In Mcgillivray's Bed. Anne McAllister

most of the flying—but they came close to strangling each other whenever they worked together on the same project.

      So it had been the wisest thing, he assured himself, not to mention the safest, considering Molly’s proverbial redhead’s temper, to wave her goodbye this morning, whistle up his border collie, Belle, and head out for a day’s fishing.

      He’d done some bottom fishing early, checking out several favorite spots. Then, long about lunchtime, he’d dropped anchor at a little cove on Pistol Island, a few miles east of Pelican Cay. There he’d eaten his bologna sandwiches and drunk a couple of beers while Belle had explored the mangroves and then went swimming. After Hugh had swum a bit, too, he’d begun working his way back toward Pelican Cay, though work hardly seemed the operative word.

      Mostly he just fiddled with his lines, soaked up the rays, sipped his beer and drifted along as the sun dropped into the sea.

      He watched with mild interest as speedboats zipped past him. But he felt no urge to move quicker. If he wanted speed, he flew. Today he wanted to drift. He’d waved at the launch taking the day-trippers back to Nassau from Pelican Cay when it had passed him a couple of hours ago. The passengers had waved back, looking tired and sunburned but, he supposed, happy.

      No happier than he was, though.

      No one was happier than Hugh McGillivray in his battered wooden boat—not even those high-living folks he’d seen partying on the snazzy yacht that had cruised past just a little while ago. He could still hear the sounds of calypso floating his way and see its lights in the dusk heading northwest.

      He reached into his cooler and pulled out one last beer. The cooler had been full of ice and beer and sandwiches when he’d left this morning. Now it was full of fish—on top of what ice was left. He had enough fish to last all week and enough to share the largesse with Molly and Lachlan and Fiona, Lachlan’s wife.

      He’d been hoping for a good-size grouper—one that would top the fish Lachlan had brought home last week. They’d been competing since they had come to Pelican Cay as teenagers. Lachlan still held the all-time record—having landed a fifty-eight-pound grouper when he was nineteen. But that had been half a lifetime ago. And even though he’d been insisting since then that Hugh would never beat him, Hugh still figured he would.

      Especially now that Lachlan rarely went fishing anymore. He was far too busy these days with his collection of small inns and resort hotels, not to mention with his wife. Particularly now that Fiona was expecting.

      Hugh grinned as he thought of his normally svelte sister-in-law who was now in what she called “the waddling way.” Fiona had been his friend for a lot of years. He thought she’d make a wonderful mom. The thought of Lachlan as a dad boggled the mind. Actually the thought of Lachlan as a husband had taken some getting used to. During his years as a professional soccer player, Lachlan had been known in the tabloids as “the gorgeous goalie,” and he’d certainly taken advantage of his reputation. Women had followed him in droves. Probably still would follow him if he showed any interest.

      But Lachlan was only interested in Fiona. These days the gorgeous goalie was as domesticated as a cat.

      Hugh wasn’t.

      Ever since Carin Campbell had married Nathan Wolfe two years ago, Hugh had decided that confirmed bachelor-hood had a lot to recommend it. At the time he’d been seriously miffed that Carin had chosen another man—not that he’d shown it. He’d never ever worn his heart on his sleeve where Carin was concerned.

      No one knew how much he’d cared.

      Privately, though, Hugh had made up his mind that since the only woman worth marrying was taken, from here on out he’d simply play the field.

      It wasn’t a bad deal. He could still admire Carin—love Carin, he admitted to himself—and enjoy her friendship. But he could also sidle up to any interesting female who turned up on Pelican Cay and flirt a little bit.

      Or a lot. Whatever the situation required.

      Hugh enjoyed flirting almost as much as he enjoyed fishing. It was fun. It sometimes led to bed which was also fun. And as long as no one took it seriously, no one got hurt.

      He wished Lisa Milligan didn’t take it so seriously.

      The flirting bit. Not the bed bit. They’d got to the flirting. They hadn’t got to bed—and they weren’t going to.

      It was against his principles. Hugh was quite happy to go to bed with willing women who knew they were having fun and nothing more. He wasn’t about to sleep with any woman who thought she was going to haul him to the altar.

      And he didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that’s exactly what Lisa had in mind.

      Lisa Milligan was a sweet naive young girl. Girl being the operative word. She was nineteen, for God’s sake! A child! Well, perhaps slightly more than that. But not much.

      She was Tony at the bakery’s niece, taking a break from college and working on the front desk at the Mirabelle, Lachlan’s extremely upscale, ultradiscreet, very fashionable Pelican Cay inn. She’d been there since spring.

      Finding herself, she told him.

      Mostly, Hugh thought grimly, finding him.

      In the beginning he’d teased and flirted with her a bit because it was what he did. That didn’t mean he wanted to marry her.

      Lisa just thought it did. In fact she expected he would marry her. Like it was a foregone conclusion. She’d told Miss Saffron, the island’s biggest gossip, exactly that.

      “She say it only be a matter of time,” Miss Saffron had told him a while back as she’d rocked on the swing of her shady front porch.

      Not in this lifetime, Hugh had thought, shaken. He’d been doing his best to steer clear of Lisa ever since.

      But it hadn’t helped. Nothing had helped. Not even when he’d told her flat out that he wasn’t the marrying kind.

      She’d just laughed and shown him her incredible dimples, then flashed her gorgeous grin. “Then I’ll just have to change your mind.”

      She’d been doing her best for the past month. Everywhere Hugh had gone, there she’d been. In his shop, at the landing pad, on the dock, in the hammock on his porch this morning, for heaven’s sake!

      “I wondered if you wanted to go for a swim?” she’d said hopefully.

      “Can’t.” He’d been polite but brisk. It was a small island. People had to get along. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He just wanted her to understand she wasn’t for him.

      “Oh.” She’d looked crestfallen. “I’ll see you later, then?”

      He’d grunted. “Gonna be gone all day.”

      “I could come along. It’s my day off.”

      He’d shaken his head. “Sorry. It’s business.”

      Stretching the truth, perhaps. Molly would have called him a liar. But he wasn’t. He needed to know where the good fishing was, didn’t he? That way he could direct his clients who wanted to know where to drop their lines.

      He’d been taking care of business all day, enjoying every moment with only Belle, his dog, for company. He especially enjoyed the fact that the entire landscape was Lisa-free.

      Now Hugh stretched expansively, lounged back and, one last time before he headed home, jiggled his line.

      It jiggled back.

      “Whoa.” He sat up straight and grinned, patience rewarded. He played the line out a little, then drew it in, testing to be sure he hadn’t simply snagged a piece of driftwood.

      He got a responding twitch. The twitch became a tug. A strong tug.

      Hugh laughed delightedly. No driftwood this! Whistling through his teeth, he began hauling it in.

      “Look