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.