Make You Mine by Macy Beckett Read Free Book Online Page A

not
my
sister.”
    Alex tried to stifle a laugh, then clapped an arm around Worm’s shoulders. “If you want to keep those ’nads long enough to grow hair on ’em, you’d better mind yourself around Ella-Claire. She’s off-limits to all of us.”
    Damn straight she was.
    None of Marc’s half brothers shared a drop of blood with Ella, but he still expected the drooling horndogs to treat her like family. And to keep their quick-fingered hands to themselves. That was nonnegotiable, and they knew it. Not even his older brother, Beau, had messed with Ella, and that bastard nailed anything that moved.
    Marc sent Alex an unspoken message in the tone of his voice. “If our little brother has time to scope out tail, maybe we haven’t given him enough to do.”
    “I hear you loud and clear, Cap’n,” Alex said. “I’ll bet the cleaning crew can use his help. There are always a few motion-sick passengers yakking in the halls on the first day.”
    Worm groaned and muttered something under his breath, but apparently he knew better than to back-talk.
    “C’mon,” Marc said, grinning at his kid brother. “Let’s go find you some man’s work.”
    •   •   •
    That evening, Marc changed into a clean dress uniform and combed his hair into a meticulous low ponytail for the formal dinner. He could smell the tangy, spicy aroma of caramelized chipotle chicken long before he entered the dining room. Once inside, he admired the presentation of tender chicken breasts and delicate chilies lacquered in orange glaze, his mouth watering in response.
    Chef was one mean son of a bitch, but damn, the man could cook.
    Marc assessed each table as he passed, greeting guests while assuring himself that their white tablecloths were starched to perfection, bone china was displayed properly above their platinum chargers, and silver was in the correct order from salad fork to soup spoon. The sounds of clinking crystal and easy conversation hung in the air, indicating a good time was being had by all.
    Except the Gibsons.
    Marc approached the newlyweds’ table bearing a gift—a complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage—but when he presented the champagne, Mrs. Gibson sniffed and declared, “We don’t drink.”
    Marc groped for a response. Experience had taught him how to spot a teetotaler from a mile away, and this pair of thirtysomething neogothic redheads didn’t seem the type. The groom was sporting a visible neck tattoo above the collar of his dress shirt, and the bride had enough piercings in her face to trip a metal detector.
    That’d teach him to judge a book by its cover.
    “I apologize for the room mix-up,” Marc said. “Is there anything I can—”
    “Did you know Eric McMasterson?” the bride interrupted.
    “Captain of the
North River Steamer
?” Marc asked, once again taken aback. “Only by reputation. Why?”
    “He was my grandpa.” The woman’s shoulders rounded forward, prompting her husband to reach across the table and smooth a consoling hand over hers. “I spent half my childhood on his boat before they shut it down. Of all the historic steamers left, yours is my favorite. I planned our whole wedding around this cruise. And now . . .” She trailed off with a sad sigh.
    If that weren’t enough to make Marc feel like shit, a tear slid from the corner of her eye and plunked into her untouched garlic-mango rice.
    Hell, what was he supposed to say to that—
Can I get you some sparkling cider instead?
Nothing short of snatching the honeymoon suite away from another couple would rectify the problem, and he couldn’t very well do that.
    “Beg pardon,” said a familiar sultry voice from behind. “Are you the Gibsons?”
    Marc turned to find Allie standing several paces back with a white bakery box cradled between her hands. She sashayed to the table, and Marc noticed half the heads in the dining room turn to watch the sleepy sway of her hips and the soft bounce of curls spilling wildly down her