Her Frog Prince. Shirley Jump

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      Apparently, Parris Hammond wasn’t used to having dinner invitations rescinded.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