“Well...”

“Perhaps I can just look at your palm.”

Megan let go with a sigh of relief when Max came back with a tray and distracted Coco.

“Not interested in the future?” Nathaniel murmured.

Megan glanced over, surprised that he had moved beside her without her being aware of it. “I'm more interested in the present, one step at a time.”

“A cynic.” He took her hand and, though it went rigid in his, turned it palm up. “I met an old woman on the west coast of Ireland. Molly Duggin was her name. She said I had the sight.” His smoky eyes stayed level with hers for a long moment before they shifted to her open palm. Megan felt something skitter down her spine. “A stubborn hand. Self-sufficient, for all its elegance.”

He traced a finger over it. Now there was more than a skitter. There was a jolt.

“I don't believe in palmistry.”

“You don't have to. Shy,” he said quietly. “I wondered about that. The passions are there, but repressed.” His thumb glided gently over her palm's mound of Venus. “Or channeled. You'd prefer to say channeled. Goaloriented, practical. You'd rather make decisions with your head, no matter what your heart tells you.” His eyes lifted to hers again. “How close am I?”

Much too close, she thought, but drew her hand coolly from his. “An interesting parlor game, Mr. Fury.”

His eyes laughed at her as he tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “Isn't it?”

By noon the next day, Megan had run out of busy-work. She hadn't the heart to refuse Kevin's plea to be allowed to spend the day with the Bradfords, though his departure had left her very much to her own devices.

She simply wasn't used to free time.

One trip to the hotel lobby had aborted her idea of convincing Amanda to let her study the books and files. Amanda, she was told by a cheerful desk clerk, was in the west tower, handling a small problem.

Coco wasn't an option, either. Megan had halted just outside the door of the kitchen when she heard the crash of pots and raised voices inside.

Since Lilah had gone back to work as a naturalist in the park, and C.C. was at her automotive shop in town, Megan was left on herown.

In a house as enormous as The Towers, she felt like the last living soul on the island.

She could read, she mused, or sit in the sun on one of the terraces and contemplate the view. She could wander down to the first floor of the family area and check out the progress of the renovations. And harass Sloan and Trent, she thought with a sigh, as they tried to get some work done.

She didn't consider disturbing Max in his studio, knowing he was working on his book. As she'd already spent an hour in the nursery playing with the babies, she felt another visit was out.

She wandered her room, smoothed down the already smooth coverlet on the marvelous four-poster. The rest of her things had arrived that morning, and in her perhaps too-efficient way, she'd already unpacked. Her clothes were neatly hung in the rosewood armoire or folded in the Chippendale bureau. Framed photos of her family smiled from the gateleg table under the window.

Her shoes were aligned, her jewelry was tucked away and her books were stored on the shelf.

And if she didn't find something to do, she would go mad.

With this in mind, she picked up her briefcase, checked the contents one last time and headed outside, to the car Sloan had left at her disposal.

The sedan ran like a top, courtesy of C.C.'s mechanical skills. Megan drove down the winding road toward the village.

She enjoyed the bright blue water of the bay, and the colorful throngs of tourists strolling up and down the sloped streets. But the glistening wares in the shop windows didn't tempt her to stop and do any strolling of her own.

Shopping was something she did out of necessity, not for pleasure.

Once, long ago, she'd loved the idle pleasure of window-shopping, the careless satisfaction of buying for fun. She'd enjoyed empty, endless summer days once, with nothing more to do than watch clouds or listen to the wind.

But that was before innocence had been lost, and responsibilities found.

She saw the sign for Shipshape Tours by the docks. There were a couple of small boats in dry dock, but the Mariner and its sister ship, the Island Queen, were nowhere to be seen.

Her brows knit in annoyance. She'd hoped to catch Holt before he took one of the tours out. Still, there was no reason she couldn't poke inside the little tin-roofed building that housed the offices. After all, Shipshape was now one of her clients.

Megan pulled the sedan behind a long, long T-Bird convertible. She had to admire the lines of the car, and the glossy black paint job that highlighted the white interior.

She paused a moment, shielding her eyes as she watched a two-masted schooner glide over the water, its rust-colored sails full, its decks dotted with people.

There was no denying the beauty of the spot, though the smell and look of the water was so foreign, compared to what she'd known most of her life. The midday breeze was fresh and carried the scent of the sea and the aromas of lunch from the restaurants nearby.

She could be happy here, she told herself. No, she would be happy here. Resolutely she turned toward the building and rapped on the door.

“Yeah. It's open.”

There was Nathaniel, his feet propped on a messy and ancient metal desk, a phone at his ear. His jeans were torn at the knee and smeared with something like motor oil. His mane of dark mahogany hair was tousled by the wind, or his hands. He crooked his finger in a come-ahead gesture, his eyes measuring her as he spoke on the phone.

“Teak's your best bet. I've got enough in stock, and can have the deck finished in two days. No, the engine just needed overhaul. It's got a lot of life left in it. No problem.” He picked up a smoldering cigar. “I'll give you a call when we're finished.”

He hung up the phone, clamped the cigar between his teeth. Funny, he thought, Megan O'Riley had floated into his brain that morning, looking very much as she did at this moment. All spit and polish, that pretty rosegold hair all tucked up, her face calm and cool.

“Just in the neighborhood?” he asked. “I was looking for Holt.”

“He's out with the Queen.” Idly Nathaniel checked the diver's watch on his wrist. “Won't be back for about an hour and a half.” His cocky mouth quirked up. “Looks like you're stuck with me.”

She fought back the urge to shift her briefcase from hand to hand, to back away. “I'd like to see the books.”

Nathaniel took a lazy puff on his cigar. “Thought you were on vacation.”

She fell back on her best defense. Disdain. “Is there a problem with the books?” she said frostily.

“Couldn't prove it by me.” In a fluid move, he reached down and opened a drawer in the desk. He took out a black-bound ledger. “You're the expert.” He held it out to her. “Pull up a chair, Meg.”

“Thank you.” She took a folding chair on the other side of the desk, then slipped dark-framed reading glasses from her briefcase. Once they were on, she opened the ledger. Her accountant's heart contracted in horror at the mess of figures, cramped margin notes and scribbled-on Post-its. “These are your books?”

“Yeah.” She looked prim and efficient in her practical glasses and scooped up hair. She made his mouth water. “Holt and I sort of take turns with them— that's since Suzanna tossed up her hands and called us idiots.” He smiled charmingly. “We figured, you know, with her being pregnant at the time, she didn't need any more stress.”

“Hmmm...” Megan was already turning pages. For her, the state of the bookkeeping didn't bring on anxiety so much as a sense of challenge. “Your files?”

“We got 'em.” Nathaniel jerked a thumb at the dented metal cabinet shoved in the corner. There was a small, greasy boat motor on top of it.

“Is there anything in them?” she said pleasantly.

“Last I looked there was.” He couldn't help it. The more prim and efficient her voice, the more he wanted to razz her.

“Invoices?” “Sure.”

“Expense receipts?”

“Absolutely.” He reached in another drawer and took out a large cigar box. “We got plenty of receipts.”

She took the box, opened the lid and sighed. “This is how you run your business?”

“No. We run the business by taking people out to sea, or repairing their boats. Even building them.” He leaned forward on the desk, mostly so he could catch a better whiff of that soft, elusive scent that clung to her skin. “Me, I've never been much on paperwork, and Holt had his fill of it when he was on the force.” His smile spread. He didn't figure she wore prim glasses, pulled-back hair and buttoned-up blouses so that a man would yearn to toss aside, muss up and unbutton. But the result was the same. “Maybe that's why the accountant we hired to do the taxes this year developed this little tic.” He tapped a finger beside his left eye. “I heard he moved to Jamaica to sell straw baskets.”

She had to laugh. “I'm made of sterner stuff, I promise you.”

“Never doubted it.” He leaned back again, his swivel chair squeaking. “You've got a nice smile, Megan. When you use it.”

She knew that tone, lightly flirtatious, unmistakably male. Her defenses locked down like a vault. “You're not paying me for my smile.”

“I'd rather it came free, anyhow. How'd you come to be an accountant?”

“I'm good with numbers.” She spread the ledger on the desk before opening her briefcase and taking out a calculator.

“So's a bookie. I mean, why'd you pick it?”

“Because it's a solid, dependable career.” She began to run numbers, hoping to ignore him.

“And because numbers only add up one way?”

She couldn't ignore that—the faint hint of amusement in his voice. She slanted him a look, adjusted her glasses. “Accounting may be logical, Mr. Fury, but logic doesn't eliminate surprises.”

“If you say so. Listen, we may have both come through the side door into the Calhouns' extended family, but we're there. Don't you feel stupid calling me Mr. Fury?”

Her smile had all the warmth of an Atlantic gale. “No, I don't.” “Is it me, or all men, you're determined to beat off with icicles?”

Patience, which she'd convinced herself she held in great store, was rapidly being depleted. “I'm here to do the books. That's all I'm here for.”

“Never had a client for a friend?” He took a last puff on the cigar and stubbed it out. “You know, there's a funny thing about me.”

“I'm sure you're about to tell me what it is.”

“Right. I can have a pleasant conversation with a woman without being tempted to toss her on the floor and tear her clothes off. Now, you're a real treat to look at, Meg, but I can control my more primitive urges—especially when all the signals say stop.”

Now she felt ridiculous. She'd been rude, or nearly so, since the moment she'd met him. Because, she admitted to herself, her reaction to him made her uncomfortable. But, damn it, he was the one who kept looking at her as though he'd like to nibble away.

“I'm sorry.” The apology was sincere, if a trifle stiff. “I'm making a lot of adjustments right now, so I haven't felt very congenial. And the way you look at me puts me on edge.”

“Fair enough. But I have to tell you I figure it's a man's right to look. Anything more takes an invitation—of one kind or the other.”

“Then we can clear the air and start over, since I can tell you I won't be putting out the welcome mat. Now, Nathaniel—” it was a concession she made with a smile “—do you suppose you could dig up your tax returns?”

“I can probably put my hands on them.” He scooted back his chair. The squeak of the wheels ended on a high-pitched yelp that had Megan jolting and scattering papers. “Damn it—forgot you were back there.” He picked up a wriggling, whimpering black puppy. “He sleeps a lot, so I end up stepping on him or running the damn chair over his tail,” he said to Megan as the pup licked frantically at his face. “Whenever I try to leave him home, he cries until I give in and bring him with me.”

“He's darling.” Her fingers were already itching to stroke. “He looks a lot like the one Coco has.”

“Same litter.” Because he could read the sentiment in Megan's eyes perfectly, Nathaniel handed the pup across the desk.

“Oh, aren't you sweet? Aren't you pretty?”

When she cooed to the dog, all defenses dropped, Nathaniel noted. She forgot to be businesslike and cool, and instead was all feminine warmththose pretty hands stroking the pup's fur, her smile soft, her eyes aught with pleasure.