“I see,” he said, stretching his arm out across the back of the sofa.

Clearly frustrated by his blasé tone, she stopped her pacing and said quietly, “Look, Mr. Sutherland, I am a scientist, a very good one. And I…I need this job here in order to conduct my studies. Your resort is the main source of employment on the island.”

“It’s the only source of employment, Ms. Farrell, but let’s not nitpick.” Staring out the sliding glass doors, he carefully avoided making eye contact as he returned to his original argument. “So the reason you lied on your résumé was so that I would hire you so that you could live here at my resort for free and study our spores.”

“Well, yes, and-”

“And you thought you’d coast right into the mindless job of waitress in our cocktail bar to cover your costs.”

“I suppose that’s right, but-”

“And yet, you’ve never been a cocktail waitress.”

“Well, no, but-”

“Well, then.” He lifted his shoulders in a move meant to indicate only one conclusion. “At the risk of repeating myself, you’re fired.”

“Wait!” She rushed over and sat on the couch mere inches from him, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid, anxious breathing. Her scent, some exotic blend of spice and…was it orange blossoms?…enveloped him. Up close, he could see a pale smattering of freckles on her shoulders. He had the most bizarre urge to touch them.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he said genially. “Feel free to book a room at the resort and study spores as much as you want. But don’t expect me to subsidize your trip.”

“But…” A heavy frown marred the smooth surface of her forehead and her lower lip was in danger of quivering. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? If she did, Logan swore he would throw her out of here faster than she could say meiotic…whatever. Crying was the ultimate weapon of female manipulation. He’d learned that the hard way.