Gulp.

The Sun Song.

She knew from the info that Peter had sent her that the sailing yacht had been made in France, was eighty-two feet long, and was a ketch, whatever that meant. The exterior was made out of welded aluminum alloy, which sounded good and well and extremely water worthy, but it was nice to see the safety raft strapped to the side in case of emergency.

Although come to think of it, she didn’t know if she wanted to think emergency in the same sentence with the words sailboat vacation…

Nope, no negative thinking. She’d gotten the week off, and to do so she’d only had to promise Mr. Stryowski she’d work Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Easter-for the rest of her life. But it was done, and she would enjoy herself. After all, it was her new mission statement.

That, and to not think of Mr. Stryowski, or her slowly wasting away life… not once.

The plank to get on board was flat and wide enough, assuming she was very careful, and she planned to be very, very careful. There were chain handholds on either side, protecting her from the long fall to the water below, but her age-old fear of heights gripped her hard, making nerves flutter in her tummy.

Or maybe it was the king-size candy bar she’d consumed on the plane over here. As she stood there, frozen by her own shortcomings, she contemplated the plank, and how long it seemed. From above, what seemed like miles of white sails seemed so pristine against the azure blue sky.

“Helluva lot of sheets up there, huh?”

At the southern drawl, Dorie turned in surprise and got an even bigger one. A man stood next to her. Correction, a magnificent Adonis of a man.

He was dressed in clothes he definitely hadn’t bought at Shop-Mart. Nope, she recognized those pants and shirt as Hugo Boss, and the fashionista in her sighed. There was nothing more attractive than a man who knew how to dress.

Not even a Nordstrom’s sale.

His pants were khaki, his shirt a stark white linen, artfully shoved up at the elbows. His luggage-a gorgeous leather saddlebag-hung off one seriously broad shoulder. So broad that he nearly blocked out the sun. He had sun-kissed blond hair and stunning warm hazel eyes, topping about six feet of solid hard body, the kind one got from a most earnest commitment to the gym.

Unlike her own, not-so-earnest commitment.

Turning his head, he looked at her. “A real beauty, don’t you think?” he asked in that Texas accent.

She tried to respond, but her tongue was swelling. Good to know she was still a socially challenged idiot. Any second now she’d start drooling-an unfortunate side effect of the swollen tongue.

“Hello?”

Heat zoomed up her face to the tips of her ears, undoubtedly lighting her up like a Christmas tree. Perfect. She bit her tongue and managed two words. “A beauty.”

He smiled, and the sheer wattage nearly knocked her to her knees, but she did her best to return the smile. Given her nerves, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing the moment he’d started talking to her, she probably only bared her teeth. Smooth. She was so smooth.

He pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, covering up those decadent eyes. “You going on board, too?”

“Yes.” Assuming she managed to cross the plank.

“Excellent.” He held out a big, strong hand. “Andy Hutchinson.”

“Dorie Anderson.” His hand, warm and callous, swallowed hers whole. She was so distracted by his hotness factor, she almost missed the fact that he was looking at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“Baseball,” he drawled, and did the big wattage smile thing again.

She really needed to get on board and away from him so she could commence breathing before brain damage occurred, but she was nothing if not polite. “Baseball?”

“You’re wondering where you know me from. I play for the Astros. First base.”

She thought maybe he paused there for adoration, but he was wasting his time, because all she knew about baseball was that the players looked cute in their tight uniform pants.

Besides, she already adored him.

From far above, up on the ship, voices rang out, and then laughter. Baseball Cutie looked up, clearly eager to board. “You ready?”

“Oh. Sure.”

He gestured for her to go first.

“Uh…” Once again, she eyed the plank, then let out a nervous laugh. “You know what? I’ll just…” She took a step back to make room for him. “Meet you up there-”

Only she never got to finish that statement because she tripped over her luggage, still on the ground behind her, and went ass over kettle right there on the dock, hitting hard enough to rattle her teeth.

Sprawled flat on her back with her legs draped over her own two suitcases, she stared up at the brilliant blue sky with the solitary white puffy cloud shaped like a pair of lips grinning down at her, and wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

“Jesus. You okay?”

Was she? Well, that depended on his definition of okay. She moved to sit up, but froze at the unmistakable sharp prick of a splinter-in her butt. As she contemplated this unwelcome turn of events, Andy’s gorgeous face appeared, that easy smile now twisted into a worried grimace as he leaned in close. “Dorie? Talk to me, darlin’.”

Well, if he kept calling her darlin’ in that slow, southern boy speak, she’d be juuuust fine. “I’m good.”

“You sure? Because that was a doozy.”

Yeah, she knew. She’d been there.

“I mean, I haven’t seen such a good landing since we beat the Yankees at home last season.”

Terrific. She was more entertaining than a nationally televised baseball game. As she dwelled on this, a breeze hit and her vision became momentarily hampered by… oh yes, perfect… her own gauzy white sundress. This was because the hem of it flew over her head.

Which meant she was showing parts of herself to Baseball Cutie that shouldn’t ever be shown before a fifth date.

Okay, maybe a third. Not that she’d been on a third date lately…

Horror and embarrassment warred for first place. Slapping down her dress, she sat up and tried not to look directly at him, as if that could possibly help the fact that he’d just gotten an up-front and personal look at her Victoria’s Secrets.

How long had she known him? A minute, tops? This was a record, even for her, making a fool of herself in less than sixty seconds. But he was gentlemanly enough not to mention it, though his eyes sparkled. He simply offered her a hand and another of those brain-cell-destroying smiles.

Okay, so he was cute and sweet and kind. Three out of the four characteristics on her list. Too bad she was such a blathering idiot. She let him pull her to her feet, only to go very still. Forget the splinter in her tush, she’d hurt her ankle.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” She’d never admit otherwise. Nope, after the show she’d just given him, she’d rather die.

“You know, Dorie, it’s going to be fun getting to know you better,” he murmured in that slow honey of a voice.

Sure. But would he still want to get to know her better if she’d had on her granny laundry-day panties?

“Dorie?”

Oh, boy. Now she had to look at him. Trying not to wince, she tilted her head up, but apparently there was a God, because someone from on board called down to him, waving wildly, holding up a drink.

Andy waved back and shot the guy a thumbs-up. “That’s Bobby,” he explained. “The crew hand.”

Dorie waited for Bobby to come down and help them board, but he didn’t. “A friend?”

“Ex-friend, actually. He owes me big bucks and can’t pay up, so here I am, taking it out in trade. Not a bad deal, huh?”

“Not at all.”

Andy nodded, clearly already on board in his own head. She’d lost him. Not a new feeling for her, and thankfully her tongue began to revert to its normal thickness.

“So, you’re okay?”

“Oh me? Great. I’m great.” She attempted another smile and hoped she pulled it off. “You just go ahead.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

He moved to the plank with his smooth, elegant gait and her heart gave one last little sigh. All men were definitely not created equal.

When Andy didn’t fall into the brink, she let out a shaky breath. Now all she had to do was figure out how to do the same with her healthy fear of heights, her two heavy suitcases, a sprained ankle, and a splinter in her butt. She grabbed her luggage, and with a combination limp/hopping motion, staggered closer to the plank, attempting to walk on the toes of her right foot to keep the majority of her weight off the ankle, all while not looking down-

“Excusez-moi,” a man said from behind her, crowding up close, trying to get around her, probably since she was moving at the pace of a geriatric snail.

Don’t look. Just keep going.

“If I could please just get around you.”

“Yes,” she said to the French accent, carefully not eyeing anything but her goal-the end of the plank. “I know. Just a minute-”

“I have an onboard emergency, so if you don’t mind…”

Actually, she did mind. She understood he was in a hurry, she really did, but there was the ocean, just waiting to swallow her up. Holding her breath, she did her best to turn to allow more room for him to pass her, expecting… well, she didn’t know what she expected. Given his impatient tone, Mr. Stryowski, maybe, complete with a hooked nose and beady eyes and a tight mouth. Maybe a pitted face, and thinning hair. Definitely he’d have a paunch belly.

Not. Anywhere. Close.

Long and leanly sinewy, he was built like an athlete, with golden skin that suggested he spent a good amount of his days outside. He had dark waves of hair that curled up around the edges of a baseball hat and around the collar of his black polo shirt, which was untucked over a pair of Levi’s that were clearly beloved old friends with his lower body.

No pitted face, no hooked nose in sight.

No paunch either.

But if Andy-the-Baseball-Cutie had been all smiles and flirting, this guy was his polar opposite-tall, dark, mysterious, and brooding, which was good. Dark, mysterious, and brooding were so not her thing. Nope, her tongue wouldn’t swell here.

Not that he seemed to care. He didn’t so much as look at her, still attempting to get between the chain handrail and her body. In fact, he couldn’t get past her fast enough, and though he sucked in a breath, they still brushed together, his warm, hard chest and arm sliding against her much softer form, and at the contact, she sucked in a breath. She didn’t really know why, it just happened, but at the sound she made, a sort of involuntary breathy gasp, he looked at her, finally meeting her gaze with those killer stormy gray eyes.

For some inane reason, she thought about her list: cute, sweet, loyal, and kind. This guy wasn’t cute. More like bad boy edgy, dangerous. Certainly not sweet or kind. A relief-because it meant she got to keep her wits about her. Good thing, too, because she needed every single one of them.

“Do you need help with your luggage?”

Huh. She might have to revise her assessment on the kind thing. “As a matter of fact-”

“Wait here. I’ll get help for you.” He moved onto the boat ahead of her, his stride easy but purposeful, not once looking back.

Dorie let out a long breath, surprised to find herself a little pissy. And intimidated. “He’s not so different from you,” she reminded herself.

Well, except for the confidence.

Oh, and the penis.

That warm, salty breeze nudged at her. Letting go of one of her suitcases in order to shove the hair from her eyes, she reached back for the suitcase again, but it wasn’t there.

Because it was now rolling backward on its own, down the plank, slipping right beneath the chain handrail, snagging by its handle so that it hung off the side of the plank, only slightly better than splashing into the water. “Hello?” she yelled up at the ship. “Help?”

Two men appeared out of the woodwork. “Hi,” she said, feeling ridiculously inept-not an unusual feeling for her.

One of the men took hold of her arm. He wore a billowy white shirt and loose navy pants low on his hips, with his long, silvery blond hair pulled back by a strand of leather. He looked like a pirate. A really good-looking pirate.

Was everyone on this boat gorgeous?

He smiled, his eyes revealing a good amount of trouble-the kind that drew women like flies.

Uh-oh.And there went her tongue, swelling away.

“I’m Denny McDonald, the captain.” He jerked his chin toward the other guy, the one rescuing her suitcase. “And this is Ethan Erle. Our burger flipper.”