As I sat on the covered deck of the Singer Island Hilton, my writer’s Nirvana, and gazed out at the breaking waves, my mind drifted back to when I wrote part of my debut novel on a cruise ship. At that time, it had been a year since my older brother Larry suffered a heart attack while flying his airplane and died in the crash. His sudden death at sixty hit me hard. I missed him every day. Mom and I needed an escape from the heartache.
We loved cruising, so we took a fifteen-day cruise covering the Caribbean. The first night, we met people from England who informed us Scots were aboard. Men in kilts had been sighted. I happened to be writing my first thriller, Flight to Redemption, set primarily in Scotland, so I started searching for the kilted men. I, uh, wanted to verify I’d accurately described the Highlanders.
On the first formal night, I found a handsome Scot in a red, green, and black plaid kilt with a black waistcoat that stopped at his trim mid-section and contrasted nicely with his broad shoulders. As to the debate on what men wore beneath their kilts, (I had to ask) he assured me no self-respecting Scot would ever wear anything underneath. A fancy leather pouch, called a sporran, hung from his waist in front, and his patent leather brogues were laced over his white knee socks. I took his picture—research for my novel.
The next formal night, I strolled through the casino in my sapphire gown and met the killer Scots dressed in their fancy kilts. They were bigger and broader than the first Scot and looked like real Highlanders. Their daggers, known as skean dhu, were slipped inside their knee socks, and friends called them killer Scots because they were always armed.
I thought it was because of their killer good looks. I’ve no idea how they made it through port security with the daggers. They cheerfully reaffirmed the fact that they wore nothing beneath their kilts. One of the Highlanders, six foot three and quite handsome, said, “Come wie me to my stateroom, lassie, and I’ll show ye.”
Scots are very friendly. I must’ve looked like I was thinking it over. My conservative mother gave me her don’t-you-dare-do-that glare. Big sigh.
Later that evening, romance ignited on the upper aft deck. After a few glasses of Pessimist, a delicious blended red wine, with dinner and the show, I felt daring as I made my way to the top outdoor deck. My plan was to savor a quality Cuban cigar under the full moon over the sparkling Caribbean Sea now that Mom had turned in for the night. It was quite windy in the designated smoking area on the afterdeck, as I stood alone with my back to the wind and inserted the snipped end of a Cohiba between my lips. In my slightly inebriated state, I held the lighter under the cigar’s tip and started flicking my Bic. The wind blew it out, possibly saving my long blond hair from catching fire.
Before I had time to decide what to do next, a tall, insanely handsome man with dark hair, tanned skin, and broad shoulders appeared and held his high-tech mini lighter up to my cigar. As I looked into his moonlit electric-blue eyes and the tiny blue flame of his James Bond cigar lighter, I was mesmerized into a pheromone-induced brain fog. After several years working in the cockpit with handsome airline pilots, I thought I had become immune. Maybe that only applied to American men.
Next thing I knew I was sucking waaay too hard on my Cohiba. Cigars weren’t meant to be inhaled, especially by non-smokers like me. My cigar was lit, and so was I. When I recovered from my coughing fit, the handsome stranger had disappeared. Real smooth.
So, there I was, alone again in the moonlight, windblown hair whispering about my face, when it occurred to me that the smart people must’ve found a better place to enjoy their cigars. I turned the corner to the non-windy starboard side and spotted the handsome stranger sitting alone.
He smiled, introduced himself, and invited me to join him. Renaldo was smoking a cigar and sipping a glass of blended Chilean reds from a bottle of Almaviva wine. He offered me a glass. Nothing goes better with a fine Cuban cigar than an equally fine man and a smooth red wine.
Renaldo lit my cigar—and me—again. Turned out he was from Cuba and was a cigar aficionado. He said Cuban cigars were rolled in leaves grown in soil unique to Cuba, which gave them their mild, smooth flavor, and Cohibas were among the very best. I sipped the sensuous wine and listened to his deep, mellifluous voice as I gently sucked on my Cuban.
Moonlight bathed the upper aft deck, which was deserted in the post-midnight hour. Our mutual attraction caught fire as our cigars burned out. Renaldo kissed me with a fierce passion, and I responded with reckless abandon. We lost control during our steamy lounge-chair sex and ended up in a heart-pounding roll on the deck. In my fertile imagination. That man will definitely be in my next novel.
I wish I could report a torrid romance ensued, but no. He was married to dark and exotic Esmeralda. I spied them together in the glass elevator the next day. She was just the sort of wife I would expect for a man like him. Even so, I’ll never forget my Cuban cigar with Renaldo.
The cruise ended too soon, and I was in no hurry to return to reality. If I had unlimited funds, I’d book a permanent suite on that ship. Alas, now I’m home and missing the ship, the killer Scots, and an extraordinary Cuban. Oh, well, back to the writing world for me. “Hola, Renaldo!” Let the fantasies abound.