Her Frog Prince. Shirley Jump

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