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she hadn’t had a bite of food since she got off the plane in Jamaica. And what the airline had fed her could hardly qualify as a meal.
    Conner Reese came down the ladder a few minutes after she arrived, followed by the captain, Bob Gibson, and a couple of members of the crew she hadn’t met. One of them earned a second glance, a smiling, dark-complexioned man with huge dimples who appeared to be Latino. He was probably in his thirties, even better-looking than Conner Reese—in fact, almost pretty, and equally well-built.
    “Hope Sinclair, this is Joe Ramirez, and that’s Pete Crowley. Joe’s head diver—Pete’s part of the boat crew.”
    “Nice to meet you,” Hope said.
    “Welcome aboard, Hope,” the handsome Latino said, not bothering with formality. Pete Crowley just nodded.
    The big black Jamaican, King, began setting food on the table, filling the galley with the aroma of fiery spiced jerked chicken, and rice and peas. She wound up sitting next to Conner Reese, though she wasn’t quite sure how it happened. With three other good-sized men also sitting in the booth, they were fairly well jammed together.
    He was wearing the same red swimsuit and white tee shirt he’d had on earlier, and whenever he moved, she could feel the slight abrasion of the dark hair on his legs rubbing against her from calf to thigh. She tried not to notice, thought that she had succeeded, till she glanced over and caught the look on his face. Those blue eyes seemed to burn, and the heat there seared her bones. They were skin-to-skin, and obviously he could feel it, too.
    He glanced away and began to concentrate on his food, and Hope did the same, but her appetite had left her. Though her food was only half eaten, when the men finished their meal, she shoved her dish away.
    “I think I’ll go down to my cabin.” She rose from the built-in dinette seat. “It’s been a long day and flying always wears me out.” Reese got up so she could slide out of the seat, her body brushing his as she left the table. “I guess I’ll, um, see you in the morning.”
    “Yeah, I guess so.” His eyes were hot again. They made her stomach flutter.
    “Good night, Hope,” Joe Ramirez said, his dark eyes moving over her in a way that told her exactly what he was thinking. Unlike Conner Reese, he wanted her to read his thoughts, which clearly belonged in the bedroom.
    “Good night.”
    It was dark outside, still warm and balmy, but it was January and even in the Caribbean, the sun set early. Once she reached the deck, she looked out over the waves toward the island. A few lights sparkled in the area around the Pleasure Island villas, and there appeared to be a small settlement at the south end of the shore. Hope took a deep breath of salty sea air and started toward the hatch leading down to her cabin.
    “Have a good night,” an unfamiliar male voice said.
    She turned to see Pete Crowley standing not far behind her. She hadn’t paid much attention to him before. Now she saw that he was tall and spare, with rough, deeply weathered skin, black eyes, and a slightly Roman nose.
    “You, too,” she said, wondering if he had followed her out of the galley, not liking the thought that he might have. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the men in the crew.
    The brief, uneasy encounter reminded her to be wary.
     
    Hope awakened the following morning more rested than she had expected. The gentle lap of waves against the hull had been a powerful sleeping pill, and she had slept later than she meant to. She’d missed breakfast, but at home she rarely ate anything before lunch, just downed several cups of Starbuck’s coffee and went to work.
    Coffee sounded heavenly right now. After pulling on a pair of khaki shorts and a yellow tee shirt, applying a dab of makeup and a liberal amount of sunscreen, she grabbed a wide-brimmed straw hat that tied beneath her chin and headed up on deck. The Caribbean sun was brutal, she had learned, having suffered a