EATED ON THE aft deck of Zack Benedict’s yacht with a cup of coffee, a plate of toast, and a newspaper on the table in front of him, Mitchell looked toward the railing as the yacht’s captain swore under his breath and glared at an approaching boat.

Clad entirely in white, from the starched collar of his short-sleeved shirt to the toes of his spotless deck shoes, Captain Nathaniel Prescott was tall and gray-haired with a ramrod posture and an aura of exacting competence. “Brace yourself,” he warned Mitchell. “Here comes another one.” As he spoke, a ferryboat, bound for one of the neighboring islands and loaded with tourists, slid by the yacht less than fifty feet away, and the ferry captain’s voice blared an announcement over the boat’s loudspeaker to his passengers. “Ladies and gentlemen, lying off to our starboard side—that’s ‘right’ to you—is the 125-foot yacht owned by movie star Zack Benedict, which is named the Julie, after his wife. Get your cameras ready, and I’ll take us in a little closer. I see a man aboard who could be Benedict.”

Mitchell swore under his breath and raised the newspaper, concealing his face. “I don’t know how Zack puts up with this. I’d start waving a shotgun at them.”

Until yesterday, the Julie had been peacefully docked at a pier in one of St. Maarten’s beautiful marinas, but some avid fans of Zack’s had seen the yacht and realized to whom it belonged. The word had spread like wildfire across the island. Within hours, their pier became a tourist attraction of its own, with Zack’s fans milling around the boat, hoping for autographs, taking photographs, and making a damned nuisance of themselves. Some of them were still hanging around last night when Mitchell returned from his evening with Kate, and to give Mitchell some peace, Zack’s captain had moved the boat away from the pier as soon as Mitchell was aboard. Now the yacht was anchored just outside the marina, which isolated them from annoying pedestrians, but gave them no protection from tourists on the ferries and tour boats.

“I’m checking with the other marinas to see if they have a slip available that’s large enough to accommodate us,” Prescott said in the resigned tone of a man who’d been through this drill many times in the past. “Unfortunately, for now, we’ll have to use the launch to get you back and forth to shore.”

“That’s fine,” Mitchell said. “I have some errands to do in St. Maarten this morning.”

“I’ll tell Yardley to have the launch ready to leave in—?” He paused, waiting for Mitchell’s answer.

Mitchell glanced at his watch. It was 8:15. “In half an hour.”

“I’ll call you on your cell phone, and let you know where we’re docked so you can find us this evening,” Prescott volunteered.

“I won’t be back tonight. I’m staying in a hotel.”

“You’ll probably get more peace and quiet that way,” Prescott said with an apologetic sigh. He started to leave; then he turned and said with a slight smile, “Mr. Benedict phoned from Rome earlier. I told him we’d been forced to move out of the marina last night. He said to tell you everything is delightfully quiet and pleasant where he is.”

Mitchell acknowledged Zack’s joke with a brief smile. Zack was staying at Mitchell’s apartment in Rome while he finished shooting scenes for his new movie there; then he and Julie were flying to St. Maarten to join Mitchell.

When Prescott left, Mitchell leaned back in his chair and watched a flock of seagulls wheeling in circles overhead, his thoughts drifting to his extraordinary behavior with Kate Donovan the night before.

This morning, in the bright light of day, he was amused and a little embarrassed by the lengths he’d gone to to please her. When she’d asked him to help a stray mongrel, he’d promptly summoned an ambulance and physician and then volunteered to help take the dog to a vet. Later, when she refused to sleep with him or see him again unless he told her about himself, she’d been giving him an ultimatum, and he’d known it at the time. He’d known it, he’d refused to be manipulated, and he’d left—exactly as he should have done. But then, driven by the severest case of brain-numbing lust in his recollection, he gave in and went back to answer her questions. And if that weren’t strange enough, he’d then suffered an unprecedented attack of comical chivalry and decided not to take her to bed in her boyfriend’s hotel room, but to wait until today and take her to a hotel in St. Maarten instead.

That particular decision to wait was doubly bizarre in view of the fact that he’d been needlessly and outrageously blunt with her all evening about his intentions to sleep with her. In hindsight, most of his behavior the night before was baffling and yet, not entirely. Minutes after he’d arrived at her hotel last night, everything about her began to resonate with him.

At least, that’s how he’d felt yesterday. But this was today, and without the moonlight and music—without the combination of circumstances that had made the night before seem somehow momentous—it was possible the “magic” would be gone. Right now, Mitchell wasn’t completely certain which way he wanted it to be. Ever since his brother and his family had arrived in London, Mitchell had felt at times that he was getting “soft” inside, and it was an alien and rather disturbing sensation. First William had gotten to him; then he’d let his aunt Olivia get under his skin, and he’d even shaken his grandfather’s hand. Now, a redheaded Irish girl was getting to him.

In the midst of that thought, Mitchell noticed another ferryboat headed straight toward the yacht. Instead of reaching for his newspaper, he reached for a slice of toast, tore off a piece, and tossed it overboard. Seagulls screeched and dove. He tossed four more pieces overboard, and white gulls came from everywhere.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ferry captain’s voice blasted out. “If you’re fans of the movie actor Zack Benedict...”

Mitchell flipped two more pieces of toast overboard, and seagulls rained down out of the sky, screeching and diving.

“... Get your cameras ready...”

Mitchell picked up the rest of the toast and slowly flipped the slices overboard one at a time. Seagulls by the hundreds descended in a thick curtain of gray and white.

“... Look out for the gulls...”

Mitchell glanced at his watch and pushed his chair back. He still had to pack an overnight case.

Shielded from the ferry’s view by flocks of frenzied gulls, he strolled across the deck.

KATE’S DARK BLUE suitcase lay at the foot of the bed, packed and ready.

From the white sofa in the sitting room, she idly petted Max’s head while she stared at that piece of luggage and nervously tried to recapture the emotions she’d had last night—emotions that had made it seem completely appropriate and perfectly right for her to agree to spend the night with him. This morning, what she was planning to do seemed a little insane.

She thought about how overjoyed she’d felt last night when Mitchell walked up behind her in the garden and told her, “My brother’s name was William.” In retrospect, she’d apparently become totally besotted with a man merely because he’d been reluctantly willing to mention a few facts about his brother and to reveal the languages he spoke. That made no sense at all.

Obviously she’d been absurdly affected by the setting they were in—the setting, combined with his fantastic good looks and his urbane charm, had evidently seduced her—which was exactly what he’d intended to happen. From early in the evening, he’d made it abundantly clear that seduction was on his mind: I’m less dismayed than I’d be if you told me you’re a nun.... I want to be sure we’re on the same page.... But I do intend to ravish you.

Even the way he kissed was deliberately seductive. Those slow, stirring kisses that turned hot and demanding—the suggestive way he’d held her hips clamped against his rigid thighs while he kissed her. That was kissing with a single-minded, unmistakable goal, she realized. However, she was not foolish enough to feel honor-bound to sleep with him just because she’d agreed to do it last night.

After Mitchell left, she’d been too nervous and excited to sleep, so she’d sorted through the clothes she’d brought with her, trying to put together outfits that would be exactly right, no matter what Mitchell decided they should do while they were together. By the time she was finished, it was nearly three AM, and several outfits were neatly laid out beside her suitcase, including shoes, handbags, bracelets, and earrings. The only thing she hadn’t decided on was what she should be wearing when he arrived to pick her up and how to wear her hair.

This morning, she’d been too preoccupied to worry about her appearance. Instead of fussing with her hair, she’d pulled it up into a ponytail, and she’d chosen the first articles of clothing she noticed when she opened her closet door—a pair of jeans, a white, short-sleeved T-shirt, and leather sandals.

With a nervous sigh, Kate leaned down and ruffled the short hair on Max’s head. “This is all your fault,” she joked. “Just because he helped me rescue you and then arranged for some flea powder, I felt obliged to sleep with him—”

She broke off as three short, solid knocks sounded on the villa’s front door. Max rolled to his feet and walked beside her, trailing the makeshift “leash” she’d created by tying two belts together from the white terry-cloth robes the hotel provided to its guests.

She glanced at her watch. It was exactly ten o’clock.