Steamed by Katie MacAlister

women?” The words were out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of speaking them. Blushing with embarrassment, I clapped a hand over my mouth for a few seconds before saying, “My apologies, Mr. Fletcher.”
    “Jack.”
    “That was rude of me. You will not, of course, answer such an impertinent question.”
    “You look even more charming when you blush,” he said, grinning. “I don’t mind telling you. I’ve had four official girlfriends, the last one about two years ago. If you’re asking how many women I’ve known —” The emphasis he put on the word was unmistakable. My cheeks grew even hotter. “That would be seven. I wasn’t much for girls until I got to college. Then I had a few wild years before settling down to study.”
    “I see.” I busied myself with pouring a dollop more tea.
    “How about you?” he asked over the rim of his cup.
    I looked up, startled at the insinuation.
    “How many men have you known?”
    That question was almost as impertinent as what I thought he had been suggesting. “That, sir, is none of your business.”
    “Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “I told you how many women I’ve been with. Fair play would demand you do the same.”
    It was on the tip of my tongue to retort that I hadn’t wanted to know, but honesty wouldn’t allow me to lie to save my self-pride. “Three,” I said finally, after a brief inner struggle. I watched him closely to see if he would display any signs of repugnance at the number, not that I cared one way or another. I was a captain, I told myself. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t lose any respect for me in order to avoid undermining my authority. “Not that it’s any of your business whatsoever, I have had three lovers.”
    I lifted my chin, throwing out that last word as almost a challenge.
    “Ah. You’re not hooked up with someone right now, are you?” he said without blinking so much as one eyelash.
    “No,” I said, startled enough to answer without thinking. I set down my teacup and gave him a firm look. “Mr. Fletcher, we have strayed from the purpose of this conversation. What I wish to know is—”
    “El capitán!”
    “Oh, dear God,” I moaned softly.
    The door leading to the small galley was flung open, the figure of a man silhouetted in the doorway. He stalked toward us slowly, his head tipped forward as he pinned me back with what I was coming to think of as the Francisco Smolder. “ El capitán , mi capitán , Dooley, he says that you are here alone with a man. I will tear his heart out and cook it with his kidneys if he has laid so much as a finger on you, my sweet, delicious capitán .”
    Francisco García Ramón de Cardona, better known to the crew as Mr. Francisco, rushed forward and flung himself onto his knees at my feet, grasping my hand and pressing wet kisses onto it.
    “Mr. Francisco, I have asked you not to do that,” I said sternly, trying to pull my hand back.
    His grip tightened as he made cow eyes at me. “Mi capitán,” he said, his voice simmering with sensuality and sexual promise. “My luscious, delectable capitán .”
    Jack snorted, turning his laughter into an awkward cough.
    I ground my teeth and, with an effort, jerked my hand from that of the steward. “And I’ve asked you not to address me with such familiarity.”
    “You do not love your Francisco anymore?” he asked, adopting a suddenly coy look as he batted his eyelashes at me. “My heart, he is yours, all yours. And the rest of me, as well,” he added, standing up.
    I averted my gaze from his bulging pelvis, which unfortunately was right at eye level. “In addition, I believe I have addressed you on the subject of those wholly inappropriate breeches that you insist on wearing rather than the standard Aerocorps trousers.”
    He waggled his hips at me. “You do not like my breeches, oh, glorious one of the flaming sunset hair?”
    Jack made another bark of choked laughter that I did my best to ignore as I gave the