Yet the first mate, the well-past-Viagra-age Hans, gazed at her as if she were the sex goddess of the century.

Harm’s warring men-Purdue, Yale, Fiske and Arthur-spotted her and got the same moonstruck look.

The captain obviously thought she was the sexiest thing to ever sail this sea or any other.

Harm wanted to shake his head. Were they all crazy? She was no dazzler. More like an underfed scruffy mutt.

Only then she smiled and said, “Hey, guys. I’m Cate.”

His heart went slam as pitifully as all the rest. It was that ssslllooooowwww smile. That throaty voice. That incomprehensible “something” that sent a guy’s testosterone soaring and ransomed his common sense.

Him, too, Harm thought gloomily. His heart was thumping like a puppy dog’s tail; his equipment already standing to attention. Hell.

He’d known this trip was going to be a nonstop stresser, but he figured her presence on the boat was going to turn the next weeks into a nightmare times ten.

Cate greeted the group with an exuberant smile. She didn’t have to pretend. It was easy to be happy; she’d known from the start that this two-week gig was truly a dream job. There were only two teensy exceptions.

There were way, way, way too many men.

And the captain persisted in thinking that a bite of the cook was a job perk.

Still, she’d never been one to let a couple inconsequential details bog her down, and continued with her intro spiel. “Hey, guys! I’m Cate. Cate Campbell. Like the captain said, I’m your chef for the trip. I trained in New Orleans under one of the best chefs in the universe, which isn’t to say that I’ll ever be that good, only that my goal here is to knock your socks off with some terrific food-starting with lunch today at twelve-thirty. Just take whatever seat you want in the dining room. And over the next hour, I’ll try and track each of you down separately, make sure I’m straight on any food allergies or preferences you have. Okay?”