“My apologies,” he said. “I’ll have Andrea add sunscreen to the purchase list.” His eyes tracked to the hem of my sundress and skimmed down my legs. He seemed to realize what he was doing and quickly shook his head. He hugged Dauphine back and then set her away from him. “Mon chou,” he said, looking down at her, his earlier frosty expression a thing of the past as he looked at his daughter. “You will be a good girl for Miss Marin, oui? Evan will take me to shore for my meeting.”

Dauphine wrinkled her brow. “Where will you have lunch?”

“In town.”

“You promised me we would go to Le Cinquante-Cinq. When?” Her voice pitched hysterically.

“Next week, okay?” He switched to French, and she responded.

Dauphine pouted and stomped her foot. Then she looked back at me, her eyes lighting as if she’d had an idea. “Can Miss Marin come? Please, Papa!”

He looked up.

I had no idea what had just been decided, so I shrugged.

“If she would like.” He looked at me a beat, but his mouth twisted like he’d swallowed a bug at having to invite me along.

I managed to find my tongue. “If Dauphine would like me to go with you all, it would be a pleasure.”

“D’accord. It’s a plan. Dauphine.” He turned to his daughter and kissed her head. “Will you leave me and Miss Marin for a moment. I must speak with her privately.”

My stomach tensed with nerves.

Dauphine pouted but pirouetted toward the door. “Paco!” I heard her calling out as she hightailed it to the bridge.

He followed her route and closed the door behind her. “Is this okay?” he asked me, indicating the closed door. The gesture of concern was surprising.

“Um. Sure.” I looked toward the long but narrow windows and inhaled. At least the boat had stopped rocking so much.

“You are …” he paused. “Claustrophobic?” he asked as if he’d had to retrieve the word from the recesses of his mind.

I nodded. “A little. It’s not crippling. But it’s there.” This room with its wider space and more windows felt less confining than my cabin downstairs.

“Sit?” he indicated toward the couch. “I have some employment paperwork for you. A contract and a non-disclosure agreement.” He picked a stack of paper off his desk and handed it to me with a pen.

I sank down on one end of the couch and skimmed through each page. It was in English, which I appreciated.

“You can look it over and give it to Andrea when it is signed.” He leaned against his built-in desk, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms across his chest. Along with his blue linen shirt that matched the color of his eyes today, he wore distressed jeans and brown boat shoes. He looked like a model in a menswear commercial—brow expertly furrowed, careless masculinity oozing from everywhere.