a desk, clicking a mouse and sending hundreds of people scurrying to do his bidding.
The ocean whipped by, the motor roared. Sea salt and water sprayed her face. The boat slammed against the water after another big wave and Parris bit back a shriek. “Aren’t you going a little fast?” she shouted.
“She may look like an overfilled balloon but she’s tough. Built to take about anything.”
“I’ve never been on one of these,” Parris said, clutching the seat with a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t really like boats. Or the ocean.”
“Then why were you on one? In the middle of the Gulf of Mexico?”
“It’s my job.” She ran a hand through her hair, now sticky with salt and the remains of her hairspray. “This week anyway.”
“And next week, what, I can catch your act at the Flamingo Club?”
She tossed him a look over her shoulder. “I don’t sing. Or dance.”
“Pity, with legs like that.” His gaze traveled past the hem of her skirt, down her calves, settling on her ankles for what seemed a very long, very interested time.
“Watch where you’re going. Not me.”
“Why?”
“So we don’t hit a…a…” She looked across the wide blue expanse of nothing, then scowled at him. “Because driving the boat is your job.”
“I’m a multifaceted man.” He grinned. “I can do two things at once.”
“Then drive the boat and think about your squids. Not me.”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why not think about you?”
“Because I’m not available.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Involved?”
“No.”
“In a convent?”
“No.”
“Good. Me neither.” Beneath the brim of his ball cap, his hazel eyes teased her.
She couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “I couldn’t quite imagine you in a habit.”
“Black is not my color.” He plucked at the flannel shirt he wore over his faded squid-decorated T-shirt. “I’m more of a plaid guy.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Oh, I get it,” he said, nodding. “You’re not available to guys like me. Not interested in the scruffy-professor type?”
Her attention roved over the tattered ball cap shading the hazel depths of his eyes, the shaggy beard hiding what she suspected was a strong, square jaw, the cutoff worn flannel that displayed muscular arms yet ballooned around the rest of his well-built chest. If she burned all his clothes, took him to see José, her stylist, and gave a small sacrifice to Estée Lauder, she could maybe get Brad Smith looking acceptable enough for public viewing.
Like a man, not a—what did he call himself—scruffy professor. Well, he already looked like a man, just more caveman than cover model. Still, to tell him that to his face would be tactless, and even Parris wasn’t direct enough to do that. At least not until they were on solid ground.
“I’m tied up with my career right now. Dating would be a distraction.” A lie, but only a grayish one. As soon as her sister Jackie returned from her honeymoon with Steven, her “career” as head of the business would end and she could go back to her life.
If what she had could be considered a life. Lately, she’d had this empty feeling, like she needed more. What more, she couldn’t say. Her twenty-seven years of experience had somehow become a cream puff without any filling.
Or maybe she just needed to eat something better than portabellos for lunch.
“A distraction. Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not believing her. He shoved the throttle of the boat upward and the little craft lunged forward.
Her heart jerked into her throat and her stomach got lost somewhere ten feet back. “You’re going to throw us all out if you keep doing that.” Finally the dock for La Torchere came into view. “You can drop me off right here. I’m staying at the resort.”
“In the main building or one of the villas?”
She glanced at him. The shaggy beard didn’t seem to fit with the appearance of a normal resort visitor. Maybe there was more to Brad Smith than met the eye. “You’ve been there?”
The brim of his hat cast his smirk in shadow. “Oh, once or twice.” He directed the boat to one of the lower-level docks, brought it up against the fenders and tossed a rope onto the cleat, tying it in a quick, secure loop.
“Well, if you’re ever over this way, look me up.” Parris scrambled to her feet, trying to maintain her balance in the tilting boat.
“Need some help?”
“I can manage.” She stepped off the front end of the boat and put one foot up onto the dock. Before she could get her other leg up, an incoming wave shifted the craft. The boat went one way, she went another.
“Wait…oh! No!” Before she could stop it, she was doing a split worthy of an Olympic bronze medalist.
“Let me—” Brad grabbed her hand. Weaving and wheeling her free arm, Parris pushed off the boat with her other leg, trying to use Brad for leverage to hoist herself up to the dock.
“We should—”
“I wouldn’t—”
The two of them tumbled out of the boat and lost their sentences in the water by the pier.
She bobbed up first, then him. “Well, this is fun. Not.” Parris spat the hair out of her face and gave him a glower. “Where did you learn how to park?”
“Probably the same place that taught you proper cruise attire.”
She swam the few feet over to the ladder on the end of the pier and climbed up, with Brad following right behind. Gigi barked encouragement from her place in the boat, which was now drifting back toward the dock. “For your information, I was barefoot when I disembarked.”
“Who uses words like that?” He stood on the pier, dripping wet and looking even scruffier than he had five minutes ago. “‘Disembarked,’ for God’s sake. Just admit it. You fell in because you didn’t listen to me.”
Parris parked her fists on her hips. “I fell in because you didn’t tie up the boat tight enough.”
“No. You fell in because you were too stubborn to wait for me to help you.”
“You
