Smooth Sailing. Lori Wilde

interested. Jeb Whitcomb was a very superficial man.

      “It’s the last time you’ll ever see me.” A hangdog expression crawled over his face. “Don’t you want to say goodbye?”

      “Goodbye.” She wriggled her fingers at him.

      “The party won’t be the same without you.”

      “You won’t miss me.”

      He canted his head, his eyes drilling into her like lasers. “Ah, see, but that’s where you’re wrong.”

      “It’s not going to happen, Whitcomb.”

      He shrugged. “A guy can always dream, can’t he?”

      “As long as it stays a dream.”

      He reached out, touched the back of her hand. A shiver ran straight through the middle of her. “I am going to miss you, Haley.”

      “That makes one of us.”

      “Ouch.” The grin was back as he clutched a hand to his chest. “You play for keeps.”

      “Don’t ever forget it.”

      The blonde at his elbow edged closer, cleared her throat. “Mr. Whitcomb, I’m from Metropolitan Magazine and I want to do a story on you.”

      Jeb turned to the woman. “Yes?”

      With her hand still tingling from his touch, Haley took advantage of his distraction and slipped off into the crowd. Great. She felt like a James Bond martini, shaken and not—Oh, who was she kidding?

      She was both shaken and stirred.

      HALEY STALKED OFF with a purposeful bounce, her honey-colored hair flowing around her shoulders, those blue scrubs stretching across her sexy rump as she marched away.

      Jeb grinned, put a palm to the nape of his neck and licked his lips. Wow, you can park that swing in my backyard anytime. He tilted his head, honed in on her narrow waist and curvy hips.

      His pulse pounded and his body stiffened. In spite of the cool ocean breeze swaying the palm trees, a simmering heat moved through him. He chuffed out a breath, struggling to regain his equilibrium. Truth was, he really would miss her. He enjoyed their sparring matches. She was sassy and saucy and didn’t take anything off anyone.

      The last person who’d challenged him that same way was his ex-girlfriend, Jackie Birchard. Out of the dozens of girlfriends he’d had, Jackie was the only one to dump him. It made her stand out in the crowd. The one woman he couldn’t charm.

      That was, until he met Haley. Too bad they’d never hooked up, although they’d come pretty damn close.

      Jeb smiled, remembering. He could have gotten her into bed if he’d wanted. When they’d made out on the beach at sunset a few months back, sparks had ignited unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and that was saying something. Haley had wanted him as much as he’d wanted her, maybe even more so, although chances were good that she would never admit it.

      But, surprise, surprise, he’d been the one to put a stop to things before they’d completely lost control.

      He’d stopped for two reasons. One, he knew Haley would have regretted it the morning after. She was such a stickler for protocol, held herself and others to high standards. Two, he’d been trying to prove to Jackie that she was wrong about him. He wasn’t a self-absorbed playboy with no depth of character. He could restrain himself.

      No matter how difficult it had been to break that kiss and send Haley home with their desires unfulfilled.

      Ah, well, you couldn’t win them all, right? It was time to move on. His work on St. Michael’s was done. He’d achieved what he’d set out to achieve. He’d helped rebuild the island. He could return home with his head held high.

      “About that interview, Mr. Whitcomb,” said the blond reporter with a smile that sparkled like prisms.

      Matching her smile, Jeb turned and led her away, but he couldn’t resist one last glance over his shoulder at Haley.

      She paused and looked back.

      Their eyes met.

      Gotcha! Protest all you want, sweetheart—you do want me. Boldly, he winked.

      Her cheeks reddened and her eyes narrowed in a scowl. She ducked her head and flounced from his view, leaving Jeb sorely regretting the night that they’d never had.

      HALEY LAY STRETCHED OUT on her twin bed in the one-bedroom bungalow she shared with Ahmaya. She was eating Oreos, twisting the cookies apart and scraping the white filling off with her front teeth before gobbling up the dark cookies. Oreos were her go-to comfort treats when she was stressed or frustrated, and yes, she knew the drawbacks of de-stressing with a sugar fix, but when she was feeling like this, she didn’t care.

      The quarters were basic and cramped, but a long sight better than the tent they’d lived in after Hurricane Sylvia. She was trying not to think about Jeb, but he kept popping into her head at the most unwanted times.

      Why?

      Yes, he was wealthy, handsome and self-confident, but he was also full of himself and far too free with his affections. Imagine! He’d called her baby and took the pins out of her hair, and she’d just stood there and let him. Unexpected goose bumps lifted on her arms and she hugged herself.

      Ahmaya stood in front of the mirrored closet door, examining her reflection as she got ready for the party. “What do you think about this skirt?”

      “The hem is too short.”

      “Perfect,” Ahmaya purred.

      “You’re going to wear it anyway?”

      “I am. If you think it’s too short that means it’s exactly the right length.”

      Haley sat up. “You’re saying I’m a prude?”

      “Uh-huh, kinda.” Ahmaya ran her fingers through her straight, glossy black hair.

      “I’m not a prude,” she argued against the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was she? She didn’t mean to be; it was just that she had certain principles and she wasn’t going to compromise.

      “Prove it.”

      “What?”

      “Prove you’re not a prude.”

      “I don’t have to prove anything.”

      “You don’t curse.”

      “So what?”

      “Prudes don’t curse.”

      “I believe in having a wide vocabulary. Is that so wrong?”

      “Prudish.”

      “What?” She raised her arms. “I should go around swearing like a sailor to prove I’m not prudish? Okay, then.” Haley let loose with a few descriptive curse words.

      Ahmaya looked surprised. “I had no idea you knew those words.”

      “I’m a nurse. I’ve heard a lot worse than that. It’s just that cursing seems so crude and uncivilized.”

      “Sometimes—” Ahmaya grinned “—it’s fun to be uncivilized.”

      “If you say so.”

      “Prude.”

      “Are we back to that?”

      “It’s the truth of your being.”

      “I don’t think prude is the right word. Prudent, if you wish, but not prudish.”

      “Hmm.” Ahmaya stepped into a pair of mile-high stilettos. “Prove it.”

      “I just did.”

      “Not by cursing, by coming with