he Apparition lived up to its name, Sloan thought as the helicopter banked left and she gazed in astonished disbelief at the ship that lay below, five minutes offshore. Silhouetted against a sunset ablaze with red, orange, and purple, the gleaming white ship looked as graceful and solid as a seagoing Taj Mahal.

"Welcome aboard, miss," a man in a white uniform said, bending low and holding out his hand to help her alight from the helicopter. He showed her the way to the main deck, two levels below, and escorted her to the bow, where a table had been covered with a linen cloth and set with china and crystal for a formal dinner for two. "Mr. Maitland had an urgent telephone call, but he'll join you here shortly," he explained; then he hurried off.

Mesmerized, Sloan looked about her. She had never expected Noah to possess anything like this; she had never seen anything like this except in travelogues about places like Monte Carlo, where the fabulously rich put into port in gigantic yachts.

Trailing her hand along the polished railing, she strolled slowly along the main deck toward the stern. Most of this level appeared to be taken up by a spacious saloon with large windows overlooking the sea and glass doors that opened onto the deck. The draperies were open, and Sloan was surprised that the interior looked more like an ultramodern penthouse apartment than part of a ship. The carpeting was white with shades of plum and platinum sculptured into a waving design that created a wide border at the edges and a surrealistic medallion in the center. A circular staircase with a chrome railing led to an upper and lower level. Groups of sofas and chairs, upholstered in the carpet's colors, were invitingly arranged around tables with thick glass tops. Modernistic sculptures in shining silver and gold reposed on tables; on pedestals, giant geodes displayed glittering rock interiors in a rainbow of colors including amethyst and powder blue.

Since Noah wasn't in the saloon, she rather expected him to emerge from one of the doorways she passed, but he didn't. She found him instead at her starring point on the bow. He was standing at the railing, talking on a cellular telephone, his face in profile, his voice low and harsh: "I'm not interested in any more of Warren's excuses, I'm interested in results," he was saying to someone. "Tell Graziella that if he fucks this up one more time, I'm not going to bail him out with the Venezuelan government, and he can rot in prison down there."

He paused, listening. "You're damned right I'm serious." He paused again but very briefly. "Good, then take care of Graziella and get the hell out of there." Without saying good-bye, he disconnected the call and tossed the phone onto a table. His tone was entirely different from any Sloan had ever heard him use, and she found it a little hard to equate this cold, forbidding man with the affable one she'd come to know.

He saw Sloan as he tossed the telephone on the table, and his entire expression softened.

"Hi," he said with a lazy, devastating smile that was almost as unnerving as the picture of dazzling elegance he presented in an immaculately tailored raven black tuxedo, snowy shirt, and formal black bow tie.

Sloan stopped just out of his reach, so off-balance from his ship, his helicopter, his telephone conversation, and the way he looked in a tuxedo that she couldn't think of what to say. He seemed like an unapproachable stranger. "Hello," she said in a polite, but formal voice.

If he noticed her reserve, he gave no indication of it Leaning down, he lifted a bottle of champagne that was chilling in a silver bucket on the deck table beside him and poured some into two glasses. He held one out to her, forcing her to come close enough to take it from him.

They both looked up as the helicopter rotor began to whine, and Sloan saw three men climbing into the craft along with the pilot. "This is all a little overwhelming," she said aloud, watching the helicopter begin to lift off.

Noah restrained an urge to reach out and trace the perfection of her profile with his fingers and instead leaned an elbow on the railing, taking pleasure in the way she looked in that strapless gown, secure in the knowledge that he was going to take it off her tonight.

Sloan used the departing aircraft as a diversion for as long as she could; then she turned to face him with an overbright smile and blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Paris didn't come with me—she's afraid to fly in helicopters."

"What a shame," he said solemnly.

Sloan nodded agreement. "Paul stayed ashore with her."

"I'm devastated."

She saw it then—the gleam of amusement in his beautiful gray eyes that made him seem infinitely more familiar to her. At the same time, something else occurred to her, and she looked swiftly at the table, noting the flowers, the candles flickering in crystal bowls, and the place settings of china and silver. Two place settings. Two chairs. Torn between guilt over Paris and mirth at his highhandedness, Sloan settled for trying to look indignant. "You knew all along that Paris is afraid of helicopters!"

"The possibility never occurred to me," he said piously.

"It didn't?" Sloan was startled but not convinced.

Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes laughing at her expression because she clearly knew he was hiding something and she was not going to give up until she figured it out.

"You've known her for years, but you didn't know until today that she's afraid of helicopters—?" Sloan summarized dubiously. A new possibility suddenly occurred to her, and she put it into words: "By any chance, is that because Paris isn't really afraid of them?"

Noah couldn't stand it anymore. Leaning down, he nipped her ear and whispered, "Paris is licensed to fly them."

Laughing, Sloan tried to ignore the effect of his warm breath in her ear and gestured toward the table and the ship. "But why did you go to all this trouble for just the two of us?"

"I wanted to atone for last night's lawn chair."

"With all this?" Sloan teased. "Don't you ever do anything halfway?"

"I did that last night," he said meaningfully.

The subtle change in his tone and the underlying significance of his remark momentarily slipped past Sloan. "But I liked the lawn chair."

"You'll like the accommodations here better."

It was fair warning of his intentions, and Sloan's stomach lurched.

"Would you like a tour?"

"Yes," she said quickly, imagining a tour of engines and boilers and bilge pumps. He took her hand, linking his fingers through hers, but even the warmth of his firm handclasp couldn't banish the raging misgivings she felt at the realization he intended to make love tonight.

She'd known this moment would come, but he'd chosen the wrong time, the wrong place, because everywhere she looked, she saw unmistakable, dramatic proof that the world he inhabited wasn't merely different from hers, it was in another solar system. This was a fleeting holiday fling for him, a two-week diversion, if it lasted the full two weeks. For her, it was… She couldn't bear the thought, but she could no longer escape it: This was history repeating itself.

She was her mother, only thirty years later. She was insane about Noah Maitland, and he was as unattainable as he was irresistible. She'd waited her whole life to fall in love, and now she'd spend the rest of it comparing everyone to him.

He led her one flight up the nearest exterior stairway and stopped at the first door on that deck. "This is the master stateroom," he said, swinging the door open.

Sloan tore free from her growing panic, glanced into the large, opulent room, and her gaze riveted on the king-size bed. The thick coverlet was already turned back invitingly, the recessed lighting low and seductive. In a deliberate attempt at flippancy, she said brightly, "It's not Motel Six, but I guess at sea people like you have to settle for what's available." She hated the way she sounded so much that she apologized in the next breath. "I'm sorry. That was a rude, stupid thing for me to say."

He studied her in silence, his expression unreadable. "Why did you say it?"

Sloan sighed and opted for honesty. Lifting her eyes to his, she admitted with quiet candor, "I did it because I'm nervous and uneasy. I'm used to thinking of you as you are with Courtney and Douglas." She made a halfhearted gesture that included him and the ship. "I didn't expect to find you here, with all this. I didn't even recognize the tone of your voice when I heard you talking on the phone. I don't really know you at all," she finished in a desperate, despairing voice.

Noah understood her problem perfectly, because he didn't recognize himself when she was near. Gazing at her alluring upturned face, he contemplated the sweetness of what she was saying and admired her courage for saying it—while he tried to decide whether he most wanted to bury his face in her fragrant hair and laugh at her misgivings, or bury his lips in hers and smother her doubts there. She actually regarded his wealth as a drawback, rather than his most desirable attribute, and that made her all the more unique to him—and twenty times more desirable.

In response to her fear of not knowing him, Noah took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You know me, Sloan," he whispered as he purposefully lowered his head. Slowly, tantalizingly, he smoothed his lips back and forth over hers, coaxing them to open for him. "Remember?" he whispered huskily, his hands sliding over her shoulders and back. Abruptly his mouth opened over hers and he deepened the kiss.

It took him less than fifteen seconds to bring Sloan's memory into sharp focus, and all her defenses began to crumble. As if her hands had a will of their own, they slipped inside his jacket and slid over his hard chest, curving over his shoulders and around his neck. He lifted his mouth a fraction from hers, his eyes smoldering, his voice thick with desire. "Now do you remember me?"

Sloan realized it was already too late to turn back, because she was never going to be able to forget him. It was pointless to deny herself the rest of the memories he'd make for her in this room. There'd be time enough for loneliness and regret in Bell Harbor. In the meantime, she wanted to be with him tomorrow and the next day, and maybe the next—as long as her appeal lasted.

He was waiting for her answer, and Sloan nodded, her voice reduced to a soft moan of surrender. "Yes." Leaning up on her toes, she crushed her mouth to his. She kissed him back with all the love and desperation in her heart, and his response was shattering. His mouth became insistent and hungry, his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her against his rigid body, and his hands wandered possessively over her back and the sides of her breasts.

He shoved the door closed with his foot, and Sloan felt a thrill of nervous excitement, but instead of heightening the passionate exchange, he slowed it down. He kissed her until she was twisted into knots of desire—long, languorous kisses, followed by hard, demanding ones, while his hands explored and caressed her, matching the intensity of each kiss.

Sloan felt his fingers at the zipper of her gown just before he lifted his mouth from hers. He stepped back abruptly to pull off his tuxedo jacket, and the strapless gown slid to the floor at her feet. Automatically, she reached down to pick it up.

"Don't," he said, his gaze lingering on her rosy breasts, his hands swiftly unfastening his shirt.

He obviously had no inhibitions about undressing in front of her, but Sloan felt self-conscious enough for both of them.

When she turned away to finish undressing, Noah realized simultaneously that she was embarrassed and that her nude body was a miracle of ripe curves, slender limbs, and glowing skin. He unfastened the studs from his shirt cuffs while he watched her reach up to pull the pins out of her hair. With her hands raised and her head slightly bent like that, she reminded him forcibly of a painting of a nude that was hanging in the Louvre. When the last pin was out, she gave her head a hard shake, and her hair tumbled onto her shoulders in a waterfall of shining gold.

She was stunning, Noah thought with a surge of undiluted lust.

She was shy, he reminded himself.

He came up behind her and slid his arms around her, drawing her back against him. "You take my breath away," he whispered against her neck. In response, she shivered. He turned her around and brought her down onto the bed; then he stretched out beside her and leaned up on his left arm, his hand resting beneath her nape.

Sloan waited with mounting anxiety while his gaze traveled over every curve and hollow of her body. When his gaze lifted to hers again, there was no mistaking the reckless glitter in those heavy-lidded gray eyes. His hand tightened, lifting her face, and she braced instinctively for a quick assault. Instead, it was a soft stroking kiss, as feather-light and relaxing as the slow stroking of his fingertips against her nape. A very reassuring kiss.

Reassured, Sloan turned into him and kissed him back, and as soon as she did, his right hand slid over her shoulder to her breast, cupping it, his thumb slowly circling her nipple. It was a teasing touch, a tantalizing touch.

Tantalized, Sloan spread her hand over the solid wall of his chest, sliding her fingers through the short, dark matting of hair. His skin felt like hot satin over steel, his nipple hard and small as she lightly grazed it with her palm. His arm was bunched muscle, his throat a corded column. Beneath her exploring fingertips, his jaw was chiseled from granite, his cheek carved from marble. He was magnificent, she realized achingly. And he was hers. For now. The hair at his temple was smooth…

To Sloan these touches were a poignant discovery; to Noah they were caresses so delicate and unexpected that they were profoundly stirring. He lifted his mouth from hers, watching her in tender disbelief while she sent desire pounding through his entire body.

Oblivious to the effect she was having on him, Sloan brushed her fingertips over his mouth. His lips were sculpted from a wondrous material that was firm and warm and mobile. His brows were thick and straight; his beautiful eyes were—open.

Startled, she looked up at him. His face was hard and dark with passion, a muscle moving spasmodically in his throat. She understood what she saw; she didn't care how she'd caused it. Curving her hand around his nape, she closed her eyes, arching against him, and felt the gasp of his breath against her mouth when she kissed him.

His mouth opened over hers, demanding and urgent, his tongue stroking intimately against hers while his hand slid down her body. His fingers tangled in the tiny, springy curls between her thighs and gently gained entry. Sloan writhed beneath the sensual onslaught of fingers stroking deep inside her and the intimate stroking of his tongue against hers.

He tore his lips from hers and slid his mouth down her neck to her breasts, and by the time he returned to her lips, Sloan was clutching his shoulders, her fingers biting into his back.

His hands cupped her bottom and pulled her up against him, fitting her to his length; then he drove into her with enough force to make her body arch. Each slow, demanding thrust pushed her closer to the edge; then without warning, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, carrying her with him.

She stared at him in disbelief, seated on top of him, and Noah chuckled at the startled expression on her flushed face. If she had been anyone else, he would have finished without doing this, but he wanted her to experience as much as his body would allow before he lost control. At least he told himself that was why he was doing it, but in some part of his passion-drugged brain, Noah knew his reason was somehow connected with her other two lovers. They had been clumsy and inept. He was neither. And he wanted to be absolutely certain Sloan knew that when they left this room.

Reaching up, he threaded his hands through the sides of her hair. "You are exquisite," he whispered. His hands slid down to her breasts, then reluctantly released them and settled on her hips, helping her to start.

She hadn't been lying about her lack of experience, Noah realized a few minutes later as he suppressed a laughing groan. She had no idea how to gauge the tempo for him; she slowed it when he wished she would go faster, changed it when he wanted her to sustain it. He couldn't predict the next moment or depend on her next movement, and because he couldn't, she now had him in a sustained state of excited suspense that was more arousing than it would have been if she had known what she was doing.

Just when he decided that, she began to watch his face and adjust to the pressure of his hips, and Noah's amusement died. The passion he thought he had under control was surging through his loins with enough force to make him grasp her hips to stop her. Pulling her onto his chest, he struggled to stop the rampage, and when he couldn't, he rolled her gently onto her back. He shifted on top of her, his hips pinning her to the bed as he began to thrust deeply inside of her. He dragged his mouth roughly across her cheek, longing to imprint himself on her mind as he was embedding himself in her body. "Open your eyes," he said, his voice reduced to a raw whisper.

Her long russet lashes flickered open. Silently, her eyes begged for release, and silently, he promised it to her. His shoulders and arms rigid with the strain of holding back, he began to increase the force of each stroke.

Sloan felt the pulsing beginning deep inside her. It quaked through until it finally exploded in a burst of extravagant pleasure that tore a low whimper from her throat. Noah drove into her one more time, his body shuddering with the same pleasure he'd given her. His head fell forward, his breathing labored. Wrapping his arm around her hips, he moved onto his side with her.

Sloan lay there, too shaken by what she'd felt to think, glorying in the simple thrill of being held in his arms. As sanity slowly returned, however, it became obvious to her that the man who had just made love to her had perfected the technique, undoubtedly through a great deal of practice with a great many women. On the other hand, she didn't think he'd found her so completely inexperienced that she bored him and he wouldn't want her again. If that were so, surely he wouldn't be holding her so close now, his hand lazily rubbing the curve of her waist. As a precaution, she decided to say something to him. "Noah?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm a very quick learner," she said earnestly.

Noah tipped his head down to see her beautiful face, and his lips quirked in a tender smile. "I noticed that," he whispered.

"What I mean is, I'll get better with practice."

The bed shook with his laughter as he snatched her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. "God help me."

Noah's laughter faded, but his lighthearted mood lingered as he held her against him. Normally an orgasm left him feeling relaxed and then energized; it did not leave him feeling absurdly happy. He could not understand why the woman in his arms had such a profound effect on him in bed and out of it. She could make him hot with a glance, cheer him with a smile, melt him with a touch. She was without greed, vanity, or guile.

She was also without dinner, he realized. He turned his wrist and looked at his watch. He'd wanted her aboard early to see the sunset, and the evening was still delightfully young.

He smoothed her heavy hair off her smooth cheek, and she looked up at him. "The evening's entertainment includes dinner and a tour," he teased.

She gave him a slumberous smile, her long fingers idly spreading on his chest. "Was that included in the price of the ticket, or is it extra?"

"Don't look at me like that or you'll get something besides dinner and the tour."

"Really?" she asked. "What?"

"Dessert."

To avoid further temptation, he reached for the telephone and instructed that dinner be served in a half hour; then he reluctantly got out of bed.

They dined by candlelight in formal attire with music playing softly in the background, but the atmosphere between them was different. Without the distraction of unfulfilled sexual desire, they were able to talk like new friends getting to know one another.

By the time dinner was over, she was so relaxed that she thought nothing of answering his question about Carter and her mother. "My mother won a beauty contest when she was eighteen, and the prize was a trip to Fort Lauderdale and a week in the best hotel," Sloan explained. "A photographer from the Fort Lauderdale newspaper was taking her picture on the beach. A cocktail party was taking place nearby—part of a rehearsal dinner for a wedding that Carter was attending—and he wandered over to see what was happening. He was wearing a white dinner jacket. My mother was dazzled. And that's what happened."

"That can't be all that happened," Noah pointed out as a joke.

"That's nearly all that happened. My mother had been raised by her grandmother, and she was as naïve as she was beautiful. She spent the remaining three days of her trip with him in her hotel suite. She gave him her virginity, and Carter gave her Paris. She went back home, completely convinced they were in love and that he wanted to marry her—as soon as he could win his socially prominent family in San Francisco over to the idea. Naturally, Mom was a little surprised when she never heard from her 'fiancé' again. She was even more surprised when the doctor told her that she wasn't sick with the flu, she was pregnant."

Noah lifted his wineglass, watching the emotions play across her lovely face. She was trying very hard to sound offhand, but her voice softened when she mentioned her mother and it hardened almost imperceptibly when she mentioned Carter. "Then what happened?"

"The usual," she said with a jaunty, sideways smile. "My mother went to the library and located the father of her baby by looking up his family's name in Who's Who." When Noah didn't smile at her attempt at humor, Sloan sobered and said lightly, "She was still so certain that he loved her and that his family must be being unfair to him that she took the rest of her prize money and bought a plane ticket. She arrived on Carter's family's doorstep at night, with her suitcase—also part of her contest prizes—but they told her Carter was out. She explained that she was his fiancée and asked if she could wait for him there. You can imagine the rest."

"Probably," Noah said, "but I'd like to hear it from you."

"You're awfully persistent," Sloan joked. Instead of being dissuaded he cocked a dark brow in inquiry and waited for her to go on. Helpless to ignore his silent command to continue, she sighed and said, "In a very few minutes, they got the whole story out of her, and they were furious." She paused, trying to think of a way to phrase the rest of the story. Carter was his friend and Paris's father, and she didn't want to needlessly tarnish his image. "They naturally felt he had done a wrong thing, and when Carter came home, he accepted responsibility and left with my mother—"

He mocked her attempt to gloss over the truth. "That's not going to fly, Sloan. I knew Carter's mother and father when they were older, and they couldn't have changed that much. What really happened?"

A little unnerved by his bluntness, Sloan straightened the napkin in her lap and finally met his unwavering gaze. "Actually," she said with a sigh, "when Carter came home that night, he was drunk, and his parents were already furious with him for a long list of transgressions. They threw him out and my mother with him. It must have been a sobering experience for him; he stopped in Las Vegas and married my mother before they went on to Florida. He had enough money left somewhere to buy a sailboat, and for the next two years he chartered it out Paris was born; then I was born."

"Then what?"

"Then Carter's mother arrived one day in a limousine to tell him that his father had had a stroke. She told him he was welcome back in the family fold and she told him to bring one daughter with him. They left that same day with Paris."

"Courtney is under the impression that you and your mother weren't well provided for in that deal."

"My mother was given a modest settlement," Sloan said vaguely.

"How modest?"

"Modest," Sloan said stubbornly; then she smiled and shook her head. "It wouldn't have mattered if it had been much larger. My mother is so naïve and so sweet that she would have given it away to anyone who asked her for a loan or been swindled out of it by some phony 'financial adviser.' "

"Is that what happened to the settlement she got?"

"Most of it," Sloan confirmed.

"You never refer to Carter as your father, do you?" he asked.

She gave him a laughing look and rolled her eyes. "He isn't my father."

Noah slowly lowered his wineglass. "He's not?"

"Not in any significant sense."

"What, specifically, do you class as 'significant' here?"

"He is my biological parent, period. A 'father' is so much more than that. A father is someone who dries your tears when you're little and looks under your bed because you're afraid a monster is down there. He makes the school bully leave you and your best friend alone. He goes to PTA meetings and your softball games, even though you're too little to play and they keep you on the bench. He worries about you when you're sick, and he worries about boys getting intimate with you when you're a teenager."

Noah grinned at the insight she'd unwittingly provided. An image of a little blond girl in a softball uniform, sitting on a bench, drifted through his mind. Her big violet eyes would be sad because they wouldn't let her play. "You played softball?" he asked, trying to remember if he knew a single woman who'd played softball as a child, rather than tennis or field hockey.

"I would be exaggerating to say that," she said, her laugh touching his ears like the soft tinkling of bells. "I was so little for my age that if I played in my own age group, my teammates mistook me for grass and ran over me. I was in my teens before I finally hit a growth spurt."

"It wasn't much of a spurt," Noah said tenderly.

"Oh, yes it was," she assured him, laughing.

On second thought, Noah decided, it must have been one hell of a maturation process, because she had a gorgeous figure, perfectly proportioned for her height. Perfectly proportioned in every way for his body… The mere thought made him harden, and with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, he said, "I promised you a tour."

He stood up and walked around to pull out her chair; then he draped the stole she'd brought over her shoulders.

Sloan was fascinated by the tour; she'd been on boats many times, but Apparition was more like a cruise ship than a boat. She explored the spotless engine room and then the galley, and when he realized she was truly interested, Noah got out the keys and showed her places he would normally have skipped, stopping to open corridor doors that concealed everything from cleaning supplies to spare nautical equipment. "I love boats," she confessed to him with glowing eyes.

"All boats?" he teased.

She nodded solemnly. "All of them—tugboats and fishing boats, slow boats and fast boats. I love the ocean and everything associated with it."

They were in the center of the ship, a level down from the main deck, and she stopped automatically at the next door.

"We can skip that one," he said firmly, putting his hand on her waist to urge her along.

Sloan was instantly curious. "Why? What are you hiding in there?"

"There's nothing in there you'd be interested in."

She burst out laughing. "Don't do that; it's not fair. Now I'm curious. I can't stand unsolved mysteries. I'm a sleuth by—" She broke off in horror. "I'm an amateur sleuth," she amended quickly, and to further distract him, she said with sham indignation, "These are the women's quarters, aren't they?—you bring women along to keep the crew from mutinying on long voyages."

"Hardly," he said, but he wasn't unlocking the door, and Sloan's fascination doubled.

"Pirate treasure?" she ventured, trying to prod him into answering. "Smuggled goods? Drugs—" Her smile faded.

He noticed, and with a resigned sigh, he unlocked the doors and turned on a light. Sloan stared in shock. The small room contained an arsenal of firearms, including a machine gun.

"Courtney saw this and refused to go out to sea with me anymore."

Sloan shook her head a little, trying to recover.

"Don't dramatize it," he warned more forcefully than Sloan thought was necessary.

Sloan registered assault weapons and others that were illegal in the U.S. "Yes, but this—this—why do you need all this?"

He tried to shrug it off as routine. "People who own boats frequently keep a gun aboard."

Sloan's uneasiness was so intense that she shivered, and Noah leapt to an erroneous conclusion. "Don't be afraid. These aren't loaded."

Sloan stepped forward. He was lying, but she tried to sound like an amateur when she pointed it out. "If that's true, then why is that belt-thing with the bullets in it hanging out of that machine gun?"

Noah muffled a laugh and pulled her out of the room, turning out the lights. "It shouldn't be there. That's an old machine gun that we confiscated from a surprise guest on the last cruise."

Sloan's mind reeled with the same refrain she'd heard earlier: She did not know him. Not really. She had gone to bed with him and done intimate things with him, but she did not know him.

Standing beside her at the railing on the main deck, Noah sensed her withdrawal and assumed the weapons cache was the cause of it, but he attributed her reaction to the same vague panic that Courtney had felt. "Learning to use a gun is the best way to overcome a fear of them."

Sloan swallowed and nodded.

"I could teach you to shoot some of them."

"That would be nice," she said absently, trying to get a grip on her reactions. She was letting her imagination run wild, she told herself sternly, a silly mistake that was probably some sort of emotional backlash. She'd been falling in love with him almost from the moment she'd seen him in Carter's living room; she'd just joined her body with his and moaned with passion in his arms. In view of all that, it made more sense to ask for an explanation than to invent one. "It would be even nicer if I understood why you have them. I mean, we're not at war, are we?"

"No, but I do business in countries where the governments aren't always stable. Businessmen in those countries are frequently armed."

She turned fully toward him, her eyes searching his face. "You do business with people who want to shoot you?"

"No, I do business with people whose competitors want to shoot them. Or me, if I were to get in the way. For that reason, I realized several years ago that it is not only wiser, it is healthier, to do business on my own turf. This ship is my own turf. Next month, I have a meeting off the coast of a major city in Central America. It will take place aboard Apparition, and my colleagues will be flown aboard by helicopter."

"Maybe you ought to get into a safer business," Sloan mused aloud.

He laughed. "It isn't purely for safety; it's also for effect." She looked baffled, and Noah explained, "In a foreign port, dealing with people who are impressed by success, Apparition still gives me a home court advantage."

Sloan relaxed. What he said made a great deal of sense. "What sort of business do you do with those people?"

"Import/export. Basically, I'm in the business of making deals."

"In Venezuela?"

"That's one of the places."

"Does Mr. Graziella carry a gun?"

He didn't like the question, Sloan noticed. "No," he said impassively, "he doesn't. If he did, someone would take it away from him and shoot him with it."

He knew she was suspicious, and instead of saying anything to allay those suspicions, he waited for her to make her own decision. Sloan sensed that she was being tested somehow—for her potential for loyalty? Or as his lover? She liked the thought of the latter, but even if he hadn't meant that, her instincts told her he was telling the truth. In her work, these instincts were almost unfailingly reliable, and she relied on them now. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried," she said, turning to the railing and looking out to sea.

"Do you have any more questions?"

She nodded slowly and somberly. "Yes, one."

"And that is?"

"Why did we skip the tour of the saloon?"

Noah was completely enthralled by her wit, her intelligence, and at the moment, by the way she looked in the moonlight in a strapless gown with her hair blowing in the breeze. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, drawing her close against his body, and his voice was already husky with awakening desire. "There's a door to my stateroom off the stairs inside the saloon, and if you go into one room, you have to go into the other, too—there are no deviations allowed on this tour," he teased.

He waited for her to react and felt a fresh surge of lust when she nodded slightly.

"There's one more problem," he whispered. "I made a mistake earlier. The package price didn't include this part of the tour. There's an extra charge—I have to collect it in advance."

His mouth touched the corner of her lips, waiting to collect, and with a shudder of surrender, Sloan turned her head to fully receive his kiss.