An Innocent In Paradise. Kate Carlisle

preliminary studies and I’ve applied for further grant money in order to move to the next level. It’s urgent and important work. But I need fresh, large batches of spores and I need them soon.”

      “I see,” he said, stretching his arm out across the back of the sofa.

      Clearly frustrated by his blasé tone, she stopped her pacing and said quietly, “Look, Mr. Sutherland, I am a scientist, a very good one. And I…I need this job here in order to conduct my studies. Your resort is the main source of employment on the island.”

      “It’s the only source of employment, Ms. Farrell, but let’s not nitpick.” Staring out the sliding glass doors, he carefully avoided making eye contact as he returned to his original argument. “So the reason you lied on your résumé was so that I would hire you so that you could live here at my resort for free and study our spores.”

      “Well, yes, and—”

      “And you thought you’d coast right into the mindless job of waitress in our cocktail bar to cover your costs.”

      “I suppose that’s right, but—”

      “And yet, you’ve never been a cocktail waitress.”

      “Well, no, but—”

      “Well, then.” He lifted his shoulders in a move meant to indicate only one conclusion. “At the risk of repeating myself, you’re fired.”

      “Wait!” She rushed over and sat on the couch mere inches from him, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid, anxious breathing. Her scent, some exotic blend of spice and…was it orange blossoms?…enveloped him. Up close, he could see a pale smattering of freckles on her shoulders. He had the most bizarre urge to touch them.

      “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

      “You don’t have to leave,” he said genially. “Feel free to book a room at the resort and study spores as much as you want. But don’t expect me to subsidize your trip.”

      “But …” A heavy frown marred the smooth surface of her forehead and her lower lip was in danger of quivering. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? If she did, Logan swore he would throw her out of here faster than she could say meiotic … whatever. Crying was the ultimate weapon of female manipulation. He’d learned that the hard way.

      “I can’t book a room here,” she confessed. “It’s too expensive. The only way I can stay is if you’ll let me work for you.”

      He raised one eyebrow. “No.”

      “Fine,” she said defiantly, and jumped up from the couch. “I’ll sleep on the beach, but I’m not leaving.”

      “Wait just a damn minute,” he said, standing. “Nobody sleeps on my beach.”

      She turned. “Your beach?”

      “That’s right. I own most of this island and I say who comes and goes. And I don’t want vagrants setting up camp on my beach.”

      “I’m not a vagrant,” she muttered as she folded her arms tightly across her chest. Her lower lip stuck out in a pout and as much as he hated the manipulation game, he had to admit he wanted to run his tongue over those pouty lips of hers. He had to give her points for that.

      She swallowed nervously and took another deep breath and it seemed to help her regain some inner resolve. Her lips tightened and she faced him head-on. “I’m not leaving, Mr. Sutherland. I need to find those spores. I won’t go home without them.”

      He observed her quietly for a long moment. “You don’t look like a research scientist.”

      She rolled her eyes. “What do my looks have to do with anything?”

      He almost laughed. Her looks had almost everything to do with why he’d allowed her to make her case in the first place. If she didn’t understand that, then maybe she had been hiding out in a stuffy laboratory for the past ten years.

      Wait. Ten years? He knew she couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, which meant she’d been doing her so-called research since she was fifteen. If she was telling the truth, that is. Obviously, she wasn’t.

      She was a liar, plain and simple.

      Before he could comment aloud, she waved her arms and forged ahead. “Fine. I may not look like your notion of a research scientist, but that’s exactly what I am. And I have every intention of staying here until I’ve got everything I need to finish my work.”

      “Is that right?”

      “Yes.”

      He noticed she was barely able to keep from squirming under his sharp gaze. Good.

      Then, without warning, she stepped even closer and stared hard at him, eye to eye. Well, eye to chest was more accurate, since he towered over her. But that detail didn’t seem to intimidate her.

      “Look, I’m not above begging,” she admitted. “I intend to stay on this island and I’m willing to do anything you want me to do. If you refuse to let me be a cocktail waitress, I’ll clean hotel rooms or wash dishes or…or water your plants. I just ask that my mornings be kept free for the spores. That’s why the cocktail waitress job is ideal, but there must be something else I can do around here. Oh, I can cook! Well, I’m not a great cook, but I can make salads or cut up fruit or …”

      Anything he wanted her to do? Did she realize how dangerous that offer was? Was she truly that naive? For a second or two, Logan wondered about her and her wide-eyed innocence, then roughly shook the thought away. He didn’t believe it. Grace Farrell was as manipulative as every other woman he’d ever met. Intriguing, gorgeous, sexy, but a manipulative liar just the same.

      Damn, his brain was fogging over from her erotic scent. Maybe he was crazy, but he wanted his hands on her.

      “Fine,” he said. “You’ve got one week to prove you can handle the cocktail waitress job. If not, you’re off the island.”

      “Oh, thank you!” Without warning, she threw herself into his arms. “Thank you so much. I can do it.”

      He drew in her scent and warmth, then forced himself to take hold of her elbows and nudge her out of his arms. “Just make sure you don’t break any more glasses.”

      “I won’t, sir.”

      “And don’t call me sir.”

      She smiled tentatively. “Mr. Sutherland.”

      “Nobody calls me that, either. It’s Logan.”

      “Thank you, Logan. And please call me Grace.” She surprised him by taking hold of his hand, then gazed up at him, unsmiling. “You have no idea what this means to me and to the world at large. And I promise, I’ll be the best cocktail waitress you’ve ever hired.”

      “Oh, yeah?”

      “Oh, yes,” she said with confidence, then let go of his hand and whipped out her small notebook. “I’m very smart and a quick learner. I’ve already memorized the ingredients of every drink in the bartenders’ guide I bought. And as far as lifting the trays? Well, it’s just physics, after all. Simply a matter of determining the correct spatial placement of the glassware on the tray. Look.”

      She flipped the pages and showed him a diagram. “As you can see, it’s an exact duplication of our own solar system. In miniature, of course. My theory is that if the drinks are dispersed in this pattern on the tray, equilibrium will be achieved and there shouldn’t be any spillage.”

      His mouth twisted in an acerbic grin. “Interesting theory.”

      “Yes.” She stared at the diagram, then back at him. “I was just a little surprised to find out how heavy the tray was when I lifted it. But I know I can—”

      “That’s right, Grace, it’s more