The school was small. The sharks were not. But they were minding their own business, not paying much attention to the human interlopers, at least not until Chelsea saw them and promptly forgot every bit of training he and their dive master had given her regarding how to react in the event of a sighting.

Was she staying calm? Nope. Keeping her arms in and making as few movements as possible? Not even close. As soon as she’d spotted the sharks, she’d screamed and thrashed around in the water like a cartoon character running off a cliff.

No real danger loomed. The big fish couldn’t have been less interested, but her panic handed him an excuse to play protector to her damsel in distress. Letting go of her wrist, he pulled her into the circle of his arms and held her there while the school swam past, some close enough to reach out and touch, if you wanted to lose a hand. But only guilt attacked him as her body trembled against his.

She really was terrified, and he felt bad because this particular excursion had been his choice. The only reason she’d joined him was because he’d assured her shark sightings were rare, and then he’d played the deal liaison card.

Didn’t the Templetons instruct you to introduce me to as many of the resort activities possible?

They sure had.

He should have cut her some slack. In between juggling her regular job and facilitating the kind of direct, first-hand access to the operations even his father couldn’t criticize, she’d toured the entire resort with him, and most of the rest of the island.

She’d let him drag her out of their warm, cozy bed in the pre-dawn hours so they could share coffee and a sunrise on Mount Haleakala, and afterward, ride mountain bikes down the steep slope of the sleeping volcano. She’d kayaked miles of coastline, and snorkeled with turtles and manta rays at Molokai.

Action-packed as the days were, they paled in comparison to the nights. And yet he couldn’t get his fill. Too many times over the last five days he’d found his thoughts—hell, his priorities—straying to her instead of the deal. During a conference call, she’d fiddle with a blouse button, or run her tongue over her lower lip, and suddenly he’d be bending time and space just to get her alone. Touch her, taste her, lay claim to every inch of her in some primitive attempt to satisfy an addiction that only seemed to be growing. She held nothing back, but he still craved more. And every time her heart pounded under his, he heard that damn clock ticking in his mind—an annoying but relentless countdown to his departure.

At the moment, however, her heart pounded furiously against his chest for an entirely different reason than normal. A large shark, about six feet long, broke away from the school and lazily circled back. He rubbed his hand over her arm.

When the shark approached, she gave a little squeal of dread, squeezed her eyes shut and tucked herself into him. Either her noise or boredom quickly drove the animal off, but he held on to her because her body plastered against his felt too good. Conscience battled libido.

Conscience won out, eventually, and he squeezed her hand. Behind her mask, her eyes opened and rounded as she watched the sharks swim off. He pointed his finger skyward and lifted his brows.

She nodded and started kicking. He let her glide through his arms and, a decompression stop later, they were safely on deck.

“Oh my God. That was…”

“Thrilling? Amazing?” He helped her out of her harness and stacked their cylinders and equipment in the designated area.

She turned around and smacked his shoulder. “Terrifying!”

“Anybody ever tell you you’re gorgeous when you’re terrified?”

She hit him again, but he saw her lip twitch. “When you’re scared and wet and clinging to me,” he continued in a low voice, crowding her against the railing with his body. “Come on, confess. You found the dive exciting.” He sure as hell had, less due to the sharks than her in little black bikini bottoms that cupped her ass like a candy wrapper, and a long-sleeved black swim shirt that might as well have been painted on. The way it clung to her breasts completely fucked with his concentration. Or maybe his fucked concentration had more to do with the fact that those breasts currently heaved with agitation?

He glanced at her face and revised his conclusion. Not agitation. No, she’d seen him looking her over and read his mind. He leaned closer, let his chest brush her breasts. “I’m guessing yes, because you seem a little excited.”

She inhaled sharply. He loved her instant, unguarded responses. There was nothing contrived about Chelsea. Placing his fingers against the base of her throat, he went on. “Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are huge. I’d have to say you’re excited.”

“I’ve never come so close to anything dangerous before. Other than you.”

“I’m harmless.”

“You’re lethal,” she said softly, but he barely heard her because he was too distracted by the way she ran her tongue over her lower lip. He couldn’t take his eyes away.

“You like it.” He brushed his thumb along her damp lip.

Just then chatter and laughter sailed across the deck, signaling the arrival topside of other members of the dive party. Tactical blunder. He should have known better than to trap them on a boat with a bunch of strangers and absolutely no privacy. “I’ll prove it to you. Later,” he whispered and, with reluctance, dropped his hand.

She glanced over at the ladders, where other divers now climbed aboard, then back at him. “Maybe I’ll prove a few things to you as well, Mr. St. Sebastian.” With that, she turned and strolled away.

Excitement over the shark sighting infected the entire group. In his experience, a day of diving bonded virtual strangers with an instant, intense shared experience, and that was especially true when it came to shark encounters. It left everyone euphoric and festive. With the day’s dives completed, the crew opened the bar, turned on the music, and the dive boat transformed into a party boat for the cruise to the dock.

Hanging back, nursing an ice-cold beer, he watched Chelsea circulate amongst the passengers. They were all Tradewinds guests, mostly under forty, but still a diverse group.

Her energy, ready smile, and easy friendliness attracted people. She chatted with everyone, from the girls-getaway group of New York City thirty-somethings to the trio of Seattle-based software engineers who clearly hadn’t seen the sun in at least six months.

One of them handed her a beer. While she smiled and thanked him, the man’s eyes roamed over her, and Rafe battled a territorial urge to stride across the deck and drag her away.

What was that about? He didn’t get possessive about women. He could try to justify the uncharacteristic instinct on the basis of their arrangement. During this week—his week, damn it—he required her undivided attention. But that was business, and this feeling was unquestionably personal. Worse, spending time with her only intensified his desire, and transformed it into something complicated and less centered on physical need. Time was running out. What did he plan to do about it?

Nothing. You’ll enjoy tonight, fly back to L.A., complete the deal.

Completing the deal could take four more weeks.

But you won’t have time to spend any of them back here. The Las Ventanas re-launch has to stay on track.

After the close…

You’ll be her boss once the deal goes through. She’s got rules.

Be persuasive. Convince her to make an exception for you.

Right. She’s going to agree to what she views as a career-endangering exception for the thrill of a hookup whenever you come through on business? Think you’re that persuasive? Here’s how this plays out. You leave, the deal closes, and you finally get what you’ve been striving for since the time you were old enough to answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” She stays, meets a stable, decent guy, and lives happily ever after. She’s a smile on your face when you’re ninety and a big-eyed, dark-haired nurse comes in to check your blood pressure.