The Trouble With Paradise Read Free Page B

sailing yacht had been made in France, was eighty-two feet long, and was a ketch, whatever that meant. The exterior was made out of welded aluminum alloy, which sounded good and well and extremely water worthy, but it was nice to see the safety raft strapped to the side in case of emergency.
    Although come to think of it, she didn’t know if she wanted to think emergency in the same sentence with the words sailboat vacation . . .
    Nope, no negative thinking. She’d gotten the week off, and to do so she’d only had to promise Mr. Stryowski she’d work Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Easter—for the rest of her life. But it was done, and she would enjoy herself. After all, it was her new mission statement.
    That, and to not think of Mr. Stryowski, or her slowly wasting away life . . . not once.
    The plank to get on board was flat and wide enough, assuming she was very careful, and she planned to be very, very careful. There were chain handholds on either side, protecting her from the long fall to the water below, but her age-old fear of heights gripped her hard, making nerves flutter in her tummy.
    Or maybe it was the king-size candy bar she’d consumed on the plane over here. As she stood there, frozen by her own shortcomings, she contemplated the plank, and how long it seemed. From above, what seemed like miles of white sails seemed so pristine against the azure blue sky.
    “Helluva lot of sheets up there, huh?”
    At the southern drawl, Dorie turned in surprise and got an even bigger one. A man stood next to her. Correction, a magnificent Adonis of a man.
    He was dressed in clothes he definitely hadn’t bought at Shop-Mart. Nope, she recognized those pants and shirt as Hugo Boss, and the fashionista in her sighed. There was nothing more attractive than a man who knew how to dress.
    Not even a Nordstrom’s sale.
    His pants were khaki, his shirt a stark white linen, artfully shoved up at the elbows. His luggage—a gorgeous leather saddlebag—hung off one seriously broad shoulder. So broad that he nearly blocked out the sun. He had sun-kissed blond hair and stunning warm hazel eyes, topping about six feet of solid hard body, the kind one got from a most earnest commitment to the gym.
    Unlike her own, not-so-earnest commitment.
    Turning his head, he looked at her. “A real beauty, don’t you think?” he asked in that Texas accent.
    She tried to respond, but her tongue was swelling. Good to know she was still a socially challenged idiot. Any second now she’d start drooling—an unfortunate side effect of the swollen tongue.
    “Hello?”
    Heat zoomed up her face to the tips of her ears, undoubtedly lighting her up like a Christmas tree. Perfect. She bit her tongue and managed two words. “A beauty.”
    He smiled, and the sheer wattage nearly knocked her to her knees, but she did her best to return the smile. Given her nerves, and the fact that she’d stopped breathing the moment he’d started talking to her, she probably only bared her teeth. Smooth. She was so smooth.
    He pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from his pocket and put them on, covering up those decadent eyes. “You going on board, too?”
    “Yes.” Assuming she managed to cross the plank.
    “Excellent.” He held out a big, strong hand. “Andy Hutchinson.”
    “Dorie Anderson.” His hand, warm and callous, swallowed hers whole. She was so distracted by his hotness factor, she almost missed the fact that he was looking at her, clearly waiting for a reaction.
    “Baseball,” he drawled, and did the big wattage smile thing again.
    She really needed to get on board and away from him so she could commence breathing before brain damage occurred, but she was nothing if not polite. “Baseball?”
    “You’re wondering where you know me from. I play for the Astros. First base.”
    She thought maybe he paused there for adoration, but he was wasting his time, because all she knew about baseball was that the players looked cute in their tight