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corselet beneath was designed to be worn in the icy air-conditioning of the Starlight Hotel.
    She needed to splash some cold water on her face. Get rid of that stocking. Now that she thought about it—she needed to go to the bathroom.
    It was dumb, but she felt too embarrassed to ask Matt Slade directions to the powder room. But what could she do? Sit here and cross her legs for the next two hours?
    She overcame her reluctance and Matt, without wasting any words, gave her the necessary directions. “By the way, the bathroom on a boat is called the head,” he added. His voice was so terse she didn’t dare ask why.
    She found herself puzzling over him as she fought her voluminous skirts down the small stairway. He’d just spoken to her as abruptly as if she were unwelcome cargo. Bridal ballast. So why had he told her she was lovely? Was it just the way of drop-dead handsome men like Matt Slade to throw away unnecessary compliments?
    Yes, she thought, surprised at the twist of pain the thought caused her. That’s it. A man that good looking was just automatically used to flattering women. Unaware of the effect his casually tossed words had on their emotions. And what about that practiced way he’d run his fingers across her mouth?
    It meant nothing. Just something for him to while away the time until they reached the airport. She prayed he didn’t realize how perilously close she’d been to responding to him.
    To reach the bathroom—she couldn’t think of it as a head—she had to guide her full skirts through a small but luxuriously appointed living room. The bathroom itself was tiny but with every comfort you’d expect in an expensive hotel room. This vessel must be worth a fortune.
    Whose fortune?
    In her business experience, a yacht like this was a rich man’s toy for the pin-stripe-suited, corporate Howards of this world—more often than not a tax deduction. She warned herself not to judge on appearances, but something about this setup didn’t appear quite right.
    She puzzled some more over it as she washed her hands with the bar of sandalwood soap that must be the soap Matt used. She recognized the warm, spicy scent that mingled with his maleness.
    Unbidden, the image came into her mind of Matt, magnificently naked in the clear-fronted shower cubicle just an arm’s length away from her.
    She could see the water pouring over his powerful body as he lathered up this self-same bar of soap on his muscular chest, twisting and turning to reach his hard buttocks and his lean, powerful thighs. The water was making the hair on his head lie flat and sleek against his skin, taming the mat of dark hair on his chest as it descended to a vee below his hard, six-pack belly…
    What would happen if she, naked too, were to climb in with him?
    She dropped the soap into the basin as if it were burning from his body heat.
    How could she let herself fantasize so foolishly? She did not want to feel this powerful surge of attraction to this man.
    He’d been kind to offer her an escape from her wedding. But that didn’t stop him from being the type of guy who might as well wear a placard on his back proclaiming: Beware! This man will break your heart.
    She knew his type only too well. You can’t trust lust, she reminded herself. Or sexy, untamed men who fed you sweet words that meant nothing. Men like him grabbed what they wanted, plundered hearts, threw dreams overboard and then moved on, not caring about the wreckage they left behind. Men like him were emotional pirates.
    Pirates . Why did she always come back to the image of a pirate when she thought about Matt Slade?
    She froze in the act of drying her hands on the luxurious, linen towel. Had Matt Slade stolen this boat? Just helped himself from the array lined up at the marina like a millionaire’s candy counter?
    Matt Slade mightn’t be a serial killer but could he be a boat thief?
    She crossed her arms in front of her chest and bit down on her suddenly trembling bottom