Chapter 3

She woke up loose-limbed and wrung out and, annoyingly, aroused.

Andrea lay in the narrow cabin bed and took stock of this. The arousal she could manage—it was low-grade, residual, the physiological equivalent of an echo. What bothered her was the deep, warm satisfaction still moving through her body.

She had made a decision the night before. She was not going to let it happen again.

This was final. She was a woman with a doctorate and a courtroom career built on reading exactly the kind of man Carl Rittenhouse was, and she had spent one afternoon and evening being comprehensively outmaneuvered, and that was over. Starting now.

She showered, dressed, and went down to the excursion desk to book herself onto the island launch. The best way to avoid Carl was to get off the cruise ship.

The stewards were cheerful and efficient, directing passengers to various boats with the practiced ease of people who did this every morning. When Andrea gave her name, the young man behind the desk checked his list, then nodded to a colleague, who materialized beside her with a smile and an offer to escort her personally to her launch.

She should have noticed that.

They wound through the dock area past several crowded launches, past the tender with the yellow stripe, and down to a sleek, quiet boat at the very end. It was almost entirely empty, with cushioned seats and a small cooler.

“Expecting a busy day on the island?”

Carl was already seated at the stern. He looked like a man who had arranged exactly this and found the result satisfying.

Andrea stopped at the rail. “How?”

“You’re predictable in the best way.” He said it without apology. “You wanted to get off the ship, and you knew I’d be in meetings. A reasonable plan.” He tilted his head slightly. “I paid the stewards to redirect you when you arrived.”

“I told you yesterday that I was going to avoid you.”

“I know.” He didn’t look remotely troubled by this. “Spend an hour with me on the island. If you still want rid of me after that, I’ll come back.”

She looked at him for a long moment. The launch operator had already released the rope.

She sat down.

When they reached the beach, Carl stepped over the bow and turned back to her without asking—simply held out his arms—and she experienced the helplessness of a woman in a sundress faced with wet sand and an obvious solution. He lifted her with the same effortless ease as before, one arm under her knees, the other across her back, and carried her to the grass above the tideline.

She kept her eyes on the horizon, with her arms around his neck, and tried not to think about how his chest felt next to her body.

“There’s a luxury dress shop in town,” he said, setting her down. “A good one. I’ve arranged a buggy. You will need a nice dress for dinner.”

“You’ve arranged a buggy.”

“I’ve arranged a buggy,” he confirmed.

She told herself she was only going because she needed a fancy dress. This was factually true. It was also not the whole truth, but it was enough to continue.

The boutique owner closed and locked the door behind them with the discreet smile of a woman who recognized the situation and had no objection to it. The shop was all white walls and good lighting and fabulous dresses for wealthy patrons. The owner led Andrea through while Carl settled into a chair near the entrance, one ankle crossed over his knee, apparently unconcerned with anything.

“Thirty-two EE,” Andrea told the woman, slightly defensively. She’d learned to lead with the measurement rather than watch people recalculate.

The owner waved a hand. “I’ve dressed harder. Come.”

The owner chose well the first time. The dress was black and fully sequined, with thin straps, and a neckline that made engineering decisions about her chest that she might not have made herself. Andrea stood in the changing room and looked at herself in the mirror and thought: well.