Shirley Jump - Her Frog Prince

She gave him another glare. She was really good at those. Must have practiced glaring a lot in finishing school or wherever it was that gave her that attitude.

Brad put out a hand. She caught it and started to haul herself up. “Whoa, not so fast or you’ll pull us both in. Do it slow and easy, a little at a time. Here, use the edge of the boat and slide in.” He grinned. “Just like landing a marlin.”

Her answering scowl told him she didn’t like being compared to a hundred-pound prize fish.

It took some effort, and some delicate balancing on his part, but he managed to get her into the boat. When he did, he noticed she was slim yet strong, and only a few inches shorter than his six-foot-two-inch height. Even wet, she was a gorgeous woman, all legs and long blond hair.

She plopped onto the single seat in the center of his boat, minus a shoe. A high-heeled strappy kind of shoe at that. What kind of person wore high heels on a boat ride?

“It took you long enough,” she said. With a hand over her eyes to block out the sun, she scanned the horizon for the still departing Lady’s Delight.

“How’d you fall in anyway?”

She shook her head. “I swear that old woman tripped me when I walked by her. Was she just looking for a lawsuit?”

Brad decided that was a rhetorical question and let it stand unanswered, even though he had a few ready replies.

She pressed a hand to her chest and winced. “You know, you could have broken a rib dragging me in like that.”

“You could be more grateful I got you out at all. The sharks are always looking for something to eat.”

“Sharks?”

He took in her wide emerald eyes and flushed damp skin. The side of his brain ruled by testosterone contemplated some nibbling of his own, but of a very different kind. If he ignored everything that had come out of her mouth thus far, she was a very attractive woman. Maybe she was just having a bad day. A very bad day.

And maybe he was too damned nice. Hadn’t his mother told him that? More than once in his twenty-nine years of life? Being nice didn’t get you ahead. Didn’t get you a plum research position. Didn’t get you the notice of the top brass at the Smithsonian.

Being nice got you on a dinghy in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico with a dripping wet, ungrateful woman with more attitude than common sense.

“I’m sorry,” she said, letting out a sigh. “Thank you for helping me.”

Okay, not so much attitude.

“Apology accepted.” He reached behind him for a towel and tossed it her way. Gigi had wisely stayed in her corner of the boat, avoiding the whole thing. Dogs had damned good instincts. “Here. Dry off.”

“While I do,” she said, waving a manicured hand his way, “you gun the engine and get me over to Torchere Key. If I hurry, I have enough time to change, redo my hair and makeup and look like a human again before I meet with the Phipps-Stovers.” She started to rub at her hair with the towel, then paused. “Well, go ahead.”

“I don’t take orders.” Brad picked up the charts beside him and made a few notations about the squid he’d seen, ignoring her. Gigi let out a little bark of support. She didn’t much like being bossed around, either.

“Pull that cord thingy, will you?”

Brad dipped a container into the ocean for a water sample, capped it and labeled it with the date and time, using a waterproof marker.

The woman let out a sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Right now? Taking a water sample.”

She let out a gust. “Why?”

“I’m looking for something,” he replied, answering the water-sample question. Much easier to talk about his work than debate her communication skills. Or lack of them.

“What? Your lunch?”

“Giant squid.”

She looked a hell of a lot better speechless. Almost beautiful. Even wet and dripping and half shoeless.

“A…a…giant what?” she finally managed.

“Squid.”

She blinked. Several times. “There is such a thing?”

“Well, no one’s ever seen a live one, but yes, there is.”

She snorted. “Like Bigfoot, I’m sure.”

He gave her a glare and dipped his thermometer into the ocean, busying himself with the reading. “They exist.”

“Yeah, and so do happy marriages, I hear. I think it’s all a bunch of fairy tales people tell their kids to keep them from wandering the streets at night.”

He pivoted toward her, the thermometer dangling from his fingers. “What flew up your butt this morning?”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t fish you out of the water so you could call my research a fairy tale.”

“Oh, your research.” But the tone in her voice said she still didn’t believe him.

Gigi got to her feet and in three steps was across the boat and in the woman’s face. Standing up for her master, daring the intruder to make fun of the giant squid. Gigi knew. She’d spent enough time on the water to know almost nothing was impossible in the dark blue depths.

“Get that—that—that creature away from me.”

“No can do. Gigi has a mind of her own. If she doesn’t like you, she’s going to let you know.”

The woman arched a perfectly rounded brow at him. “Your dog’s name is Gigi?”

Brad crossed his arms over his chest. “Is there anything else about me you want to criticize?”

“Well, actually…” She pointed at his face, then bit her lip and shut up.

“What? Say it.”

Gigi continued to hold her ground. Now she was standing up for the giant squid and her master.

“Listen,” the woman said, pausing, as if apologizing wasn’t something she did every day. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over.” She extended a shaky, tentative hand past Gigi’s side. “I’m Parris Hammond.”

He hesitated, then figured the bad mood of the morning was half his fault. No squid, no whale sightings and a wasted day on the boat hadn’t put him in a very pleasant frame of mind. “Brad Smith.” When he took her hand in his, the cool touch of her skin sent a shock wave through his veins. Like she’d been a power line and he’d been the fool who’d picked it up without wearing rubber shoes.

Except he did have on rubber boots and he didn’t feel foolish holding her hand. Not at all.

She withdrew her grasp from his but not before he saw an echo of his own consternation in her eyes. Clearly he wasn’t the only one playing with electricity. “Is that short for Bradford?”

“Yeah, but don’t ever call me that, not if you want me to answer.”

“Why not? I think Bradford sounds…rich.”

“Exactly.”

“Right.” She nodded. “That’s good.”

“Not in my book.” He picked up the chart again and filled in the temperature block.

“Well. Aren’t you the enigma?” She went back to drying herself off, toweling down the front of her silky shirt. Brad’s attention went from the chart to her, his gaze locked on the movements of the cream-colored terry cloth. It slid along her skin with ease, which made funny things happen in his gut. Her breasts peeked through the damp material of her shirt, giving him a clear image of what she’d look like naked.

The 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?