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toward Lance Rocket. “All cock and nothing between his ears.” Marisa had no idea why she was making such assumptions about a stranger. And sharing them! It was as bad as him making sweeping generalizations about women.
    Behind his shades, she imagined his intense blue eyes widening with shock. “I do not,” he sputtered. “I am not.”
    “A little penis envy,” she remarked, widening her own eyes back at him.
    “Envy? Did you say envy? I swear, did Mike send you to plague me?”
    “You’re a condescending jackass.”
    “So turn around, and mind your own business. You’re starting to bore me.”
    “Bite me!”
    “Where?”
    “What?”
    He took off his sunglasses and slid them in a shirt pocket. Only then did he bare his little fangs at her. “I will gladly take a nip at you. Where shall I start? Your neck? Your belly? Your arse?”
    “Just try and I’ll Mace your ass off. I’ve got a can in my purse.”
    He eyed her Cartier envelope shoulder bag.
    “It’s a small can.”
    Marisa was having serious reservations about this whole bizarre job idea, not just because of the ick factor, but because she really should be home with her daughter.
    On the other hand, her being with Izzie wouldn’t move her any closer to Switzerland and a life-saving operation.
    Just then a dapper little man, all of five foot five, wearing a white plantation suit with a black shirt and red cravat—a cravat, for heaven’s sake—walked up to them. Although he was probably only in his mid-forties, his thick hair and mustache were a pristine white, neatly trimmed. His name tag identified him as Martin Vanderfelt. “Dr. Sigurdsson? Is that you? Why are you standing in line? Come along with me. We have drinks and goodies set up in the VIP lounge.”
    The blue-eyed creep winked at her before he walked away, a clear in-your-face gesture of I told you so! She was surprised he hadn’t given her the finger, as well.
    So he really was a doctor. He probably got his degree on the Internet. Whatever! It took all kinds, she supposed. Even educated men aspired to be porno studs.

Chapter 3
Lemonade, anyone? . . .
    S igurd sat in the VIP lounge of the Purple Palm Hotel discussing his duties as Grand Keys physician for the next few weeks with Martin Vanderfelt, the CEO of this bizarre event. A short rooster of a man—he never sat still for more than a minute, always prancing about, pecking here and there—he wore a ridiculous white suit with white shoes. You’d think he was a virgin or something, an aberration much lacking in this gathering.
    Sigurd had been offered a champagne breakfast, complete with fresh fruit, truffled eggs, and French croissants, hand-squeezed orange juice, and a long list of coffees, flavored lattes, or espressos, all of which he’d declined, graciously. He planned on stopping at McDonald’s for a bacon cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake later this morning. If it were later, he would opt for some red meat and beer, a man’s meal.
    Sigurd was not surprised by the special treatment, and it wasn’t just because he was vain. All Vikings were. No, he knew sure as sin that Vanderfelt was falling over himself in an attempt to please because Sigurd was the only doctor dumb enough to apply for the job.
    It was humiliating, really. All those years of studying the medical arts, all those years of perfecting his skills, and he was reduced to being a token doctor on an island of sleaze. Mike could just as well have assigned him to a brothel and it would be no less demeaning.
    In his head, he heard the words, Humility is next to godliness.
    I thought that was cleanliness.
    That, too.
    Sigurd did a mental roll of the eyes.
    As Vanderfelt tried to explain the conference and what would be expected of the physician-in-residence, they kept getting interrupted.
    First, by Vanderfelt’s underlings. A big brawny fellow, probably a security guard, said, “Reporters from the Miami Herald and the Key West Tribune are trying to get