Irresistible Fortune. Wendy Etherington

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      She nodded. He’d certainly been right about his crew’s brains. “Oh.”

      “Pablo, this is—” Fortune stopped, regarding her with surprise. “What’s your name, anyway?”

      “Brenna,” she said, sending him a reproachful look, realizing he’d never bothered to ask. “Brenna McGary,” she said to Pablo, extending her hand.

      “Pablo Vasquez,” he returned. He indicated the blond man next to him. “This is Dennis Finmark. Over there is Jim Upton.”

      Brenna shook Dennis’s hand and waved at Jim, a tall, thin, dark-haired guy who was wrapping a thick rope around a metal prong. They all seemed like nice, normal guys. Not minions of the devil at all.

      She considered the implications of that as Fortune helped her off the boat, but it wasn’t until they were walking down the pier that she finally understood the bet. “They wagered on whether or not I could pick you up.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You’ve already turned away three other women today.”

      “How do you know that?”

      “Pablo told me.” She halted, studying him from head to toe. “Does it ever get old, being infamous and irresistible?”

      “Hell, no.”

      Ignoring his amused expression, she waggled her finger at him. “This isn’t a pickup. It’s a business discussion.”

      “Whatever you say, Miss McGary. It is miss, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, but how is that relevant?”

      He resumed walking. “Just want to get your title correct.”

      No doubt that was a dig to her insistence on ignoring his doctorate. Well, if he wanted to change that, he’d have to show her his diploma first.

      And the one from the University of Hot Bare Chests and Dimples didn’t count.

      When they reached the end of the pier, Fortune steered her right instead of continuing straight, which would have led them to The Night Heron, the marina bar. “The bar’s this way,” she said, pulling to a stop.

      “Let’s walk down the beach to Joe’s.”

      “You know about Coconut Joe’s?”

      “Doesn’t everybody?”

      Given the fact that he hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, she supposed the casual dress code of Joe’s was more appropriate. She removed her platform wedges and moved down the stairs into the hot but soft crème-colored sand. “How long have you been on the island?”

      “Two days.”

      “How long are you staying?”

      “As long as it takes.”

      Okay, so not much of a talker. Not what she’d expected at all. He’d lost his cocky and careless expression and was watching the horizon.

      Who was this guy?

      They spoke little until they’d climbed the stairs from the beach to Joe’s, which rose above the sand on wooden stilts. The tacky but charming decor, complete with the expected surfboards and fishing nets hanging on the walls, suited Palmer’s Island’s laid-back style perfectly. And the food was top-notch.

      To escape the steaming summer heat, Fortune requested from the hostess that they sit inside with air-conditioning rather than on the screened deck. For some reason, Brenna had the feeling he would have preferred to be outside, but chose not to out of deference to her.

      Clearly, the heat was affecting her brain.

      She ordered sweet tea, and he stuck with beer. The waitress, named Tammy, gave the man across from Brenna a flirtatious smile and barely bothered to glance in her direction.

      “Hey, aren’t you the guy from the paper?” Tammy asked Fortune when she returned with their drinks. “You’re some kind of cool scientist.”

      Fortune sent her a charming smile, including the dimples. “Maritime archaeologist.”

      Brenna nearly choked on her tea. In what universe?

      The waitress’s eyes widened. She leaned closer, giving him and the entire back half of the restaurant an excellent view of her cleavage. “Wow. What’s that?”

      “I do research underwater. I’ve also studied history extensively.”

       Brenna barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Is that what you earned your imaginary degree in?

      “I just love old stuff,” the waitress said.

      “No kidding? Old stuff is my specialty.”

      Brenna couldn’t take it anymore. She took two large gulps of her tea and held up the nearly empty glass. “Could I get a refill, please?”

      The waitress flashed her a resentful glare, but straightened and took the glass. “Weren’t you my kid brother’s science teacher last year?”

      “English, actually.”

      “Don’t worry, honey,” Fortune said, leaning toward Brenna as Tammy stalked away. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

       2

      “THIS IS A BUSINESS meeting.”

      There was something wildly arousing about that prissy mouth. Gavin couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed being scolded so much. “So why’d you chase off my opportunity for fun?”

      She glowered at him. “You’re a wretch.”

      “So?” But for the first time in a very long time he wished he didn’t appear to be. “At least I have fun.”

      “I have fun.”

      “Oh, yeah? You and your cat get crazy on Friday nights and order anchovy pizza instead of just plain cheese?”

      Her face turned bright red with her efforts to hold back her anger—the passion he wanted to see more than anything. “I don’t like you very much.”

      “What a shame. I like you very much.”

      Leaning back, he sipped his beer and watched her coloring go from red to white in an instant. “Do you honestly think all it takes to get my attention is a set of big boobs and an interest in old stuff?”

      “Priceless nineteenth century relics are glimpses into our past, how we lived, where we came from. They’re representations of people who sacrificed for and dreamed of the world we now enjoy. They’re reminders of our mistakes and successes, our tragedies and triumphs. They are not, nor should they ever be referred to as, stuff.”

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