Her Frog Prince
Shirley Jump
Dearest Godmother,This time I'm making a match for my old school chum–with the man she deserves!If there's ever a socialite who needed her comeuppance, it's personal consultant Parris Hammond. Lucky for me, scruffy but sexy marine biologist Bradford Smith is just the man to give it to her. (He's already learned the only way to tame this shrew is to kiss her speechless!) And now that he's bought a makeover from her, the barbs–and sparks–are flying! Parris knows this frog is more man than she's ever met…but can he truly be her prince?Still a matchmaker,Merry
“I don’t even want to kiss you!”
What had she been thinking? Brad was the wrong man for her. He was a distraction.
A damned good-looking distraction, but still.
He rose, a tall stone sentry in the darkness. “Sure seemed like you wanted to kiss me a second ago.”
“You imagined that.”
“So if I kissed you right now, you’d hate it?”
“I’d probably slap you.” She could lie with the best of them. If he did kiss her, she didn’t know what she’d do, but slapping him wasn’t anywhere near what her body had in mind.
“Then there’s only one thing to do,” he said, taking a step closer, to her coming within an inch of her mouth. His gaze flicked from her eyes to her lips and then back to her eyes. “Stay the hell away from each other.” His face hardened, then he walked away.
Her Frog Prince
Shirley Jump
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my son, whose fascination with all things slimy and messy has made my life…interesting. You make me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever known and I wish I could bottle these days with my little boy forever. I love you, messes and all.
SHIRLEY JUMP
has been a writer ever since she learned to read. She sold her first article at the age of eleven and from there, became a reporter and finally a freelance writer. However, she always maintained the dream of writing fiction, too. Since then, she has made a full-time career out of writing, dividing her time between articles, nonfiction books and romance. With a husband, two children and a houseful of pets, inspiration abounds in her life, giving her good fodder for writing and a daily workout for her sense of humor.
The Tale of Her Frog Prince
Once upon a time a princess lost her golden ball down a deep, cool well. She cried as she heard it splash down below. She loved her ball and would give anything to have it rescued. That’s when a frog popped up to offer his help.
The frog said, “If you will love me and take me home with you I will bring your ball back.”
Thinking the stupid and ugly frog would have to stay in the water, the princess readily agreed. “I promise.”
But when the frog retrieved her ball, she hugged it to her chest and ran home, forgetting her promise—until the next day, when the frog came to her house. She slammed the door on him and tried to put him out of her mind. But her father insisted she honor her vow to the frog. Though she was horrified and afraid of the wart-covered frog, she knew she must obey her father.
In her heart, however, she was bitter and angry. When they reached the bedroom she threw him against the wall. “Leave me alone, ugly frog!”
But with her action he became a handsome prince, and she gladly agreed to keep her promise.
From the Brothers Grimm
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Prologue
Merry Montrose sat on the deck of Lady’s Delight, the small cruise boat owned by La Torchere Resort and Spa, and tried not to look miserable. Being an old lady was getting to be, well…old. The curse her godmother Lissa had put on her seven years ago was nearly over, thank goodness. All she had to do was serve as matchmaker to three more couples. So far, she’d put eighteen together; surely, three more should be a cinch. Then she could go back to being twenty-nine-year-old Princess Meredith of Silestia and kiss this old-lady life—and the clunky shoes that came with it—goodbye.
Today, with the horrendous heat, Lissa’s spell seemed especially onerous. The air was sticky and thick, the kind of weather that made her wish it would just rain and get it over with.
Merry had gotten on the boat early, to make sure she got the biggest, best and comfiest deck chair. As the resort manager, she should have deferred to a guest, but she did, after all, deserve the good chair, being a member of the elder set. Anyone who looked at her crone-like face and wrinkled skin would think she was at least…well, she didn’t want to think about how old she looked. That kind of thought did nothing but depress her.
She glanced down at her vein-mapped legs and age-spotted hands and bit back a sigh. Soon. Soon she’d be her young self again and the only wrinkles she’d have would be in her favorite linen suit.
If the heat didn’t kill her first. Once the boat got moving, the ocean breeze would cool her down and take her mind off the fact that she had only a few weeks until her thirtieth birthday. If she didn’t finagle three more happily-ever-afters, she’d be stuck in this crone body forever.
Merry had been forced to leave the kingdom of Silestia where her family—the royal family—lived and relocate to this island in southwest Florida. Once upon a time, she’d been a corporate lawyer. Now, without her résumé, her looks or her money, she’d had to talk herself into this job as resort manager at La Torchere Resort and Spa.
Well, she’d worked a little magic along the way, too. Thank God for that Bessart Family perk. Then Lissa had gone and followed Merry here, getting a job as Lilith Peterson, the concierge. Probably so she could make sure Merry stuck to the conditions of the curse: No telling who she really was. No overt magic. And no return to her old life until she helped along twenty-one happily-ever-afters before she turned thirty. Now Lissa had added a twist—she wanted Merry to work this happy ending without the aid of any magic at all. She’d accused Merry of using it as a crutch. Well, what did Lissa expect? Merry was walking around in the body of a member of the elder set. She needed all the help she could get.
She really needed to get Lissa a hobby so her godmother would stop interfering with Merry’s life and quit this lesson-teaching thing. All it did was make her joints ache.
Finally the resort guests began boarding the boat. The last one on—and in three-inch pink Prada heels no less—was Parris Hammond. They’d attended the same college together years ago, back when Merry had been Princess Meredith. Parris had arrived a few weeks ago to help with the resort’s charity auction coming up soon and had been a thorn in Merry’s existence ever since.
Parris the Princess. Parris the Persnickety. Parris the Annoying.
She’d run out of “P” words, but she had quite a few left from other letters of the alphabet to describe the former debutante.
A lot had changed for Merry in the years since college, but from what she’d seen of Parris lately, not much had changed for—or about—her former classmate.
Parris took a menu from the cook’s assistant as she stepped into the boat and immediately let out a sharp sound of disapproval. “I cannot believe the catered lunch for this cruise is nothing more than tea and a bunch of garden vegetables between two slices of bread.”
The skinny sous-chef looked like he wished he’d stayed belowdecks instead of greeting passengers. “Ma’am, I assure you, the chef’s portabello and artichoke sandwiches are a delight. They’ll be quite filling.”
“Steak is filling. Lobster is filling. A mushroom, however, is a fungus.” Parris shook her head, dug in her purse and tugged out a minirecorder. “Note to self—double-check the menu for the charity auction. If people have empty stomachs, they’ll leave with full wallets.” She clicked the recorder off, then slid it back into the tiny pink purse dangling from her wrist.
Parris. Still the same as she had been back in college. A major pain in the—
“Can I get you anything, Miss Montrose?”
Merry pressed a handkerchief to her forehead. “Ice water. Extra ice.”
“Are you people ever going to get this boat moving?” Parris asked, toe tapping against the wooden deck. “We’re ten minutes late leaving. I have a meeting with the Phipps-Stovers at three.” She parked her hands on her hips and eyed another crew member. “Well? Are we leaving or not?”
The mate, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, scuttled back several steps. “Right away, ma’am.”
As they got underway, Merry thought if there was anyone she’d known over the years who needed to learn a little humility, it was Parris Hammond. The woman had all the warmth of a porcupine. Somebody ought to teach her a lesson. Maybe put a heel in her pink designer-clad behind when she got too close to the edge. Let some fisherman find her.
Merry smiled and adjusted her sunglasses. The cruise boat was coming upon a small fishing vessel with a very scruffy looking fellow sitting in it. Hmm…
Now that was a match she hadn’t tried before. Uppity Parris Hammond and a male who spent his days in the dregs of the ocean—a fisherman.
Well, she always had liked a challenge. And Parris looked awfully hot. A little cooling off might do them all a world of good.
Chapter One
There it was. Smooth, pink, and gorgeous as hell. Well, gorgeous to him. Everyone else in the world would probably look at the object of Brad Smith’s desire and lose their lunch.
Or worse, consider it lunch. In some parts of the world, she’d be considered a delicacy.
Brad was inches away from scooping up another prize squid out of the ocean. It wasn’t the species he was seeking, but it was one that could provide a few bonus points when he presented his research to The National Aquatic Research Foundation in two weeks. He needed every boost he could get.
He’d been out here the entire day, and all he had to show for his efforts was one sunburned nose—he’d forgotten the zinc smear on the bridge again—and three dead mackerel, probably thrown back by fishermen who’d accidentally caught them in their nets in their quest for the big-bucks tunas and marlins of Florida’s southwest coastline.
The flash of pink went by again, close enough to the surface that Brad could have almost caught it by hand. He dropped his net into the water slowly, hoping he wouldn’t startle the creature before he could catch it and study it.
With his other hand, he dipped an oar into the water and pushed the boat to the left. Gentle. Quiet. Easy now, here she comes again.
He reached forward and—
Before he could net anything at all, a full orchestra of screams arose from behind him, punctuated by a splash, scaring off the fish, the seagulls and the specimen.
Brad cursed and yanked the empty net into his boat. He wheeled around and saw a pleasure boat tooling away, its wake coming for his little craft like a wave of ants determined to knock over a picnic basket. Caught in the undulating waves behind the retreating Lady’s Delight was a screeching woman.
Definitely not a mermaid. Too obnoxious sounding to be a whale.
Had to be a tourist.
“Just when I’m about to catch a good one,” Brad muttered to Gigi, his shelter-rescued chow, who’d taken her favorite spot on the bow of the inflatable Zodiac boat. “Why do people tour anyway? Why can’t they swim in their own pools and stay the hell out of southwest Florida?”
Gigi gave him a soulful look, then lowered her head to her paws.
Brad shouted at the pleasure boat but it didn’t turn around. The woman hadn’t stopped shrieking, either. He braced his hands on the sides of his eighteen-foot-long boat, holding on as the waves rocked the little craft to the side and back again, each wave lessening in strength.
And still the banshee went on screaming.
Gigi perked up her ears and gave him a bark.
“Oh, you think I should rescue her, huh? Like some knight in shining armor?” Brad looked over the side of his boat, hoping in vain for another flash of pink, but there was nothing. As long as the she-devil was in the water, all marine life was heading for the northern panhandle. If he were smart, so would he. “All right, I’ll help her out. But only for the sake of the sea creatures.”
Gigi yipped approval and got to her feet. A forty-pound chow in an inflatable research boat wasn’t a good combination, but his dog had long ago gotten her sea legs.
Brad tugged up the anchor, yanked the cord on the electric motor, then, with a scowl and several muttered curses, guided the boat to the thrashing woman. He turned off the motor to coast the last few feet toward her so the propeller wouldn’t turn her into bait.
Gigi held her ground, balancing on the little wooden seat with all four paws, letting out barks like a canine version of hot-cold as they got closer.
The woman’s blond head bobbed in the water, went under, then back up again. A wave dipped beneath her chin.
“You all right?” he called to her.
“Do I—” she spit out a swallow of seawater “—look all right to you?”
He tossed the anchor over the opposite side, then turned back to her, draping his arms over his knees. “What you look is wet.”
Beneath the water, he could see long legs and arms making broad strokes as she treaded water with fast, anxious moves, her pink skirt billowing out like the mantle of a jellyfish. If she kept up like that, she’d wear out in five minutes and sink.
Getting a squid into his boat wasn’t a problem. Helping a full-grown woman into it was another story. She could easily swamp them and then they’d both be shark snacks. He cast another glance toward the pleasure boat, but it was quickly becoming a dot against the horizon.
She bobbed down, then up again. “Hey, fisher boy! Could you pay attention? There’s a drowning—” she spit out more seawater “—woman here!”
Calling him “fisher boy” did not induce him to give her a helping hand. “You’re not drowning. And you look like you can take care of yourself,” he said. “Land’s only about three, four miles away.”
“Get me out of this water,” she said, pronouncing each word with the precision of the Catholic nuns who’d taught him multiplication. “Now.”
He didn’t move. “Why are you in it?”
She gave him a look that said she thought he was an idiot. “I fell in. Obviously.”
“Or did your friends push you in?”
Behind him, Gigi barked. Clearly his chow thought he should stop torturing and start rescuing.
“And what on earth—” more water out “—is that supposed to mean?”
“Well frankly, you don’t seem very pleasant.”
“Excuse me?”
He had never seen anyone look so haughty while they were treading water. “I’m choosy about who rides in my boat.”
She gave him a glare that could have melted a diamond. Her arms started moving even faster at her sides, her legs kicking like hyperactive jackrabbits beneath her. “I’m wet. And late for a meeting. And getting very angry. Before I yank you in the water by your flannel shirt and use your head as a life preserver, would you please get me out of here?”
If he’d been raised a jerk, he’d have left her there. Her “please” had sounded about as pleasant as turnips for lunch. Maybe he should leave anyway. Start a new trend of jerkiness. Being a nice guy certainly hadn’t gotten him much in life thus far.
But…she did have pretty green eyes. And green happened to be his favorite color. Despite her words, he felt himself relenting. A little. “Gee, when you ask so nicely, how can a guy refuse?”
She gave him another glare. She was really good at those. Must have practiced glaring a lot in finishing school or wherever it was that gave her that attitude.
Brad put out a hand. She caught it and started to haul herself up. “Whoa, not so fast or you’ll pull us both in. Do it slow and easy, a little at a time. Here, use the edge of the boat and slide in.” He grinned. “Just like landing a marlin.”
Her answering scowl told him she didn’t like being compared to a hundred-pound prize fish.
It took some effort, and some delicate balancing on his part, but he managed to get her into the boat. When he did, he noticed she was slim yet strong, and only a few inches shorter than his six-foot-two-inch height. Even wet, she was a gorgeous woman, all legs and long blond hair.
She plopped onto the single seat in the center of his boat, minus a shoe. A high-heeled strappy kind of shoe at that. What kind of person wore high heels on a boat ride?
“It took you long enough,” she said. With a hand over her eyes to block out the sun, she scanned the horizon for the still departing Lady’s Delight.
“How’d you fall in anyway?”
She shook her head. “I swear that old woman tripped me when I walked by her. Was she just looking for a lawsuit?”
Brad decided that was a rhetorical question and let it stand unanswered, even though he had a few ready replies.
She pressed a hand to her chest and winced. “You know, you could have broken a rib dragging me in like that.”
“You could be more grateful I got you out at all. The sharks are always looking for something to eat.”
“Sharks?”
He took in her wide emerald eyes and flushed damp skin. The side of his brain ruled by testosterone contemplated some nibbling of his own, but of a very different kind. If he ignored everything that had come out of her mouth thus far, she was a very attractive woman. Maybe she was just having a bad day. A very bad day.
And maybe he was too damned nice. Hadn’t his mother told him that? More than once in his twenty-nine years of life? Being nice didn’t get you ahead. Didn’t get you a plum research position. Didn’t get you the notice of the top brass at the Smithsonian.
Being nice got you on a dinghy in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico with a dripping wet, ungrateful woman with more attitude than common sense.
“I’m sorry,” she said, letting out a sigh. “Thank you for helping me.”
Okay, not so much attitude.
“Apology accepted.” He reached behind him for a towel and tossed it her way. Gigi had wisely stayed in her corner of the boat, avoiding the whole thing. Dogs had damned good instincts. “Here. Dry off.”
“While I do,” she said, waving a manicured hand his way, “you gun the engine and get me over to Torchere Key. If I hurry, I have enough time to change, redo my hair and makeup and look like a human again before I meet with the Phipps-Stovers.” She started to rub at her hair with the towel, then paused. “Well, go ahead.”
“I don’t take orders.” Brad picked up the charts beside him and made a few notations about the squid he’d seen, ignoring her. Gigi let out a little bark of support. She didn’t much like being bossed around, either.
“Pull that cord thingy, will you?”
Brad dipped a container into the ocean for a water sample, capped it and labeled it with the date and time, using a waterproof marker.
The woman let out a sigh. “What are you doing?”
“Right now? Taking a water sample.”
She let out a gust. “Why?”
“I’m looking for something,” he replied, answering the water-sample question. Much easier to talk about his work than debate her communication skills. Or lack of them.
“What? Your lunch?”
“Giant squid.”
She looked a hell of a lot better speechless. Almost beautiful. Even wet and dripping and half shoeless.
“A…a…giant what?” she finally managed.
“Squid.”
She blinked. Several times. “There is such a thing?”
“Well, no one’s ever seen a live one, but yes, there is.”
She snorted. “Like Bigfoot, I’m sure.”
He gave her a glare and dipped his thermometer into the ocean, busying himself with the reading. “They exist.”
“Yeah, and so do happy marriages, I hear. I think it’s all a bunch of fairy tales people tell their kids to keep them from wandering the streets at night.”
He pivoted toward her, the thermometer dangling from his fingers. “What flew up your butt this morning?”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t fish you out of the water so you could call my research a fairy tale.”
“Oh, your research.” But the tone in her voice said she still didn’t believe him.
Gigi got to her feet and in three steps was across the boat and in the woman’s face. Standing up for her master, daring the intruder to make fun of the giant squid. Gigi knew. She’d spent enough time on the water to know almost nothing was impossible in the dark blue depths.
“Get that—that—that creature away from me.”
“No can do. Gigi has a mind of her own. If she doesn’t like you, she’s going to let you know.”
The woman arched a perfectly rounded brow at him. “Your dog’s name is Gigi?”
Brad crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there anything else about me you want to criticize?”
“Well, actually…” She pointed at his face, then bit her lip and shut up.
“What? Say it.”
Gigi continued to hold her ground. Now she was standing up for the giant squid and her master.
“Listen,” the woman said, pausing, as if apologizing wasn’t something she did every day. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.” She extended a shaky, tentative hand past Gigi’s side. “I’m Parris Hammond.”
He hesitated, then figured the bad mood of the morning was half his fault. No squid, no whale sightings and a wasted day on the boat hadn’t put him in a very pleasant frame of mind. “Brad Smith.” When he took her hand in his, the cool touch of her skin sent a shock wave through his veins. Like she’d been a power line and he’d been the fool who’d picked it up without wearing rubber shoes.
Except he did have on rubber boots and he didn’t feel foolish holding her hand. Not at all.
She withdrew her grasp from his but not before he saw an echo of his own consternation in her eyes. Clearly he wasn’t the only one playing with electricity. “Is that short for Bradford?”
“Yeah, but don’t ever call me that, not if you want me to answer.”
“Why not? I think Bradford sounds…rich.”
“Exactly.”
“Right.” She nodded. “That’s good.”
“Not in my book.” He picked up the chart again and filled in the temperature block.
“Well. Aren’t you the enigma?” She went back to drying herself off, toweling down the front of her silky shirt. Brad’s attention went from the chart to her, his gaze locked on the movements of the cream-colored terry cloth. It slid along her skin with ease, which made funny things happen in his gut. Her breasts peeked through the damp material of her shirt, giving him a clear image of what she’d look like naked.
The chart slid out of his hands and clattered to the floor of the boat, the pen rolling to the other end. “I, ah, should get you back. You have a meeting with the…”
His eyes met hers and her hand stilled. The air between them grew hot, charged. Her tinted lips parted, but nothing came out for a long second.
“The…the Phipps-Stovers.” But she didn’t move. In fact, she didn’t even seem to breathe.
“You don’t want to be late.”
Her focus stayed on him. “I’m never late.”
“Even for dinner?” Where the hell had that come from?
A tease of a smile lit up her eyes. “Are you asking?”
“Are you accepting?”
She put a hand on her hip. “I’m not accepting until there’s a firm offer on the table.”
God, the woman was frustrating. He didn’t need these word games. He had enough exasperation looking for a nearly invisible squid. He turned away and yanked the cord on the engine. The motor gave a little gurgle, then went silent. “Well, I’m not offering anything.”
Apparently, Parris Hammond wasn’t used to having dinner invitations rescinded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her jerk back, then get busy rubbing at her hair with the towel, hard enough that he was afraid she might end up bald. “Good, because I have a very full schedule.”
The motor turned over on the third try and Brad headed the boat toward the island. “Yeah, me too.”
“That giant squid must be very time-consuming.”
He wheeled around. “Will you quit with that?”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic. Honest. Just making conversation. I mean, what do you say when someone tells you they hunt squid for a living?” She shuddered. “It’s so…gross.”
“Squid are not gross.”
She arched a brow his way.
Brad gunned the engine. Gigi let out a yelp of protest. “Did you know the largest squid ever found weighed a thousand pounds? And the giant squid’s arms are as thick as a man’s thigh? Yet, they’ve never been seen alive and are truly one of the biggest mysteries of the sea.”
“Oh. Fascinating.”
He gave her a glance. “You’re not impressed.”
“I’m impressed someone would know so much about them.” She laid the towel on the bench beside her. “But why on earth would you want to?”
“I’m a marine biologist. It’s my job. Well, it’s not going to be, not in a few weeks. Not if—” He cut himself off. Why had he told her that? It was more than he’d told anyone in weeks.
“Oh. So what will you do then? Look for dolphins?”
He tossed her a grin. “Start looking for mermaids. I seem to have better luck catching women than squid.”
Then he tilted down his hat, shading his eyes, and concentrated on getting his “catch” back to shore before he was tempted to use her for squid bait.
Parris sat in the boat and wondered if she should take that as a compliment or not. Not, she decided. He’d just compared her to a slimy mollusk that caught things with tentacles, for God’s sake. That was like being told she had a nice figure by a man with a walrus fetish.
She tried to hold on to the sides of the boat as it skipped across the water, smashing on the waves like a Pinto bottoming out over speed bumps. She should have known better than to wear the Prada shoes for the island cruise. If she was going to lose one, she should have opted for cheaper footwear, something she didn’t mind becoming a hermit crab home. She pulled off the remaining shoe and dropped it onto the floor of the boat. She’d go barefoot. At least her pedicure still looked good.
The same could not be said for her Kenneth Cole outfit, though. Salt water and satin apparently didn’t co-exist any better than Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.
The boat went over a bigger bump, jostling Parris. “Steady there.” Brad placed a hand against her back.
A very warm, very large hand. The hand of a man who didn’t get manicures every week or spend his days behind 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 are infuriating! I deal with far less childish people than you in Hollywood.”
He arched a brow at her. “You work with celebrities?”
“Sometimes. I’m a personal consultant. I help them look, act and sound better.” A fib, not an outright lie. She had helped her friend Liza get ready for that audition. Liza had nabbed the part, so surely that counted.
Brad started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh until Parris was quite tempted to shove him off the pier and leave him for the sharks. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Helping people. What do you do? Bully them?”
“For your information, my clients are very happy with my services. I have many success stories.” Okay, that one was an outright lie. She’d barely worked in the business since her father had turned Hammond Events and Consulting over to her and Jackie. But she was sure, given the right chance, she could do a good job. Probably. “I could even make you over. Not that it wouldn’t be a challenge, but—”
Brad took a step forward until he was inches away from her. Up close, he didn’t look so bad dripping wet. His clothes clung to him, accenting every plane and muscle. She’d been wrong about his lack of manliness. If anything, he was more male than any man she’d ever known. Too bad he drove her up a wall.
He pointed at her chest. “You are the most aggravating woman I have ever met.”
Give a man some beauty tips and he turns on you. “And you have all the personality of a wolverine.”
He glowered at her. She glowered back.
Brad opened his mouth to speak again, but Parris wasn’t going to listen to another personal attack. She’d had quite enough of that, thank you very much. She thrust out her arms and shoved him as hard as she could.
Too late, the words he’d started to speak permeated the anger in her mind and she realized he’d been saying he was sorry. Before she could do anything to stop it, he stumbled back, arms wheeling, and fell into the Gulf.
Again.
Whoops. Not the best way to repay him for rescuing her.
Parris peeked over the pier and caught Brad’s reddened face and narrowed eyes. His ball cap had fallen off his head and was floating away, just out of reach.
He didn’t seem sorry anymore. In fact, he looked pretty mad. From the boat, Gigi let out several barks.
“Do you, ah, need some help getting out of there?”
“Not from you!” He started swimming for the ladder.
“Listen, I’m really sorry. I acted without thinking. If there’s any way I can ever make it up to you—”
His answering glare told her he wasn’t interested in any favors. Probably better to leave. She had a feeling he didn’t want her within ten feet of him right now.
“Well, thanks for the ride. And hey, look at the bright side,” Parris said. “If a squid happens by, you’ll be in the right place!”
Chapter Two
Brad Smith wasn’t a fisherman, but he was one of the few men Merry figured could stand toe-to-toe with Parris and win. She closed her magical cell phone, blessing the powers that allowed her to keep tabs on her matchmaking efforts from afar, and settled back in the deck chair.
Getting Parris a happy ending wasn’t an impossible task. But it wasn’t going to be an easy one, either. Still, she’d done quite well with Jackie and Steven, and Ruthie and Diego, who would be celebrating their marriage soon. Maybe this wasn’t out of her reach.
And maybe Miss Prissy Parris could learn a lesson or two about life, love and acceptance out of the whole thing. A real happy ending.
Yes, Bradford Smith and Parris Hammond. It could work. Right?
Brad stepped out of the shower and swiped the steam off the mirror. He stared at the reflection before him and realized a hard, sad truth. Parris Hammond had a point. One he’d done a good job of ignoring until she’d gone and brought it up.
There wasn’t a hell of a lot of difference between Brad the sea-roughened marine biologist and Brad the cleaned-up version. He still looked like something that had washed up at low tide with the kelp and dead crabs.
Aw, hell. The meeting with the research foundation was only ten days away. His research was good and solid, the specimens he’d collected well preserved, but the biologist…well, Brad had to admit he’d gotten a little rough around the edges lately.
He rubbed his beard. Okay, a lot. Jeez, no wonder Parris Hammond had recoiled from him like a third-grader from brussels sprouts.
Problem was, Brad wasn’t the kind of guy who cared a hell of a lot about appearances. His own or other people’s. Hell, he worked with squid all day. That alone was a clue to his regard for the company he kept. If there was an uglier animal on the planet, he’d yet to see it. But it had been enough to garner a comment from Parris, so maybe it was time he did something about himself.
He left the bathroom of the studio apartment connected to his research offices and went into the main lab. Jerry, his assistant, and the only one he could still afford to pay now that his first grant had just about run out, sat at the counter, making notations in the log.
“Jerry, tell me the truth. You think I need a little help in the, ah, appearance department?” Brad asked.
Jerry looked up from his work, cast a quick glance at Brad’s T-shirt and khakis and shrugged. “The squid don’t care what you look like and neither do I. Or are you asking me for some other reason?”
“Yeah. That research foundation thing. If I go in there, looking like this, I doubt they’ll take me seriously.”
The fish didn’t care if he showed up in a tux and tails or a duck costume when he went out to do his research. But if he went into the meeting with The National Aquatic Research Foundation looking like something Jacques Cousteau had dragged out of the depths, he had zero chance of getting that grant and continuing his funding. If there was anything a committee liked, it was a good-looking scientist they could parade in front of the media. That and someone who sounded like they were professional, on the ball—and ahead of the research curve.
“Well,” Jerry said, running a hand through his red hair. “You could use a new look.”
“What do you suggest? I chuck my wardrobe and go shopping for some black silk pants and bow ties?”
“Uh, I dunno. I’m not exactly the one to ask.” Jerry patted the front of his Real Men Belch T-shirt.
“I see your point.”
“What about your mom? Isn’t that the kind of thing moms live for? To dress up their kids like their own personal Barbie dolls?”
Brad got to his feet and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. After sitting there in a hot pot all day, the liquid had metamorphosed into something dark as night and almost unrecognizable as java. “Calling my mother is not a good idea.”
“That’s right. She’s not exactly the president of your squid fan club, is she?”
Asking his mother for advice would be inviting her opinion, something Brad had learned long ago wasn’t in his best interests. “Right now, my mother is all wrapped up in the charity auction at La Torchere. She’s raising funds for the aquarium she wants to build.”
“Well, that’s support for what you do, isn’t it?”
“Building cages for sea life instead of supporting the study of them in the wild? No, I wouldn’t call it support.” Brad took a long gulp of coffee, ignoring the bitter taste. “All she wants me to do is serve on the Board of Directors. She doesn’t want me actually getting my hands dirty.”
Jerry put on a bright face, clearly seeing Brad’s mother was a sore point to be dropped. “Then what you need, my friend, is a girl. Preferably one with style.” Jerry tapped his chin with a pen. “Do we know any of those? Not Lucy. She does that thing with eating her hair. Mary’s okay, but I’m not sure she can see with those glasses. And Kitty is always wearing those red socks with purple shorts. Even I know your socks shouldn’t be brighter than your shorts.” Jerry put up a finger. “Wait a minute. There’s Susan. She’s gorgeous, well acquainted with whatever it is they talk about in those fashion magazines, and—”
“My ex-fiancé.”
“I forgot that detail. Guess you don’t want to call her for help?”
“I believe she’s on her honeymoon right now. With husband number two.”
“Oh. Yeah. Timing might be bad.” Jerry sighed. “Well, that’s the end of my list of people who know how to mix and match.” He spun a formaldehyde-filled jar of preserved squid on the counter. “I don’t think these guys are going to be any help. You’re on your own, buddy.”
“I know a woman,” Brad said finally. “And she wears that designer stuff you see in the magazines.”
“Jackpot! Where’d you meet her?”
“She, ah, sort of climbed into my boat when I was out there today.”
Jerry looked at him askance. “Uh-huh. A beautiful woman just happened to climb out of the sea and into your boat. Like a mermaid. Next you’ll be telling me they’re running unicorns at the horse track.”
“She fell off Lady’s Delight. You know, the boat for the resort? I was there, so I picked her up.”
“Was she cute?”
“I wouldn’t call her cute, but rather…” He thought a minute. “Sassy.”
Jerry grinned. “Sounds interesting.”
“She was. In a way.”
“So, you gonna call her?”
Brad rubbed at his chin again. The shoe Parris had left in his boat sat on the back counter, like the proverbial glass slipper waiting to be fitted on the right foot. “Yeah. Maybe make a personal visit.”
Jerry grabbed a research journal, flipped to a blank page and took up a pencil. “Wait, let me make a note of this.” He scribbled the date at the top, then the time.
“What are you doing?”
“A minor miracle is happening in front of my eyes, I thought I’d document it for posterity.”
“Minor miracle?”
“Workaholic Brad is calling a woman for a date. Hey, you might actually have something besides squid on your mind for once.”
“I am not calling her for a date. More a—” he glanced again at the pink sandal “—consultation.”
Jerry tossed the journal and pencil to the side, then sat back down on the stool. “You spoil all my fun. How’s a guy going to live vicariously if you don’t live at all?”
Parris took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her hair, stopping outside The Banyan Room to look in the mirror and check for the twentieth time that no seaweed or trace of her ocean adventure remained. Everything was as it should be. After a quick shower and change of clothes, She looked capable. Smart. Like she could handle this.
In other words, like a fairy tale. Truth was, Parris wasn’t sure she could handle this. But she wanted to. Wanted to prove she could.
When her younger sister Jackie had left her in charge of planning and hosting this huge charity auction worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to go off to marry Steven, Parris had, at first, felt angry and put upon. Then, as the days passed, she’d begun to feel energized by the challenge. As a woman who’d never taken the opportunity to be anything more than a society princess, this was new ground.
Exciting ground. And yet, at the same time, terrifying territory because her footing was unsure. The auction was the first big event for Hammond Events and Consulting, the company their father had given them as a sort of test and as his convoluted way of bringing his two daughters together.
With Jackie living among the cow patties and horseflies in connubial bliss at Steven’s Florida ranch while Parris did all the auction work, togetherness wasn’t happening. And with all the donor problems they’d had in recent weeks, Parris wasn’t so sure the auction was happening, either. She wanted this to work out, more now than ever. In the past few weeks, she’d seen the opportunity the auction presented to make something of her life. Of herself.
Toward that goal, she had to convince the Phipps-Stovers to make a donation. She squared her shoulders, flicked a piece of lint off her suit and took in a breath.
Merry Montrose, the resort’s manager, came up to her before Parris could enter the restaurant. “How are you, Miss Hammond? I heard about your awful accident.”
Parris bit back the momentary thought that Merry had somehow been the one doing the tripping this afternoon. “I’m fine. Just surprised no one heard me fall in or turned around when I started screaming.”
“Oh, you know how those excursion boats are. So noisy. And at my age, the hearing’s not so good.”
Merry leaned closer, her blue-violet eyes zeroing in on Parris’s. When she was younger, she must have been gorgeous, Parris decided.
“I heard you were rescued.”
“There was a man in a boat who fished me out.”
“A true knight in shining armor?”
“I wouldn’t call him that.” She didn’t know what she’d call Brad Smith, but “knight” wasn’t the word that came to mind. “I don’t believe in those kinds of things anyway.”
“What kinds of things?”
Oh God. The woman was going to stand here all day and delay Parris from her meeting. But because the auction was being held at the resort, Parris couldn’t afford to offend the manager.
“Fairy tales,” Parris said curtly, trying her best to end the conversation. “All the Brothers Grimm did was warp a lot of impressionable young minds.”
“Do I detect some bitterness?”
Nosy old woman. Parris didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to get into a conversation about her personal life with the resort manager. Lately the woman had seemed to be quite the busybody, as if she had some kind of personal stake in Parris’s life. Maybe she fancied herself a matchmaker. Parris didn’t need help from her to find Mr. Right. She didn’t even have time for Mr. Right. She had a career to build, not a relationship to find.
Merry had turned and was looking through the oval glass in the doors that led into The Banyan Room. “There’s a happy ending in there.”
Parris peered through the glass, too. Inside, the Phipps-Stovers were sitting at a table for four by the fireplace, sipping champagne and eating the strawberry-topped cheesecake Parris had arranged as a special treat. Brian Phipps-Stover fed his wife a bit of cheesecake. Joyce giggled as she slipped the bite into her mouth.
God save Parris from newlyweds.
Didn’t they know what was going to happen three weeks, three months, three years—maybe even three hours—from now? The little charade of happiness would stop and everyone would show their true ugly colors, turning happily-ever-after into a-nightmare-a-day.
Parris had watched her parents’ marriage self-destruct. She’d seen her own fall apart before she’d even come within fifty feet of the altar. Happy endings were a con perpetrated by couples who pretended to live in harmony while they tucked the fights over bills and in-laws out of sight when company arrived.
“Everyone can have a happy ending,” Merry said, as if reading Parris’s mind.
“All I want is a happy auction.” Parris excused herself, then pushed on the doors and entered the up-scale restaurant. She glanced at her watch. Only three minutes late. If she hadn’t had that conversation with Merry, she would have been on time.
Parris pasted on a smile and crossed to the Phipps-Stovers, trying to stomach the endearments of “pookie” and “truffle lips” that echoed between them as they finished off the last of the cheesecake.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Stover. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person,” Parris said, extending her hand. “I’m Parris Hammond, co-owner of Hammond Events and Consulting. I believe you’ve already talked with my sister Jackie.”
Both Phipps-Stovers rose and greeted her in turn. “Is that Miss Hammond or Mrs.?” Joyce asked.
“Miss. I’m afraid I haven’t been as lucky as you.” Parris put a broader smile on her face as all three of them sat down. “I’ve yet to find a man who suits my taste.”
“Luck hasn’t much to do with marriage,” Brian said, spearing a strawberry with his dessert fork. “I’ve had better luck in Vegas.”
Joyce pursed her lips and cast him a sour look but didn’t say anything.
“First, I wanted to thank you for your support of the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium Fund,” Parris said. “It’s a wonderful cause and your donation will enable us to showcase the wonderful marine life in this area for everyone to see.”
“I like fish. They entertain me.” Brian shrugged, popped the strawberry in his mouth, then took a sip from the flute of champagne.
“Darling, you sip the champagne, then bite the strawberry,” Joyce said. “That provides the maximum epicurean effect.”
“If I do that, pookie, I get seeds stuck in my teeth. I eat the berry first and then wash it down with champagne.”
Joyce’s smile strained against her cheeks. “Really darling, people will think you’re uncouth if you do that.”
Brian’s gaze narrowed. He put down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “People? Or just you?”
Uh-oh. The bloom was already off the Phipps-Stover rose. Their union more resembled a bunch of thorns covered with a few lingering petals.
“Let’s discuss what you’re donating to the auction,” Parris said, interjecting a change of subject before the strawberries became the beginning of a food fight.
The Phipps-Stovers recovered their manners from somewhere off the floor and slipped back into proper society mode. Brian reached into the breast pocket of his suit and withdrew a checkbook. “If you’ll just give me a pen—”
“Oh no, darling.” Joyce laughed. “We aren’t writing a check. That’s so…impersonal. I thought we’d donate a piece of art.”
“What piece of art?”
“That painting in the parlor. The one over the fireplace.”
“My great-aunt painted that.”
“Darling, it’s just a bit risqué for our tastes, don’t you think? I mean, all those orchids and lilies. It’s…well, it doesn’t send the right message.”
“Are you trying to say my aunt’s painting is the equivalent of an HBO special?” He was half out of his seat.
Oh God. This wasn’t going well at all. Parris had no idea what to do. The only event planning she’d ever done was RSVPing to a party invitation. She had to save the situation. But how?
“Your aunt was institutionalized, dear. For her overabundance of men.” Joyce put on a tight smile and gritted her teeth. “Her paintings reflected her…needs, shall we say? And they certainly are the talk of the town. They’d fetch quite the price.”
“My great-aunt was a Stover. That makes her someone to be respected, not gossiped about.”
It looked like the Phipps-Stovers were about to come to blows. Parris wished for the hundredth time that Jackie was there to help her. But no, Jackie had to go off and get married. Granted, Jackie deserved a happy life, but still, couldn’t it have waited until after the auction was over?
“I’m sure we can work it—” Parris began.
Brian got to his feet. “I’m through with this. Forget the whole thing.”
“Please stay. I’m sure we can—”
Joyce rose as well. “I’m not staying, either. In fact, I’m not even staying on the island.”
“Good. There’ll be more room on the beach, considering all you do is take up sand and bake yourself to a crisp.”
Joyce let out an indignant gasp. “I do not!”
“Before you know it, you’ll look as old and wrinkled as that sculpture your grandmother dumped on us.”
Joyce put a hand over her gaping mouth. “I cannot believe you said that. That marble bust of Great-Grandfather Phipps is an heirloom. A piece of history.”
“It’s a piece of—”
“There’s an easy way to settle this,” said a male voice Parris had hoped she wouldn’t hear again.
She spun around and found Brad Smith standing a few feet away, a small bag in one hand. He was freshly showered and in a different T-shirt, but he still looked more like a California college student than a grown-up.
Both the Phipps-Stovers had stopped arguing, though. Either they were waiting with bated breath for Brad’s solution or they’d been stunned into silence by the appearance of a beach bum in The Banyan Room.
Brad dug into his pocket and tossed a quarter at them. Brian caught it in his right hand. “There’s your solution,” Brad said.
“Flip a coin?” Joyce looked horrified.
“It’s a true fifty-fifty chance. And the best way to end a battle between two people who both want to be right.”
“We’re not battling…exactly.” Joyce said.
“We’re newlyweds,” Brian added.
“That explains everything,” Brad said with a smile. “Try it. You don’t really want to fight, do you?”
Joyce looked at Brian. Brian looked at Joyce. Then he shrugged. “Why not? I’m a betting man.” He jiggled the coin in his hand. “Call it, babycakes.”
She pursed her lips, let out a sigh. “Heads.”
Brian tossed the quarter into the air, caught it and slapped it onto the back of his hand. Before revealing the coin’s position, he paused. “Whatever this is, we abide by it. I don’t want to fight with you anymore, honeybunny.”
“Oh, me either.” Joyce nodded.
Brian lifted his right palm. “You win.”
“No, we both win, sweetums.” Joyce grasped his arm and gave her husband a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.
And just like that, the storm between the Phipps-Stovers had passed. “We’ll donate the painting,” Brian said. “Someone else will surely love it as much as I do.”
“And then we’ll go shopping for something together. Something that’s just us,” Joyce said.
“Oh, truffle lips, you’re so perfect.”
Happiness had been restored. Within a few minutes, the Phipps-Stovers had completed the paperwork for their donation and had left the restaurant, snuggled once again in newlywed bliss. Brad and Parris wandered out of The Banyan Room and onto the veranda.
“Now you owe me twice,” Brad said, smiling at her. “Actually, three times.” He handed her the bag.
When he smiled, his eyes lit up and something traveled between them, like a connection of energy. How could that be? She’d known the man, what, forty minutes, and spent most of that time dripping wet and mad as hell at him.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Your glass slipper, Cinderella. You left it in my boat.”
She felt her face flush. For the briefest of seconds, she had felt like she was in a fairy tale. Who was she kidding? She was an heiress and he was a squid hunter. That was fairy-tale hell. “Thanks,” she said. “Again.”
“I want more than a little gratitude.”
“What…money? Are you some mercenary rescuer who goes looking for damsels in distress?”
He cocked his head, considering that for a minute. “If I could find a way to make it lucrative, I might. Make my time on the ocean a little more productive.”
“I’m not paying you for rescuing me.” She raised her chin. “It’s the deed of a good citizen. And you look like…”
“Like what?”
“Well, like you could be a good citizen.” The last thing she wanted to be was indebted to him. That meant spending time with Brad Smith. A man like him—who drove her crazy and sent her thoughts careening into wild, impossible corners—wasn’t what she needed right now.
“If I cleaned up a bit. Put on a tie, you mean?”
“Well…” She glanced at his T-shirt. Plain, un-adorned, no beer-swilling logo or sea life on it. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You said you’re available for personal consultations. And I want one.”
Oh no. No way. She knew what he meant. It wasn’t a “consultation” at all. He wanted some kind of sex thing, she was sure. No one hired her. She didn’t have any experience. “Is this some weird way of asking me out on a date? Because—”
“I want to hire you.”
“Hire me?” She blinked. “As in pay me money to help you with a project?”
“Yeah, is that so unusual? I mean, that is what you do in your business, right?”
“Oh yeah.” She let out a hiccup of a laugh. “All the time.” At least all the time in the past few weeks. Before that, the only thing she’d been good at was signing her name on charge-card receipts.
“Good. Then you can help me.”
“Help you with what?”
He patted his chest. “Become more of a tie guy.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. Most men were happy with the way they looked and had a heart attack if a woman changed the brand of athletic socks they wore. There was no way this guy was for real. He wanted something else. Something definitely not involving “consulting.”
Besides, he didn’t look like the kind of guy who could afford her fee, whatever it might be, since this was her first real customer, other than organizing the auction for Victoria Smith. “And how were you planning on paying me?”
“I already paid in advance. With the rescue in the water and by helping that couple. I’m low on cash otherwise.”
Parris held the stack of auction papers close to her chest. There were a hundred details yet to take care of before the auction on Saturday, just four days away. With Jackie gone, she couldn’t afford to lose her focus, not for a second. If there was anything Brad Smith would surely make her do, it was lose her focus. Even if he was sincere about hiring her—which she couldn’t imagine he was since he didn’t need a tie to pull up squids—she didn’t have time for him. “I can’t right now. I’m too busy with the auction.”
“Let me guess. The auction to benefit the Victoria Catherine Smith Memorial Aquarium, right?”
“You’ve heard about it?”
“Often.” Brad scowled. Apparently he hadn’t heard anything good. Was her PR campaign that bad? “I can see why that might be more…demanding.”
“Yes, it is. So, you understand why I can’t take you on right now.” There. She had a valid excuse not to get involved with him, whether she owed him a favor or not. She’d write him an IOU and hope he’d forget about it.
He took a step forward, invading her space, forcing her to deal with him. “No, I don’t. But if you say you can’t, I intend to find a way around that.”
A soft breeze whispered through the veranda, lifting her hair. Resort guests came and went, drifting down to the beach or back up to their rooms for a nap.
“There is no way around that, Mr. Smith. If I say I’m busy, I am. My apologies.” She started flipping through the paperwork, hoping she looked too consumed to deal with him.
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