped up and down the cabin (all five steps' worth of it), then marched out of the cabin muttering things that I felt it better not to strain to overhear.

I sat up, glancing over at his laptop, but before I could do more than wonder if he was in contact with Patrick, he reappeared, snatched up his laptop, and exited again, trailing dark looks at me.

At that point, exhaustion claimed me, making it hard to get my body moving. But my curiosity trumped jet lag, and had me opening the drawers of the low dresser that lined one wall. Shirts, pants, and assorted undergarments were folded with precision.

“The man who folded those socks,” I said aloud, kneeling to pull open the bottom drawer, “is borderline anal. I've never seen clothing so tidy. Good lord, he even has a travel iron.”

Voices outside the door heralded the return of the gray-eyed intruder. I knee-walked the two steps over to the door and opened it to find him arguing with Tiffany.

“—very sorry, sir, but as I've told you three times now, there simply are no other free cabins. We are sailing at capacity, and I should like to point out that Manny van Bris Tours cannot be held responsible for errors of this sort. It is simply not feasible for us to maintain unoccupied cabins on the off chance that one of our customers should suddenly break up with his partner and require separate accommodations. Or in your case, give his ticket to you. Your friend purchased shared occupancy of this cabin, and I'm afraid that you will simply have to deal with the situation as best you can.”

Tiffany's head swiveled as she considered me for a brief moment. On my knees looking back at her, I felt every single minute of the twenty-four-plus hours I'd been traveling—wrinkled, unwashed, and so tired that most of my inhibitions had fallen asleep.

“This ship isn't at all like the pictures in the brochure,” I told her. “The mattress is lumpy, too.”

She was about to answer me, but Elliott interrupted. “There's got to be somewhere else I can sleep on the ship. I don't require much room, just somewhere to sit with my laptop, and a bed to stretch out on at night.”

“You have a cabin, sir,” she said, with a hard glance at me. “There are no other options.”

“You could go stay in a hotel,” I suggested.

“If you wish to disembark, you will need to do so in the next three minutes,” Tiffany said curtly, snapping closed the portfolio she held in her hands. “We will be leaving immediately.”

Elliott looked like he really wanted to let loose with a blue cloud of profanity, but I had to give it to him—he just flexed his jaw a couple of times, and swallowed his frustration down. He turned to me. “I don't suppose you would consider a hotel—”

“Nope. I don't have enough money for one, even if I did want to consider it. What about you?” I gave him the once-over. He was dressed casually, in a pair of dark pants and a plain white shirt. He didn't look like his financial status matched his upper-class accent.

A quick grimace passed over his face. “I prefer not to spend my resources on something as trivial as a vacation.”

“Broke, too, huh?” I gave a little half shrug. “I hear ya on that. Had to max out my credit card in order to have some spending money, not that I have a lot of that, but you can't go to Europe without buying at least a few postcards and stuff, right? So, what are you going to do? Sleep in the lounge at night? I suppose I could let you use this
room during the day when I'm not here, if you wanted to write—”

He brushed past me into the cabin. “Such thoughtfulness isn't necessary. As you heard, I am the rightful possessor of a ticket that entitles me to the use of one-half of this cabin, which means exactly one-half of the table, and one of the beds, are at my disposal. I opt to use them.”

“You can't do that! We don't know each other!” I was scandalized at the thought of sharing so confined a space, so
intimate
a space, with a complete stranger. What was worse was the fact that a tiny little bit of me was also intrigued. Elliott was an unknown, a conundrum just waiting for me to figure him out. And if there was anything I loved, it was a deep, intricate puzzle.

“I'm sure we can work out a rota for usage of the cabin during the day.” He eyed me coolly as he set his laptop back onto the tiny round table, taking care, I noted, not to use more than half of the available space.

“But you're a man! We'll have to sleep together, and despite whatever horrible things Patrick has told you about me, I am not a ho.”

“Pardon?”

“Ho. Player.”

He just stared at me.

I sighed and slapped one hand on my thigh in irritation. “Woman of loose moral values.”

“Ah. I have no doubt your morals are of the highest quality.” He sat back down at his laptop and tapped a few keys.

I waited for a minute, then said, “Aren't you going to reassure me that Patrick didn't say bad things to you about me?”

“Why should I do that?” He spoke without even looking up from the screen.

I thigh-slapped again. “Because it's the polite thing to do! Here am I, all angsty and fragile emotionally speaking, and it's your duty as a gentleman and decent human being who cares about his fellow humans to make me feel better.”

“Technically, I'm a nobleman, not a gentleman.”

That wasn't at all what I was expecting him to say. I stood, my body wearily protesting activity after such a long day, and stared down at where he sat. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm?” He looked up at last, the slight frown back between his eyebrows. “It means that I have a title. Noblemen are usually considered gentlemen, but the reverse cannot be said.”

I outright stared at him. Mouth slightly ajar, hands on hips, eyes bugging out slightly . . . the whole nine yards. “You're a prince or something? Like British royalty?”

“I am not a member of the British royal family, no. But I am the eighth Baron Ainslie.”

“Holy crap!”

“Quite.” He looked back at his computer and commenced typing.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at him with amazement. He frowned at me until I moved over to the chair at the table. I couldn't seem to stop staring at him, my brain turning around and around the fact that a real live British aristocrat was sitting in front of me, in my cabin, a space that evidently would be occupied by us both for the next two weeks.

“My ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War,” was the only thing I could think of to say.

He paused his typing, a startled expression on his face.

“I'm sorry, that was probably the jet lag speaking.” I knew I was long past the point where I had any verbal barriers to keep from blurting out any random thought that passed through my head, but I didn't care. “It's true, though. I had my family traced, and it turns out I have all sorts of grandfathers and uncles and cousins who fought you guys. Probably
your
ancestors,” I added, in case he missed the pertinent point of the conversation.

“I wouldn't doubt that at all. The Ainslies were a very bloodthirsty people a few centuries ago.” He typed a few words, then looked up. “Are you planning on talking the entire fortnight it will take to get to Budapest?”