My paradise? We’ll see about that. Teddy Mack grimaced as she read the energetic sales pitch.

My paradise is to figure out the bloody ending to my damn book.

She shoved the pamphlet into her large leather tote and grimaced.

“I’ll finish it by the end of July,” she’d promised her agent Harriet—who’d gone on to guarantee to Teddy’s editor that, yes, the next T.J. Mack book would be turned in on time.

Or nearly on time.

Well, six months late wasn’t really on time. But publishing was a slow business at best, and it wasn’t as if Teddy hadn’t turned in her other five manuscripts—all of which went on to be bestselling thrillers—when they were due.

“This book is kicking my ass,” she’d told Harriet two weeks ago. Though she kept her voice calm, inside it was nearly a wail. “I don’t know why.”

“You need to get away. Somewhere where no one will bother you. Where you won’t be tempted to post pictures of your office on Facebook instead of writing, or go out to lunch every day instead of writing, or watch Netflix instead of wri—”

“That’s research. Netflix is,” Teddy said. “I have to stay up on pop culture, or how will I know what to write about? And Facebook is social media, and I have to have a presence there, and on Instagram and Twitter, and—”

“You have to write a good book. That’s what you have to do. Forget Facebook and Twitter, and watching a whole season of Friday Night Lights in one week—”

“Five seasons. Kyle Chandler is impossible to resist. Not to mention Taylor Kitsch—”

“Five seasons? In one week? No wonder your book isn’t done!” Harriet’s voice rose, then tapered off into a more modulated tone. “You need to go somewhere without Internet or Wi-Fi. Somewhere where you won’t be distracted.”

And that was how, thanks to her cousin Declan, Teddy had come to be settling in at the smallest, most remote rental property in the vicinity of touristy Wicks Hollow, Michigan.

The Stony Cape Lighthouse might only be four miles from Wicks Hollow, but for all intents and purposes, it was in the middle of nowhere. On a tiny island connected to the mainland by a single-lane bridge, the lighthouse was hardly visible from ground level on the mainland due to the rolling hills and thick forestation of the bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan.

And because of this figurative remoteness, the place didn’t have Wi-Fi.

That meant no email, no Facebook, no Wikipedia. No Netflix or Hulu.

Teddy had even left her smartphone in Harriet’s care—all the way back in New York City—so she wouldn’t be tempted to try out the 3G connectivity in Wicks Hollow. She’d even temporarily transferred her number to a cheap “burner” cell phone.

(That part had been rather fun, for although Teddy had often written about people—usually villains—using burner phones, she, of course, had never had reason to use one. Doing so made her feel very edgy and incognito.)

However, she’d nearly gotten motion sickness sitting in the back of the car that had picked her up from the airport as she was driven to Stony Cape—for once they turned off Highway 31 and onto the road leading to the lighthouse’s bridge, it was all bumps, snakelike curves, and jounces. And the driver took the road like he was a Daytona racer—making the ride feel like a mini rollercoaster.

Teddy might write about wild car chases and acrobatic plane maneuvers, but in real life, she avoided thrill rides for a reason.

The trees were so thick that they grew like a permanent tunnel over the road, casting it in shadow even in the middle of the day. She could smell the fresh splash of water from Lake Michigan, and when the car finally crossed the bridge then emerged, minutes later, from the wooded road into a small clearing, she caught her breath.

Wow.

If this place doesn’t inspire me, I don’t know what will.

The car had barely stopped when Teddy slipped out of the vehicle, and she turned in a slow semicircle, taking in the place that was to be her writing sanctuary for the next month. The place was adorable and charming and stately all at once.

The entire property was a small island about a mile from shore. A little bridge connected the tiny peninsula that extended from the mainland in a finger parallel to shore to the acre-sized island on which the lighthouse and its attached keeper’s cottage sat. The island was little more than a small, rocky outcropping with some reedy grass surrounded by Lake Michigan.

Stony Cape Lighthouse was painted white, and its cap, where the now-defunct light was enclosed, was red. Teddy could see the small walkway around the large gallery, some thirty feet in the air. There were random windows in the whitewashed brick column, and the keeper’s residence was a compact cottage attached to the base of the lighthouse on the southwest side. The cottage was covered by white Shaker shingles, and each window—including the round window over the door—had a pair of shutters in cobalt blue. A wild vine of green ivy grew up one side of the cottage, clinging to the stone chimney that appeared to belong to a real fireplace.

On the side facing the lake was a long, covered porch enclosed by a yellow railing. A riot of flowers that desperately needed weeding spilled from beds on three sides of the cottage (the fourth being attached to the lighthouse). Teddy recognized zinnias, daisies, cosmos, verbena, and hydrangea. Hmm. The combination of perennials and annuals indicated someone—the caretaker?—had been around to plant the gardens. The boxwoods and spirea needed pruning, but they weren’t completely untended. And the minuscule square of grass, a small patch between the cottage and the thickly wooded two-track road, had probably been mowed in the last week.

A little stone path crossed from the small parking area to the side door of the cottage, and another one made from shallow stone steps led over to and down the incline that presumably ended at the beach.

“Looks like a nice place,” said the driver as he began to pull her bags from the trunk. “Kinda remote, though.”

She glanced at him, assessing whether he was taking her measure so he could come back and rob or attack her later. You just never knew.

Being a writer, Teddy had a very active imagination when it came to possibilities and tactics. She was always thinking of other options, of what-ifs, of how murderous or villainous activities could be accomplished.

“Oh, my boyfriend and his sister and her husband will be here in a few hours,” she lied airily. “I’ll have just enough time to settle in before they get here.”

“Small place for four people,” he commented—though he didn’t seem to be disappointed that she’d ruined his nefarious plan. If indeed he’d had one. Not that she had any real reason to believe he did, but…again…you never knew. “But the view makes up for it.”

“Oh, let me get the door open,” she said, realizing he was waiting for her to do that so he could bring in her luggage—which wasn’t all that much, of course, since the only thing she was going to be doing here was writing.

The only thing.

Looking out over the glistening blue of Lake Michigan as it rushed onto the shore below, Teddy stifled a sigh as she dug in her large tote for the FedEx envelope with the key she’d been mailed.

No swimming. No boating. No hiking. No shopping. No sightseeing. No relaxing. No restauranting.

Just writing.

She had brought a swimsuit, though. She could at least put her toes in the water.

The door opened with reluctance; the lock was obviously not used very often, and it stuck. But at last she muscled it open and stepped back so the driver could bring in her bags.

“You gonna run the light?” asked the driver as, still standing on the porch, she dug out her credit card to pay for the ride. “The one up there?” He jerked an eyebrow in the direction of the top of the lighthouse.

“No,” Teddy told him with sincere regret. “This lighthouse has been dark—ha, ha—for over forty years. They don’t really need it because there are two other ones up along the coast, one south and one north of here, and there aren’t any ships or boats that come along this way. Though there have been plenty of shipwrecks on the lake—including the famous one where the Catherine Teal, which was owned by the Astors—you know, of New York City? during the Gilded Age?—went down in a storm somewhere in Lake Michigan between Traverse City and Chicago. They were sending a large wedding gift to some friends in Chicago—”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the driver said, taking the computer tablet from her as soon as she’d finger-signed (and given him a decent tip, even though he’d driven like a maniac). “Hope you enjoy your stay out here.”

All by yourself.

He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t have to.

Teddy heard them loud and clear, and as he climbed into the shiny black Town Car and drove off down the gritty, dirty road, she gave a long, deep sigh.

Yes. All by myself.

A little trickle of panic threatened, but she pushed it away as she stepped inside the vestibule of Stony Cape Keeper’s House.

Vestibule was an optimistic word, to be sure. In Teddy’s mind, vestibules were large and airy with a ceiling at least two floors high. In this case, the vestibule was hardly more than a small entranceway, dark and dim—as it was currently in the shadow of the lighthouse—painted some standard cream color with, of course, a lighthouse painting on the wall. The mat on the floor appeared to have been there since Woodstock, and the lamp and matching chandelier were hideous mangles of metal, wood, and mirrors.

To the left of the vestibule was the lighthouse itself, accessed through a small door with a curved top. Through the door was access to the small bedroom suite in which she’d be staying, and, she assumed, the stairs that led to the top of the non-working light.

Because of course she was going to stay on the lighthouse side of the cottage.

To her right was the “common area”—a kitchen and living room space decorated with more of the hideous mangled metal lamps that someone clearly thought were artwork, for the rest of the place was furnished in what she thought of as 1980s “blue goose” decor. Beyond the common area, to the right, was a short hallway down which she suspected was another bedroom suite. No one else was staying here, nor would anyone else be here.

She’d told the booking agent she didn’t even need the daily housekeeping.

Because Teddy didn’t need any distractions. She needed to be alone. She needed to be a monk, locked in her tower—in this case, represented quite accurately by the lighthouse accommodations—like a prisoner in her cell so she could figure out and write the rest of her damned book.

“Well,” she said aloud to herself—as she had a habit of doing. “Guess I’ll check things out inside, get the lay of the land, unpack. I can take some time to unpack,” Teddy said, as if Harriet might be lurking about, judging her for hanging up her sundresses and finding a place for her underthings, three pairs of sandals, two swimsuits, and all the rest.

Of course she’d overpacked. That had been part of the procrastination, and the indecision that paralyzed her for the last nine months. It wasn’t as if she’d be wearing anything besides sundresses, shorts, or yoga pants and a tank top for the next month.

She felt sick to her stomach. Weeks. I’ve only got four weeks. I have to finish this.

She’d just rolled her suitcase through the curve-topped door and was opening the door into the bedroom, which had a view of the lake and butted up to the covered porch, when her burner phone rang. She was half surprised she even got service out here, to be honest.

She fumbled with the phone—it was smaller and lighter and not at all familiar, compared to the larger smartphone she had back home—and managed to answer it by the fourth ring. “Hi, Harriet.”

“Are you there? Are you settled?” Her agent’s nasally New York tone was businesslike, yet Teddy detected a hint of concern. “Is it nice? Do you have everything you need?”

“I literally just walked in the door, but so far it seems nice. It’s not really new,” Teddy said, looking around at the eighties Berber carpeting and the plain white walls decorated with framed photographs of more lighthouses. “But other than these really awful metal lamps that look like mutant spiders with mirrored eyes, it’s kind of cute.”

A queen-sized bed was made up with a neat quilt and four pillows (two in shams)—all in a pretty blue and yellow floral theme. There was a desk against the wall near a large window overlooking the lake. Bonus.

“Best of all, it’s clean. My cousin told me no one has lived here for several years, though obviously someone keeps it up. Or, at least, they did a good job cleaning it for me,” Teddy said. “The lighthouse is pretty much abandoned; it doesn’t illuminate anymore. No one runs it.”

“That’s nice,” Harriet said briskly, clearly not caring in the least. “Well, I’m glad you’re there and settled. I’ll tell Erin. She’ll be pleased to know.”

Erin was Teddy’s editor, nervous about the book coming in—and rightly so.

“What did you say?” Teddy asked, as Harriet’s voice disappeared into a crackle of static. “Hello?” She moved closer to the window, hoping to improve the reception.

“I said, there’s no Wi-Fi there, right? Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, you’re back. And no Wi-Fi to my knowledge. Like I said, no one has lived here for years, according to Declan. But it just occurred to me—what if I need to do some research?” Teddy realized she sounded a smidge whiny, but after all, she was going cold turkey here. No Internet was pretty significant.

“You’ll go to the library.” Harriet’s voice crackled again, but was still discernible. “Are you there?”

Teddy walked back to the window as she replied, “Yes, I’m here. And I don’t have a car here, remember?”

“Have your cousin drive you. And hey—isn’t he the blacksmith who does all that restoration work? The hot ginger who visited you in New York?”

“I guess you could call him hot,” Teddy said, gripping the windowsill so she wouldn’t forget and wander again, putting their connection in jeopardy. “I mean, most women think he’s hot. Dec’s just my cousin, so, you know, meh. I remember him when he was scrawny and his hair was a lot brighter. Now it’s more of a mahogany than a Weasley-like ginger. Besides, he’s too young for you, Harriet—and he’s got a serious girlfriend.”

“Didn’t you write a book about a sexy blacksmith?” her agent asked. “A long time ago?”

“What? Can’t hear you…I’d better unpack and get to work,” Teddy said breezily. “And since you asked, no, I won’t starve, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere without a car or Wi-Fi or anything. And I’ve got food deliveries arranged for every other day.” Plus, Declan was picking her up to have dinner tonight in Wicks Hollow. But she wasn’t going to tell Harriet that.

“Good. You’ll need to keep your strength up. All right, I’ll check in with you in a couple of days. Cheers!”

Teddy unpacked quickly then left her room to explore the remainder of the cottage. The whole place was small and efficient, with a kitchen area that merged into the living room, the two tiny bedrooms down a short hallway, and a smaller bathroom. No television either, so she couldn’t even try to watch a DVD.

Her phone rang. “Hey, Dec.”

“You here? All settled?”

“Yes. Thanks. Are you still able to pick me up for dinner?”

“Of course. That’s why I’m calling. Leslie and I will be coming back from Grand Rapids. We can swing by and pick you up around six. That’s about an hour.”

“I was going to go for a walk. Didn’t you tell me there’s a natural hot tub—like a pond—out here somewhere?”

“Yes. If you can find it. It’s a bit of a hike—about two miles from where you are.” He gave her general directions—which included having to walk from the small island across the short bridge to the mainland. “Not many people know where it is, and no one really goes there because we have Lake Michigan and Wicks Lake.”

“Well I’m in the mood for a walk. I really need to clear my head before I can get to work. Why don’t you just pick me up down there by the hot tub—hot spring, I mean—instead of having to make a detour and come all the way up here to the island.”

“Sure. That makes it even easier. I’ll text when we’re close.”

Teddy disconnected and looked thoughtfully at her bathing suit. Something about churning, warm water in a natural habitat seemed like it would be a good way to clear her mind, get her creative juices flowing. If she could find the hot spring, maybe she could sit in it and veg for a while. Just let things flow. Relax. Get rid of the stress so the story could come to her.

With a satisfied smile, she dragged on her bluebell-colored one-piece suit. I really have to start working out, she thought. Having a sedentary job didn’t do a thing to help the size of her butt.

Then, after tossing a towel, a comb, and dry underthings into her large leather tote, she pulled on a loose but pretty sundress, stuck on her sunglasses, slid into sturdy sandals…and left the house. Feeling only slightly guilty.

Harriet would never have to know.

And an evening out in the fresh air, then with friends, would surely get things moving.

“What do you mean, there’s been a mistake?” Oscar London swiped a forearm across his forehead to catch the trickle of sweat, and the heavy bag of equipment he was holding clunked into his shoulder.

The college kid who’d obviously been sent as sacrificial lamb stammered, “Uh…well, Dr. London, I’m so sorry, but there was a last-minute booking that came in, and someone else approved it, not realizing you’d already leased Stony Cape Cottage for the month—I mean, no one’s stayed here for years, and then all of a sudden two people wanted—and…so…well, there’s someone else staying here already.” He glanced at the door as if expecting said rival boarder to make an appearance.

Oscar looked at the three man-sized equipment bags he’d just lugged onto the porch of the keeper’s house, then back at the Jeep where a fourth one, as well as his backpack, sat, and shook his head firmly. “I’m not leaving. You people made the mistake, I paid for the rental, so you can just move your other client to another location.”

“Uhm…but, like, there’s…not any other location available. You see, it’s the beginning of July—that means high season in Wicks Hollow, and everything’s been booked for—”

“Look.” Oscar squinted out at the rippling blue of Lake Michigan. “I’m not trying to be unreasonable, but I need to stay here. I rented this place because of its location near a water ecosystem I’m going to be studying, and because I won’t be disturbed. Plus it has the space I need to set up my lab. So I’m not giving it up.”

“Well. Uh. You brought your own refrigerator?” The kid looked at the compact unit next to the rest of the equipment, then at Oscar, who just nodded wearily. “Well, uh…there are two bedroom suites. The other—er—tenant is staying in the bottom of the lighthouse. You could, like…both of you could stay.” He rushed out this suggestion. “I mean, the place is set up, like, for that. You each have your own suite.”

“Fine. I don’t care. As long as they don’t get in my way. Wait. How many of them are there?” With his luck, Oscar would end up sharing the damned place with a couple on their honeymoon. No fecking way. He thrust away visions of Marcie and Trevor.

“Just one person. A, uh, writer named Teddy Mack.”

“Right. He can leave if he wants, but I’m not going anywhere. Now let me finish unloading my stuff so I can get to work.” Oscar looked toward the narrow promontory from the mainland that was connected to this tiny island by a wood and metal bridge. The hot spring—the only known one in Michigan, and deliciously close to the Great Lake—was supposedly located just to the southeast of the finger-like peninsula.

“Do you…uh…want me to tell Teddy?” asked the kid.

“Huh?” Oscar turned from scanning the horizon. The sacrificial lamb was already edging off the porch, clearly ready to bleat and flee, so Oscar took pity on him. “No. I’ll take care of it. But if there are any problems, I’m sending him to you.”

“Yes. Of course. Oh, and the agency is offering a thirty percent discount on your stay for the inconvenience, or you can apply it to a future booking.” The kid was already at his car, preparing to climb in.

“Thirty percent? With a double booking, it should be at least a fifty percent discount,” Oscar grumbled under his breath. But the reality of solitude dangled in front of him, so he decided to hold off arguing about that in favor of being left alone.

Happily, for both of them, the young man drove off in his car as Oscar lugged the rest of his supplies inside.

Thirty minutes to set up the basics, then I’m off to find the only natural hot spring in Michigan.

It was a ridiculous way for a well-published PhD from Princeton to spend his summer, analyzing a tiny pool of water in Michigan when he had four other research projects he was managing with his grad students. And Oscar was fully aware that his plan would be little more than busywork. But it beat staying in New Jersey.

He just didn’t want to be anywhere near the city when Marcie married Trevor next weekend—because with his luck, he’d run into them, or her parents, or their mutual colleagues who’d been invited and had come to town. Including his sister, who was one of Marcie’s bridesmaids. So, since he wasn’t teaching any summer classes at the U, he got the hell out of Dodge.

So he was here. In a small, white, blue-shuttered cottage attached to a non-working lighthouse. It consisted of a one-room kitchen/dining/living space that didn’t appear to have air conditioning, but was equipped with very large ceiling fans. A space he was going to have to share with a writer. Oscar mumbled a curse.

At least writers were supposed to be antisocial. Maybe the guy would be locked up in his bedroom in the lighthouse all day, working on whatever he was working on.

One thing was sure: the bloody writer wasn’t going to be using the living room or kitchen, because that was where Oscar was setting up his lab.

Forty minutes later, he had the basics in place: the mini fridge for samples, a small centrifuge, a pressure cooker, a shaker, an incubator, and two microscopes. He had all his flasks, tubes, plates, and pipettes arranged. All of the chemicals he’d need—resin, alcohol, and more—were lined up alphabetically on the long coffee table. Good thing he’d brought his own power strips, because the bungalow—which was probably built or at least updated in the fifties—was severely lacking in outlets. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t blow a fuse when he had everything up and running.

Oscar pulled on his work vest and tucked gloves and syringes into their slots. The rest of his equipment (Cubitainers, glass bottles, and biohazard bags) he packed in a small cooler. Then, slinging it over his shoulder like a messenger bag, he set off on foot with a bottle of water in hand.

Might as well get started.

It was a pleasant hike on a defined path, but one that clearly didn’t see a lot of foot traffic.

Though he’d been to every continent except Antarctica, and visited the West Coast and Southern U.S. often, Oscar hadn’t ever been to Michigan. What he’d seen so far since driving across the border from Ohio was a sort of natural melting pot.

The Great Lakes State had everything from flat farmland to rolling hills to small ski mountains; thick, lush forests, to tall, scrawny, piney ones, and broad meadows of farmland where alfalfa and rows of corn flourished. Pretty much every time you turned around, there was a lake or pond or river or creek in view; and yet, here at the shoreline of the vast and powerful Lake Michigan, there were desertlike sand dunes studded with scrubby clumps of grass. And adjacent to this smidge of desert shore was a thick, dark forest that reminded him of Grimm’s fairy tales.

Though heavy with humidity today, the air was clean and smelled loamy and fresh. Oscar spotted several species of wildflowers he could name thanks to his Scouting days—Indian paintbrush, Queen Anne’s lace, daisies—and others he’d never seen before. Moss grew everywhere in a variety of textures: short, bright green that reminded him of a miniature putting green; another patch in a hue closer to the color of grass that had slightly taller stems, which reminded him of the close-cropped fur of Marcie’s terrier; and still others in shades of olive, reddish-bronze, yellow.

After a good twenty minutes of hiking—along the bridge back to the mainland, then south from the promontory—he heard the faint rumble of rushing water. At last. Now he just had to follow his ears through the forest.

Climbing over fallen logs, avoiding eye-level pine branches and wild raspberry bushes, Oscar picked up the pace, his knapsack thunking companionably against his side. The forest was dead silent but for the rumbling and an occasional rustle of leaves, or the call of a bird. Once in a while, the distant purr of a vehicle buzzed by in the far distance.

He saw a doe and her fawn, which shocked him when they merely stared at the intruder before bounding off into the forest, flipping up their tails to show the white that gave them their name. The slender, dark whip of a snake slithered into the underbrush when he disturbed its place in a sunny patch on the rough path. Meanwhile, the water’s rumbling was growing louder, and Oscar was aware of a little spike of enthusiasm.

A natural hot spring was, after all, a unique ecosystem. In this case, it was the only known one in the region. Maybe there’d even be something interesting there—some new bacterium or alga that could be useful. Or at least something he could mess around with to keep his mind off home.

At last, he could make out the stony outcropping that appeared to make up the backdrop of the pool. Then he saw the steam rising into the air.

At last the pool came into view: a gently roiling mass of steaming water.

And, sitting in the water, messing up his plan and contaminating it all to hell, was a woman.

Oscar stifled a groan, but went on.

She looked over at him as Oscar approached.

“Nice day for a swim,” she said.

Though her hair was dry, her face was rosy and moist from the steam. It was a pretty face, no denying it, with large eyes, arching brows, and full lips. And from what he could see above the surging water, the rest of her wasn’t too bad either. She had brown hair pulled back in a clip or something, and even from here, he could see that her eyes were filled with humor.

Oscar looked around. She seemed to be by herself. “Yep.”

“Though on a hot day like today, I’m not sure a steam bath is the best idea. Still. Here I am.” She shifted, and he caught sight of more cleavage than was healthy for a guy who was currently avoiding women like the plague.

“You here by yourself?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin and gave him a mild look. “Is there something wrong with a woman being in a hot spring by herself instead of with some guy—or another woman, for that matter?”

“No. Just wondered.” He unslung his tool bag, considering whether there was a polite way to ask her to get the hell out of his ecosystem.

Probably not.

“If I were a nervous sort of woman—which I’m not—with a great imagination—which I do, in fact, have—I’d be wondering what’s in that bag. And why you want to make sure I’m here all alone.” She narrowed her eyes at his things. “For all I know, you could have rope in there. Or duct tape. Maybe a gun or a knife, even. A camera, to take pictures of the scene?”

“Or syringes and plastic baggies and gloves.” He produced them with a flourish. “You do have an imagination.”

“Yeah. Sometimes.” She slumped down in the water so it bubbled up around her shoulders, suddenly looking miserable. “Only sometimes.” She tipped her head up, closing her eyes as she rested her head against the stone rim behind her.

Oscar ignored her as he pulled on a pair of gloves. He could still take a sample, but he’d much rather have one not freshly contaminated with sunblock, perfume, deodorant, and whatever else she might have clinging to her body. Shampoo. Body lotion.

“Gloves? Hm. Maybe I should be worried.” She was sitting up again, watching him with interest.

If you don’t stop talking to me, you might need to be.

He dug out a Cubitainer and syringe, closing the top of the cooler to keep it cold.

“What are you doing?” She sat back up and was watching with bright, interested eyes. “What’s all that for?”

“I’m sampling for E. coli in the water,” he said, slanting a sideways look at her. Maybe that would get her out. “Among other nasty things.”

“Really.” She didn’t sound concerned. Nor did she seem ready to leap out of the possibly infested water.

“How much longer are you going to be in there?”

“Why? Are you thinking about skinny-dipping? I promise to close my eyes till you get in.” She grinned, and he almost grinned back.

But she was in the middle of his private ecosystem, contaminating it with God knew what—and worst of all, she was far too friendly and chatty.

“I just told you I’m testing for E. coli and you ask if I’m planning to take off my clothes and get in?” he replied.

“Well, since most E. coli isn’t harmful, I figured you were either exaggerating or teasing me.” She shrugged.

He gritted his teeth. Smarty-pants.

“As for how long I’m going to be in here—skinny-dipping partner and potentially deadly bacteria notwithstanding,” she continued, slanting him a look that could only be described as sassy, “I don’t know.”

Her expression dimmed suddenly, as if a bad memory had come to mind. She slid back down into the roiling pool, a wash of desperation and misery erasing her smile. “Until my brain starts working again. Which might be forever. But they say water actually helps the mind work better, so…” She grimaced as the water splashed and roiled against her jaw. “I’ll soak away. Like a human teabag.”

Oscar moved over to the edge of the pool. The heat rose in waves, dampening his skin. Droplets of water splashed up from the churning water, spraying him in the face.

“So are you really testing the water? Is there really a chance there might be the nasty kind of E. coli in it?” She did look a little concerned now.

“I don’t know what’s in it. A natural hot spring is a unique ecosystem unto itself—and this is the only one in Michigan. So who knows what I’ll find. That’s why I’m testing it.”

He hesitated, scoping out the situation. To get a good sample, he should be in the center of the pool, not near the edge, where it was shallow. The water was so enthusiastic that there was no danger of his sample being stagnant. Still, the sample needed to come from the center, where the grit and dirt from the floor wouldn’t be mixed in.

“What’s wrong?” The woman was still watching him from her deep-in-the-water position.

“Nothing. Just trying to figure out the best way to reach the center.”

He was close enough now to see locks of dark brown hair clinging to her cheek and the damp skin of her neck. A few other strands had curled up in the humidity near her temples and the fronts of her ears. A trio of small gold hoops hung from each lobe, and a delicate chain glinted against the damp skin of her throat. She had light skin flushed red from the heat and blue eyes that sparkled with enthusiasm. He put her age at around thirty or so.

“If you don’t want to get in, I can do it for you,” she offered. “But if you were planning to strip, don’t let me stop you.” That glint of ready humor was back in her gaze.

Oscar looked at her, ready to refuse—then decided letting her help wasn’t a bad idea after all. That way he wouldn’t have to zip off his switchbacks and remove his shoes and socks—which would entail taking off the sterile gloves he’d just donned. Which he’d have been thinking about previously if he hadn’t been distracted by her. “You’d have to wear gloves.”

“I think I can handle that.” She sat up and scooted across the pool toward him. He gave her a pair that would be too big for her, but at least would cover her hands.

“Don’t touch the inside of the container,” he instructed her when she was ready. “And put it below the surface about six to eight inches, like so.” He demonstrated by turning the Cubitainer upside down and bringing it straight down. “Fill it all the way up, then empty it out. Do that three times, and the last time, keep it filled. I’ll give you the cap when you’re finished.”

“Why do I have to fill it—and empty it—three times?”

“To make sure every area of the surface is touched by the sample before you actually fill it up.”

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” She held out her gloved hand for the container. The ends of the fingers flopped loosely.

“I’m beginning to wonder,” he muttered, but let his mouth soften into a little smile. Other than being far too chatty and a definite contaminant, she seemed harmless—relatively intelligent and able to follow directions.

“Well, you could climb in yourself.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a fine job,” he replied, handing her the container a little more abruptly than he intended. But she didn’t drop it. As she turned to swim to the center, he caught a glimpse of a spectacular rear end, nice and curvy, covered in a bright blue swimsuit.

He couldn’t wait to get out of here.