Smooth Sailing

“No?”

“He’s nothing to me.”

“I thought you two—”

“We certainly did not.” Haley bristled.

“But almost.”

Haley’s cheeks heated. Yes, she’d almost had sex with Jeb Whitcomb several months back when they’d both served on the hospital rebuilding committee. Thankfully, she had not gone through with it.

“Wait a minute.” Ahmaya snapped her fingers. “It’s not Jeb who didn’t live up to your expectations. It was you. You’re mad at him because you violated your own code of ethics when you—”

“Let’s stop talking about him, okay?” To get Ahmaya to shut up, she purposefully fixed her attention on the stage.

Jeb had a microphone in his hand. He paced the length of the stage, whipping up the audience with his passionate vision of what St. Michael’s could become. Haley knew how dangerous his passion was. He’d had her under his spell, however briefly. He paused in midstride, peered out at the audience and his gaze landed on her.

For one heart-stopping second, their eyes locked and Haley’s throat tightened. Darn it, she could not glance away.

Jeb held her pinned to the spot, his eyelids lowered slightly, and his voice took on a seductive quality. Or maybe she had merely imagined it. “Since this is my last day on St. Michael’s, I’m having a party on my yacht and everyone is invited,” he announced.

A cheer went up from the assembly.

He tossed the microphone to the governor and stalked offstage with a jaunty spring to his step, his entourage of sycophants trailing after him. The crowd gathered around, patting him on the back, trying to shake his hand, but he seemed a man on a mission.

It took Haley a few seconds to realize he was headed toward her. Oh, hell, no.

She spun on her heel. Should be easy enough to disappear in this throng. She rushed forward. Her toe caught on a power cord snaking across the ground and she tripped. Way to watch where you’re going, French. She put out her palms to catch herself and ended up sprawled on the ground. Oh, she hated being vulnerable.

From behind her came a familiar chuckle. He was already upon her. Before she could scramble up, Jeb’s hand went around her waist, his citrusy scent enveloping her as he helped her gently to her feet.

“Easy there, baby,” he crooned, bending down to dust the dirt from the knees of her scrubs.

She wrenched away from him, stepped back, breathless and despising herself for it. Hands off the goods, buster. Worst of all, she couldn’t help meeting his eyes.

There he was standing so close to her in his white shirt, pressed khaki shorts, yachting cap and boat shoes, looking every inch the wealthy windblown yachtsman. Everyone else faded away and it was just the two of them.

His light blue eyes regarded her with a lively sense of humor. It was that sense of humor that had been her undoing. She wasn’t going to fall for it. Not twice. No way. No how. He was finally leaving the island. Yay! She’d never have to see him again.

“You’re coming to my party, right?” His fingers lightly stroked her upper arm.

No way.

“It wouldn’t be a party without you,” he went on.

“I’ve got to wash my hair,” she lied. On second thought, why lie? Maybe she would wash her hair. Wash that man right out of it.

“All you need is to lose a few of these pins.” His fingers went from her shoulder to her hair, which was pulled up into a tight bun. It was far too intimate of a gesture. He plucked bobby pins from her hair, one by one, and the locks fell loosely to her shoulders. “There, much better.”

Haley jerked back, pulse thumping hard. Oh, no. Do not like this. You are not allowed to like this.

The expression in his eyes was one of total amusement. He knew he’d made her uncomfortable and he was enjoying himself.

“I’m a stickler for clean hair. I make it a policy to wash it every day.” She stuck her chin in the air.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice warm and cozy. “You do love your rules.”

Who was he to act as if he knew her? Just because they’d almost—Well, never mind what they’d almost done—she was determined to forget it. What really chafed was that he’d been the one to pull the plug on their encounter.

“Gotta go.” She pointed her feet away from him, but for some unfathomable reason, she did not move.

“I should have known you wouldn’t come to my party,” he said. “Little Miss Straitlaced.”

“Just because I don’t want to attend your bacchanal doesn’t mean I’m straitlaced.”

“Bacchanal?” He sounded amused.

“It’s a word. Look it up.”

“You’re chicken.”

She straightened. “I’m not afraid of a thing.” Watch out. Noses grow when lies are told.

“I disagree. You’re terrified of having a good time.”

She sniffed. “My idea of a good time and your idea of a good time are two very different things.”

“I know. Beating myself up is not my favorite pastime.”

She curled her upper lip, determined not to smile back at him. “Well, have a nice party and a safe trip.” He’d nailed her, but good. Well, not nailed her in the sexual regard. Pegged her—that was better terminology. He’d pegged her. Must hate him for that if nothing else.

“Are you going to miss me when I’m gone?” He leaned down, his grin widening.

All night long. “Not in the least.”

“I suppose I asked for that.”

“You did.”

He batted his eyes at her. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Whatever for?”

“You’re the only one on this island who keeps me on my toes.”

No, sir. She would not let this man turn her into mush. She was better than that. “You want to be on your toes? Wear high heels.”

He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I also love your sense of humor.”