Excerpt:

Gregg had been hard at work the entire morning. He had pulled, emptied, rebaited and reset all the traps he had in Tide Rock Bay and was on his way home. Now, he was headed into Gull Bay where he moored his boat, or rather his uncle's boat, the Fancy Lady.

In the two days since his arrival, he had taken a good deal of ribbing over the name, and wasn't sure whether to be grateful or not. At least he had conversed with most of the lobstermen, either over the CB or on the wharf. Originally, he had planned to blend in, be merely another boat on the bay, but he quickly realized he wasn't going to be inconspicuous. The lobstering community in Tide Rock was very tight, much smaller than in Belfast, where he had helped his uncle. Here, there were only ten or so boats operating. As a newcomer, he was easily identifiable, and the boat name was an irresistible target for every would-be comedian.

He'd have to turn it into an advantage, however. Because of his high visibility, he hoped no one would guess his real purpose. He didn't want to become a target for these already frustrated lobstermen--or the actual perpetrator. He had placed his traps, strategically, scattered all over the place, giving him an excuse to cruise around. He trusted the other lobstermen would assume he was naive, still figuring out where the hot spots were.

Surprisingly, he had done quite well, catching a respectable number of lobsters. After two exhausting days; however, Gregg realized Uncle Ned had borne the brunt of the work during the summers Gregg had lobstered with him. Gregg had most definitely been the assistant.

Until now, he had assumed he was in good shape, but pulling traps, baiting and then lowering them, even with the help of the winch, had given him a new appreciation of the phrase 'backbreaking.' But it was his hands that were taking the worst beating. They were blistered and smarting from the rope and salt water. Never again would he feel quite the same about eating lobster. The effort required to put one on a plate was enormous.

Even though it was Saturday, he had already put in half a day's work. His body was aching, and he was ready to relax. Robyn. Now why did he think of her all of a sudden? Not exactly a relaxing idea. More along the lines of stimulating. Maybe he could persuade her to go out with him sometime. Tonight?

He could take her to dinner in a small restaurant. There would be secluded seating. A jazz trio would play soft music in the background, and he could lose himself in her sea green eyes. While they sipped on French wine and shared appetizers, he could listen to her husky voice as she told him about her day. An apéritif of cognac after chateaubriand would be a perfect ending to the meal. They would stroll home along the water, moonlight blazing a trail on the surface of the ocean. On her doorstep, he could kiss those tantalizing lips.

Whoa! He was here to work, not play. Her father and, more particularly, her brother, were definite possibilities for the person stirring up trouble.

No, he'd do best to steer well clear of her. Then, again, she knew all the lobstermen. Maybe he could finesse her into helping him. If he could get her talking about people around here, he could learn a lot. He knew he was rationalizing.

No more daydreaming. He had to pay attention to maneuvering the narrow channel at the entrance of Gull Bay. Not far ahead he spied a small sail boat dancing across the water. As he got closer, he recognized a head of hair the color of ripe wheat, ruffled by the wind. Robyn. Had his wishful thinking materialized her?

Before he could reconsider, he gave a short blast on his horn and waved at her. She looked back over her shoulder, gave a quick wave of her hand, and let the wind spill out of her sail as she came about. She handled the little boat skillfully. He throttled back, carefully coming along side her.

The sun was behind her and the back light created a nimbus of blond curls around her head. She was wearing brief white shorts and a bright orange tank top that left her midriff bare, revealing an enticing amount of tanned skin, the color of warm honey.

Leaning over, he rested his hands on the cowling. "Here, grab this."

Robyn easily caught the rope Gregg tossed down, and tilted her head up to look at him. His wind-tossed brown hair already had blond streaks from the sun, cream on nutmeg. His hard body was turning a toasty brown. He had removed his shirt and his skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, the muscles rippling as he maintained his balance on the gently rocking boat. Her breath caught in her throat. Quit it. You'd think I'd never seen a man without his shirt on.

"Hi." Her voice sounded husky and she cleared her throat. "How's it going?"

"Great. How about you?"

"Nice," she replied, horrified to discover she had spoken aloud her opinion of his body rather than a response to his question. "I mean--great," she bubbled enthusiastically, echoing him. "The sailing," she added, trying to cover her slip. "And the day." She was digging an even deeper hole for herself. She hoped he might mistake the warm color flushing her face for too much sun.

They stared at one another for a long moment. She scarcely noticed the sound of his engine idling, barely ticking over, the exhaust burbling in the water, or the occasional cries of a sea gull as it circled his boat. Robyn dropped her gaze first, afraid Gregg would see the welter of feelings coursing inside her.

She couldn't deny that he attracted her, which only made her more wary. She didn't want to get involved with a stranger. She did not want any more surprises from men who kept secrets. If nothing else, loyalty to her father and brother should make her even more cautious.

"I've seen your boat moored but didn't realize it was yours."

"I hardly ever get a chance to sail during the week. It depends on the tides and how soon I can close up the Bayside in the afternoons."

"Is the cafe yours?"

She nodded. "Half. A friend, Sara Dixon, is my partner."

"I'll have to stop in when I have time for a meal and check it out again."

"Do. I'd like that."

Gregg shifted his feet on the lightly pitching deck. He didn't know what to say next, but he didn't want Robyn to leave. The boats bobbed up and down, hers occasionally bumping against his, the sail flopping in the breeze.

Ignoring his better judgment, Gregg took the plunge. "If you don't have any plans this evening, how about we do something together?"

"I'd like that."

"You can show me some of the 'hot spots' in Tide Rock."

Robyn threw back her head, laughter bubbling. "There's Jimmy's. And that's it!"

Gregg lifted one eyebrow questioningly.

"That's it," Robyn repeated for emphasis. "It's a restaurant, a bar with a dance floor and a country-western band, all rolled into one."

"No jazz?"

Robyn shook her head.

The delightful scene he'd pictured earlier faded. "No piano bar?"

Again, a negative shake of her head.

"Oh, well. The company will certainly be worth it." Gregg resigned himself to an evening out on the small town. The bright lights of his Boston vacation seemed very far away.

Robyn's eyes glowed with pleasure. "Thanks. What time?"

"How about seven thirty? That way, we can sample everything Jimmy's has to offer, including dinner."

"You want to meet there?

"No, I'll pick you up."

"Great. See you." Robyn stood and tossed him the rope that had been keeping them from drifting apart.

Suddenly, over the noise of his chugging engine, the reverberating crack of a gun echoed across the water, the impact lessened by distance, but unmistakable nevertheless.

"Rifle shots!" Gregg exclaimed. "That's a three seventy."

Robyn's eyes widened in alarm. "Gunshots? Oh, no! What if it's Ben! Or Dad!"