Harm was well aware that one in the group was a fantastic liar and unpredictably dangerous. But his main worry-his real crisis of a worry-was that the group was counting on him. The whole company-not even counting their cure for pancreatic cancer-would go down if he couldn’t.

And once Harm got that in his head, he couldn’t sleep. He tried to. Heaven knew he was beyond exhausted, and his cabin was as comfortable as a luxury hotel. The steady lap of water outside was soothing, hypnotic-or it would be for anyone without so many problems preying on his mind.

A couple of hours later, cranky and disgusted, he yanked on sweats and made his way topside. He just…wandered. He’d forgotten-or hadn’t known-that it was never going to be midnight-dark in the summer here. The sky wasn’t daylight-bright, more the dusky, pearl hues of a late twilight. The salon and dining areas were gloomy with shadows, only the gleam of occasional brass relieving the dimness. Outside, the air was crisp, the pilothouse as deserted and silent as the rest of the deck.

Harm kept ambling, seeking to find the highest spot on the boat so he could see the Alaskan night from the highest vantage point. Beside the pilothouse was another set of steps, leading to a small top deck. He climbed up, exploring, not looking for anything beyond a quiet spot with a view. He found the view…but he also found a five-foot-long lump of blankets already up there.

Initially, he assumed the dark bundle of blankets was just a cover for some kind of storage-until he stepped closer and saw a white oval in the middle of all those covers. A face. A pixie face with a gleam of annoyed blue eyes staring back at him.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell on me.”

A minute ago, Harm would have sworn nothing could have aroused his sense of humor. “Hmm. I sense blackmail potential. What exactly am I not supposed to tell on you?”

“I’m not supposed to sleep up here. No one is. And the last thing I want the captain to notice is that I’m not where I’m supposed to be at night.”