Thanks for the reviews….little ler, liloazngurl03, carby6, inunkag4ever…as asked here's the next chap.

A/N: Yeah don't own the characters yadda, yadda, yadda….here's chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Dramamine gave Serena violent hiccups, and seasickness patches blurred her vision so badly she could hardly see. So, not long ago she'd resorted to borrowing some prescription seasick medication from Andrew, one of the ship's stewards. The pill had been like a miracle drug, and Serena was no longer hiccupping or seeing double. She was, however, feeling a little odd.

She checked her watch. It was past time for Mr. I'll-I'll-Take-That-Dare to come back and inspect her galley, which was now spotless as she'd promised it would be. Well, she simply couldn't wait around for him any longer. It was time for the captain's mint tea.

She headed out of the galley, gripping the handrail, working to shake off a sudden fuzzy-headedness. The sea was rough, and she almost missed a step. Luckily, she managed no to spill a drop of tea. She giggled, then sobered. What was funny about that?

Mounting the top step to the pilothouse, she was appalled to see Mr. Shields standing beside the yacht's portly captain, Ken Mamou. Captain Mamou was forever on a diet, and constantly hungry. So, Serena brought him his daily sugar high—a glass of mint tea with three spoonfuls of sugar. She knew it wasn't good for him, but it kept him from downing an entire box of Oreos, his usual afternoon snack. It seemed the lesser of two evils.

"Ah, my tea," Ken bellowed, his jowly face brightened when he saw a stiff-backed Serena approach.

She couldn't understand why it looked like such a long distance from the stairs to the control panel where the two men stood. The last time she'd been up there it had only been a few feet away.

With measured steps, she inched her way toward them. Gone was the rich, hand-rubbed wood paneling Serena remembered. She found herself moving through what seemed to be a long, narrow shaft. Blinking several times, she tried to regain her perspective. What in heaven's name was wrong?

Darien was watching her closely, as though he thought she'd grown and extra head. She heard a giggle and frowned. Neither Captain Mamou nor Mr. Shields appeared to be likely candidates for a fit of giggles. She peered at them both. Neither was even smiling now.

When she finally made the ghastly length of the pilothouse and handed Captain Mamou his tea, she breathed a sigh. What a chore that had been. With a tentative nod toward her nemesis, Mr. Shields, she said, "If I'd know you were going to be here, sir, I'd have brought you some, too, tea."

He assessed her with a curious frown. "Are you all right, Miss Tsukino?"

She took a deep breath, determined not to allow this insufferable, self-important playboy to intimidate her. "If you'll notice, Mr. Shields…" She poked him in the chest, noting a peculiar expression flash across his face. "I am no longer a messy galley! So there!" She took a step back, but the rolling sea caused her to lurch sideways, barely missing the captain's drinking arm. "Oops," Serena murmured, shaking her head. "That was a close on, Skipper." She couldn't control a peal or laughter, and for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why. "Mustn't—mustn't make a messy. Mr. Meanie wouldn't like that."

"Ms. Tsukino. Have you been drinking?" Darien asked, his handsome features closed in displeasure.

She screwed up her face to think. Why was thinking so hard? "Let's see…" She tapped her nose. "Have you been drinking…" She shook her head. "Yes, I have. I had a glass of Pine-ippi-poop…" She stopped herself and burst out laughing. "Pipple-poopie…" Still tittering, she shrugged. "What was the question?"

Darien's mouth set grimly, he looked at her for a long moment. When he spoke, his accusation was edged with steel. "Damn it, Ms. Tsukino, you're drunk."

Affronted by such slander, her spine went ramrod stiff. "How daaaaaaaaareyou—you…" Throwing up her hands in offense, she almost upended herself. "I don't have to land here and stisten to this!" With considerable effort controlling her motor skills, she managed to do little more than remain erect. With effort, she got her body to begin a disdainful turn, but lost her balance on the unsteady deck. She instinctively grabbed for a handhold, missed and went sprawling to her knees.

"Damn it, Tsukino!" Darien grasped her arm and hoisted her up. She gaped drunkenly at him. He was so tall—at least fifteen feet tall. And he sounded as though he was talking through a megaphone. She scrunched up her eyes to try to better make out his face. He was quite handsome, for a bully, even so far away. She was sorry he was such a bad, bad boy. "Hi," she breathed. "How's the weather up there, big guy?" She burst into a fit of giggles.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"Suuuuuuuuuuure. Been doin' it for years," she assured him with a nonchalant wave as she dropped back to her knees. "No—problem."

She felt herself being lifted away from the deck and sighed with the exhilarating rush she felt—like going up, up, up on a Ferris wheel. "Wheeeeee," she squealed, grabbing at something solid. When she looked more closely, she realized she was clutching Darien Shields' substantial neck. That neck attached to a lovely square jaw. She scrutinized that jaw, sniffing. He smelled like a clean, summer night. Snuggling closer, she allowed her gaze to roam upward. After a moment of regarding his strong-boned face, she declared, "You have a teeny-weeny scar on your bottom lip."

He was frowning. "Thank you for that bulletin."

She traced the scar with her finger. It was hardly noticeable. "Kissy, kissy, make it aaaaaall better," she whispered, then brushed his mouth with hers. As their lips met, she registered and odd tingling warmth rush through her body, a strange sensation, but nice. They'd been moving somewhere. Suddenly, they weren't moving anymore. She drew away, sighing. "Whew! It's hot in here." There seemed to be something different in his eyes, but she couldn't quite tell what it was. She squinted looking closer. "Are you hot, Dare? I'm reaaaaal hot."

He cleared his throat and muttered brusquely, "I'm locking up the cooking sherry."

They were moving again. She grinned up at him. "And did you knoooow," she went on, tracing his lip, "that when you're mad your teeny-weeny scar turns white. Teeny-weeny white baby scar. How did you hurt yourself?" Her eyes lolled back to focus on his intense blue gaze, now flashing with exasperation. "Noooo, don't tell me. Let me guess. You were scuba-diving and you attacked a shark that was littler than yoooooou." Her giggle took her as much by surprise as it did the man carrying her. "Big, bad, sharkie, Darien Shields, the Great White."

"I see you read the Wall Street Journal," he muttered.

"I looooooove to read," she giggled, hugging him close. "You know what I don't like though?"

"Sobriety?"

"Right." She shook her head. "Lobsters. I hate them. You know why? Cause we have to cook em alive. I always cried when I had to murder a lobster at C.I.A." A torrent of desolation engulfed her and she blinked back tears. "I—I told Aunt Jeannie I couldn't do that. I can't murder any more lobsters. They scream. Did you know that? I can't. I just can't!" She clutched his shoulders, pleading, "Don't make me off any more lobsters!"

"I'll put in a call to the senator."

She wiped away a tear and, with trembling lips, smiled. "Good—reprieve all the lobsters."

Her hips touched something heavenly. Clouds?

"You may let go of me now, Ms. Tsukino."

Serena looked about her, not recognizing her surroundings. "Where am I? Dead?"

"No, but you may wish you were in a few hours," he replied with a heavy sigh. "This is my suite."

She blinked, taking note of the elegance of the bedroom. It was true. She was in the yacht's master suite, lounging on the oversize island bed. Dramatic hidden spotlights muted and warmed the luxurious décor of earth tones—rich green and browns. A bank of large windows loomed before her, giving the suite a panoramic view of dark, choppy seas.

Disoriented and confused, she turned to frown into Mr. Shields's eyes, so near her face. They were wonderful eyes, even narrowed as they were. Was he angry or troubled? She shook her head, feeling muddled. "What did you say?" she mumbled, wondering why her lips refused to work properly.

"You may let go of me now. You're safe on my bed," he repeated slowly as though she were a two-year-old.

She sluggishly snaked her hands away from his shoulders, peering about the opulent suite. Low, seductive music was playing somewhere, seeming to enfold the bed in blatant sensuality.

She became still, instantly suspicious. Mr. Shields had sounded a little short of breath. Was it unbridled passion? Was this master playboy seducing her? The creep! She lifted a foot and placed it squarely against his chest. "Mr. Shields. I'm no babe in the crowd. I'm twenty-twooooo. I've heard of sexual harmony-ment—er—harass-mony—uh…"

"Harassment," he corrected thinly. "So have I."

"You admit it—you, you bastard! Shamey—shaaaaame on you!" In a shocked whisper, she asked, "Do you reeeeeeally thin your body will buy my money?" She winced. Had that come out right?

He straightened to his full height. With a shake of his dark head, he looked down at her, his expression closed. "I don't expect you to understand this, in your condition, but since I don't know which of the crew's quarters below decks is yours, I brought you here. When you've sobered up, I hope you don't remember this conversation—for you own sake. For now, I suggest you sleep it off."

"Sweet talk will do you no good," she chided with a superior smirk. Lounging back on unsteady elbows, she demanded, "Now, I must ask you to get out before I call the poli-pice!" She flung out an arm, toppling on her side. "I'm stummed at you for trying to seduce my personal—person. I am a woman on a mission, I can't be bought!"

He pursed his lips. "I'm sure that's a commendable trait in a dipsomaniac." He regarded for a moment, his expression going pensive, almost compassionate. Then, with an impatient oath, his brows drew together in a fierce scowl. "Ms. Tsukino. You're fired."

She frowned, bewildered. When she'd blinked a couple of times, he was gone. She struggled up to a sitting position. Numbly she scanned the room with eyes that could no longer focus. Why was she sprawled in Darien Shields's suite? Had he actually been there a minute ago, or had she imagined it? And most worrisome of all, why did she have a heavy feeling in her gut—as though she'd just failed something or somebody? Shaking her head, she sank to her back. Well, at least she wasn't seasick.

Serena sat up with a start. She had a pounding headache, and she'd just had the worse nightmare of her life! She'd dreamed that for some demented reason she'd actually kissed Darien Shields. Then she'd soundly chastised him for making advances on her, and thrown him out of her room!

Rubbing her eyes, she swung her legs over the side of her bed, or at least tried to. But there was no side. Her legs were still flat on the bed. Befuddled, she glanced about. Her confusion increased as she discovered she was sitting on a huge bed, a bed that was anchored in the middle of an equally huge bedroom.

She bit her lip as she scanned the place. The walls were a warm, paneled teakwood with mirrored inserts. To her right she saw a set of tall, beveled-glass-fronted bookshelves beside a built-in entertainment system. To her left, between a couple of doors, sat a beige sofa.

There was an expensive-looking stone Egyptian head mounted in a backlit alcove behind her, and on various built-in chests located about the room, there were striking metal sculptures. She glanced up. The ceiling was solid brass so highly polished she could see her own baffled expression. Lowering her gaze, she stared directly out a wide expanse of curved windows to see the yacht's bow dipping and rising in a buffeting, white-capped sea. She swallowed, feeling a creeping unease snake up her spine. There was no getting around it. This was definitely the yacht's master suite.

The bed upon which she lounged was covered in a heavy green-on-green embossed silk. Scrambling from the mattress, she edged toward a door that stood ajar. Pushing it open, she discovered one of the two master bedroom heads. The room was lined with deep green marble, countertops, Jacuzzi tub and all. Cabinetry was polished teak, and the basin and fixtures were gold. She gasped at the opulence of it, then backed out. How had she gotten here?

With a fearful weakness engulfing her limbs, she sank onto the settee. Oh, my God, her mind screamed as memories began to flood back. It hadn't been a nightmare at all. She'd actually…

She groaned, placing her head in her hands. She really had kissed Darien Shields. And he really had fired her!

Lifting teary eyes to stare unseeingly at the raging ocean, she had to admit she couldn't blame him. She shouldn't have taken Andrew's pill. Obviously she'd had a bad reaction to it.

Her stomach knotted with devastation by all she'd lost because of a stupid mistake. Halfheartedly, she blinked to clear her vision, focusing on her watch. It was six o'clock. Dinner should have been started and hour ago. And fired or not, the captain and crew—and onboard tyrant—had to eat. With a wretched exhale, she pushed up and then was very sorry she had. She wasn't feeling well. The pill had worn off, and seasickness was overtaking her again.

She supposed she'd have to resort to Dramamine. Hiccups at least left her with her mental capacities intact. As soon as she got dinner on, she promised herself she'd seek out Darien Shields and apologize. She could just imagine his displeasure, and didn't relish facing him. Ever since she'd seen that arrogant, handsome face, she'd wanted nothing else but to get as far away from him and her foolhardy lie as she could. But for her grandfather's sake, she couldn't allow herself to be a coward, couldn't just run away. She had to try to finish this thing once and for all

Her idea had seemed do right and uncomplicated in the beginning. She would simply get hired by the Shields's as a chef, then dig out the truth and clear her grandfather's name. Now she was going to have to go crawling to Mr. Shields asking for a second chance—a chance that, if granted, might eventually cause his downfall.

On top of her seasickness, she was starting to feel heaviness in her heart. She wasn't in the habit of deceiving people, especially with the intent to do them mischief.

She forced herself to think about sweet, fragile Mikou—cheated out of so very much, lied about and disgraced. That image stiffened her spine and her resolve. Right after dinner she would face Mr. Shields and ask for her job back—even beg if she had to.

The galley was behind the master suite, so not too far away. She hurried to it as quickly as her queasy stomach would allow. When she reached the door she was met with the aroma of chicken cacciatore. Even in her weakened condition, her trained nose told her it would taste delicious. Pushing open the door, she was startled to see Darien standing there; clad in the same blue pants and shirt he'd had on during their ruinous encounter three hours prior. He was slicing vegetables into a salad bowl.

At the sound of her entry, he glanced over his shoulder and scanned her with a critical eye. Serena swallowed, tamping down a feeling of culpability, and closed the door at her back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

It startled her that he cared, considering he'd been reduced to helping with dinner because he thought his chef was a drunkard. She met his gaze with difficulty. Her head was pounding and her stomach had known better moments. Nevertheless, this had to be said and it had to be said now if she hoped to remain on the Shields staff. "I—I want to apologize, sir. I acted abominably early. But I can explain."

He reached up into a cabinet over the counter where he was working. Lifting out a small bottle, he handed it to her. "Here. Take one of these. It'll help."

She eyed the bottle with distrust, considering her track record with pills lately. "What is it?"

"It's the same thing Andrew gave you, but half the dosage. The scuttlebutt of you escapade in the pilothouse spread quickly, Ms. Tsukino. When Andrew heard about it he came to me and told me he'd given you some of his seasickness pills. I called his doctor in Miami, and he said for a woman of your size, you were overmedicated. He prescribed a half dosage."

She opened the lid and shook out a pill. It was, in fact, half a pill. "Who broke these?" she asked.

"I did."

Her gaze shot to meet his. He was frowning, but it didn't seem to be aimed at her. "Look, Ms. Tsukino," he began gravely; "I misjudged you this afternoon. I'm sorry."

"You—you mean I'm not fired?" She was stunned by this turn of events.

One corner of his mouth lifted, but it wasn't a happy expression. "I don't fire people for taking seasick medication."

A great weight was lifted off her shoulders. She wouldn't have to beg and grovel after all. "I appreciate it, sir," she said, experiencing an odd niggling of guilt. She hadn't expected him to actually be—nice.

With a warning lift of a brow, he cautioned, "It wasn't very bright of you to take medicine prescribed for a man who weighs two hundred and thirty pounds. I'd wager you weigh half that."

She decided it would be unwise of her ever to bet against Darien Shields. She weighed exactly half that. Embarrassed, she nodded. "Yes—it was pretty dumb." She didn't add that she had been desperate to find something to make her feel well enough to do her job. For a man who had just guessed her weight down to the ounce, he probably realized that.

"Better take a pill," he reminded.

Without meeting his gaze, she walked to the sink and fetching a glass from the cabinet, downed the medicine with some water.

"Hopefully, on the correct dosage, you won't be so willing to make my scars better," he remarked at her back.

She flushed fiercely at his reminder that she'd kissed him. How could she have been so stupid! Clearly one of the most sinister side effects of the overmedicating on this seasick prescription was a temporary loss of sanity. Curling her hands around the edge of the sink, she whispered, "I-I'm terribly sorry about that, Mr. Shields."

"Did your parents kiss you hurts to make them better?"

The somber way he'd asked the question surprised her and she turned to face him. "Of course. Didn't yours?"

His nostrils flared, as though she'd slapped him. He shifted his gaze to pick up a carrot. "Where are your parents now?"

She'd noticed he'd shifted the subject back to her, but decided not to mention it. "They died when I was fifteen—house fire. My grandfather—er—" She stopped herself. She'd just gotten out of trouble with this man. All she needed to do now was reveal the Big Lie! Realizing she'd better at least finish her thought so he wouldn't start wondering why she hadn't, she said, "My grandpa kissed the hurts away, too." She added silently, And now I'm trying to ease a hurt for him that your family caused!

"Where is your grandfather?" Darien asked, slicing a carrot into the bowl.

"Mr. Shields, please," she prompted, disconcerted that she'd completely failed in her duties this evening. "I should be doing that."

"You cut up the radishes." He indicated the last uncut vegetables.

Worrying the inside of her cheek, she moved up beside him and silently began to slice radishes. The yacht was pitching back and forth as it split the rampaging ocean waves. In order to keep from falling, Serena braced her legs shoulder-width apart. One of her sneakers accidentally butted up against Darien's. For some reason she resisted drawing her foot away. She hoped he didn't take any particular notice of the contact, but touching the solidness of his body made her feel more secure somehow. The last thing she wanted to do was tumble to the floor. Not after the fiasco of this afternoon. She'd made enough of a fool of herself for one day.

"Tell me about your grandfather, Ms. Tsukino," Darien said, interrupting her unruly train of thought.

His mellow, woodsy aftershave invaded her nostrils and became a pleasant addition to the aromas surrounding her. Forcing herself to concentrate on her work rather than the fact that her worst enemy was so pleasant-smelling and comfortably stable, she offered minimally, "Grandpa's in a rest home in Iowa." Wanting to get off that volatile subject and curious about something Aunt Jeannie had let slip about his family—something unhappy—she asked, "What about your folks?"

His fingers stilled in their action of slicing. "Gone. Boating accident when I was seven. But we weren't close."

She inspected his profile. His features had become hard, his tone tight. He looked as though he didn't plan to discuss is further. Taking the broad hint, she veered to a question she felt might be safer. "Who made the cacciatore?"

"I did."

She was surprised, assuming it had been one of the stewardesses. "You?"

Dropping the last carrot slice into the salad, he wiped his hands on a towel. "Some men do cook."

"Oh, I know that. Some of the best chefs are men. I—I just didn't know—I mean, you head up a big car company. I didn't think you'd have the time to cook."

"I don't have as much time as I'd like. But I enjoy cooking."

She glanced around, noticing for the first time that the galley was spotless. Apparently her expression mirrored her surprise, for he chuckled deeply. "It is possible to cook without wreaking havoc on the galley."

His remark stung. She couldn't tell if he'd meant to be condescending or not, but it fired her anger. Hard-pressed to keep a civil tongue in her mouth, yet mindful that she'd already been fired once today, she said only, "Temperaments differ, Mr. Shields. My method may be initially more—uh—maladroit—but in the end, we get the same results. A good meal and a clean galley."

He half grinned. "Maladroit? That's a very pretty word, but it still means sloppy."

Was he trying to provoke her? "What are you telling me, sir? Must I do it your way to remain employed here?"

He finished slicing the last carrot. Putting the knife down, he planted one hand on the countertop and leaned toward her. Their faces were inches apart, and Serena felt over warm. She could see that little scar on his lip very clearly, and realized she was blushing with the memory of his mouth pressed against hers. She prayed that the same thought wasn't going through his mind.

His expression didn't give much away, merely seemed inquiring. "Tell me, Ms. Tsukino," he began, his breath teasing her cheek, "have you actually brought up Aunt Jeannie's estrogen levels or is that one of her fanciful dreams that you're just going along with?"

Thrown off by his sudden closeness and abrupt change, Serena frowned, faltering. "Why—why, no. It's no fanciful dream. The British Medical Journal had an article about a recent study where a group of women between fifty and seventy—"

"You read the British Medical Journal?" he broke in, his features easing into a skeptical grin.

The dashing smile sent a shudder of mixed emotions dancing through her. On the one hand, she was affronted by the obvious incredulity of his question, as though he thought she couldn't read anything more enlightening than a recipe book. On the other hand, that flash of perfect teeth, couple with the sexy sparkle in his eyes, made her insides quiver with female excitement. Since Darien Shields was her archenemy, it wasn't a good combination of emotions to feel, for she dared no act on either response if she hoped to accomplish her scheme.

Very conscious of his searching gaze and smarting from feeling any attraction at all for him, Serena sacrificed a need to voice a contemptuous retort. Clearing her throat, she counted to ten to calm herself. "I found the British Medical Journal among the magazines at my dentist's office," she informed him. "I happened to have a long wait that day, so I read it."

He nodded, his grin wry, but undeniably charming. "Well, then, for Aunt Jeannie's flourishing estrogen level, I'll try to ignore the majority of your maladroitness."

You're too kind! She screamed silently, though outwardly she smiled. "Why, thank you so much, Mr. Shields." It had come out strained. The sudden fading of Darien's grin told her he'd detected her contempt. She toyed uneasily with her lower lip. Was there nothing she could get by this intuitive man? There'd better be, she scolded herself. Or you'll fail Grandpa and never get his name cleared.

The next day, the seas had grown calmer—an undulating palette of blues and greens basking beneath a bright October sun. It was mid-afternoon, and since dinner wasn't going to be complicated, Serena decided to try a gutsy move. Her grandfather had been asking for a picture of Darien and her together. Naturally there was no way she could do that, but she thought she might be able to sneak a quick snapshot of him.

Not long ago she'd heard him ext his shipboard office with its specially outfitted satellite communications center. He'd spent most of the cruise cloistered away there, wheeling and dealing and shouting, "Off with their heads," she supposed. She'd peeked down the hall to watch as he went out onto the covered aft deck to enjoy the first sunshine of the cruise.

With her inexpensive camera clutched in her fist, she headed through the salon toward the double smoked-glass doors that led there. She hoped he'd be standing out by the railing. That way she could take a picture through a crack between the doors and he'd never know about it.

She peered out. Good. There he was, beyond a shaded lounge area made up of elegant wicker furniture and a slate-topped table. He was near the railing, scanning the sea.

Today he was wearing white pants and a navy blue crew-neck shirt. His hair glistened in the sun as though diamonds were scattered throughout it, and his shoulders seemed too wide for even such a tall man to bear comfortably. Her gaze drifted to his classically handsome profile—the straight nose, jutting cheekbones and strong, stubborn chin.

He was frowning, in deep concentration. It would have been better if she could have caught him smiling. But those moments were few and far between, since he spent most of his time either in his office or with dark thoughts on his mind. Yet even with his features locked in a perpetual scowl, he was painfully handsome. With an irritating flutter in her chest, she raised the camera to snap the shot.

As she did, he turned in her direction. Squinting to better probe the relative darkness, he moved to lounge against the rail. "What are you doing?" he called rather gruffly.

God, he must have the ears and eyes of—of Superman! "I—I was just…" Realizing she had no choice, she stepped out onto the deck, lifting her camera. "I was just taking a picture of—of scenery." It was only half a lie, she told herself. There would have been scenery in the picture, too.

His features grew dubious as he plunged his hands into his pockets and crossed his ankles. He relaxed there silently for a moment, in a classy slouch straight out of the pages of some GQ magazine. While she took a long, calming breath, he finally said, "The scenery is empty ocean, Ms. Tsukino."

She winced, wishing she were a more experienced liar. "I know. It's just that I grew up in—er—a little town in Kansas." That was a lie. She'd never set foot in Kansas. But she'd heard it was flat there. "The ocean looks like the land around Prairie Village. Flat as far as the eye can see." She was thinking fast, maybe too fast, but she hurried on. "Except, of course, from Prairie Village the view's not water, it's—uh…"

"Prairie?" he helped, with a somewhat skeptical quirk of his lips.

Her cheeks blazed. "Something like that, yea."

"Do you want a picture for you grandfather?" he asked, startling her so badly she feared he'd figured out her entire nefarious plot. But when she gave herself a second to think about it, she knew it would seem natural for her to want to send her ailing grandfather a few pictures. Inhaling to steady her voice, she said, "Why—why, yes."

"Let me take one with you in it."

That wasn't quite what she had wanted. "Okay—if you let me get one with you in it."

A brow arched inquiringly. "Me?"

She lifted a shoulder, hoping the movement looked unconcerned. "I think my grandfather would like to see who I work for. I've already got lots of shots of Jean and her dogs." Finally, the truth, for a change.

He strolled the long distance to where she was standing, taking her camera. "I'm sure he'd rather have one of you." Motioning toward the railing above the fishing cockpit, he said, "Stand over there in the sun."

She did as he asked, but didn't feel much like smiling. Maybe he didn't enjoy having his picture taken unless some drop-dead beauty was hanging on his arm. Well, she supposed she'd just have to try to sneak a picture, again, some other time.

"Smile, Ms. Tsukino. You look like a poster to save whooping cranes."

She forced a cheerful grin.

After he'd snapped the picture, he joined her by the railing. "There you go." Stretching out a strong, bronzed hand, he handed her back her camera. "I hope your grandfather likes it."

"You're sure I can't get a shot of you?" she tried halfheartedly.

"I don't take good pictures, Ms. Tsukino."

She gave up with a shrug. "That's true. Photographs don't do you justice."

His chuckle startled her. "They don't?"

She snapped her glance to his face. Had she actually said that out loud? She sidled away from the rail, unnerved by his looming, amused presence. "Well—you're no simpleton, Mr. Shields," she retorted in her own defense. "I'm sure you know by now you're—rather good looking." For a self-important, egotistical tyrant!

His sparkling eyes held hers, and she chafed beneath his speculation. "Do you think I'm good-looking, Ms. Tsukino?" His lips quirked wryly.

She shuddered with humiliation. He was toying with her. "Some women would say so. P—personally, I prefer blonde men," she fibbed.

His eyes alight with mirth, he queried, "You do?"

She nodded, edging farther away. He was doing nothing overt to alarm her, merely standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking terribly alluring. He wasn't even smiling, not really. But she was feeling—not quite threatened—but something! How could his simply standing there answering her questions with questions, and watching her with those sparkling sapphire eyes, upset her so? Good grief! She felt as though she were about to be devoured whole. What was worse, the experience was both thrilling and frightening at once. "I—I'd better be going," she managed weakly.

"Then I won't keep you, Ms. Tsukino."

He was openly laughing at her now. At least his eyes were. She wheeled away, feeling like fool once again.

"Ms. Tsukino," he called as she was about to escape through the double doors. She halted, loath the turn back, but knowing she must.

Letting the doors slip from her fingers, she reluctantly faced him. "Yes, sir?" she asked, her voice an awkward squeak.

He cocked his ebony head, indicating that she should come back.

On unwilling feet, she did as she was instructed. "What is it, Mr. Shields?" She wondered miserable if his plan was to keep up his mockery until her drove her to tears.

His gaze, narrowed by the brightness of the sun, was unreadable, but the grin he flashed was unexpectedly friendly. "What the hell. Take the damned picture for your grandfather. Anyone who'd kiss the hurts away, I'd probably like."

She was so shocked, it took her a few seconds of fumbling before she could get the camera to her face. Espying him through the viewfinder, she began to suffer an unanticipated bout of guilt. Here he was, being obliging, leaning against the railing, grinning at her, thinking he was doing a sick old man a kindness. And what was she going to do with this picture? She was going to send it along to her grandfather with the barefaced lie, Here's my wonderful husband, Darien.

Snapping this photo was the most deceitful thing she'd done so far. Though she knew she was right in being here, right in trying to clean the stain from her grandfather's reputation, she suddenly didn't like herself very much.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Tsukino? You seem—"

"No!" she cried. Wit a surge of self-preservation, she amended with less shrillness, "Er—not at all."

She snapped the picture. Lowering the camera, she found it impossible to look him in the eye. Even in he were a sleaze, she didn't like the idea that she might be stooping to his level. "It—it was fine, Mr. Shields. Thanks." Mumbling something vague about needing to get back to the galley, she whirled away and fled.

WOW….and I'm done with this chap. Next one should be up shortly…I'm still working out a few kinks in it, but it will definitely be up by tomorrow.