He gave her a mock look of surprise. “You don’t trust me.”

“Right now, I don’t trust anyone.” Including Barky? In a way, she supposed. She tucked her handbag under her arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

They headed down Atlantic Avenue toward the wharf occupied by the New England Oceanographic Institute. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out; it was fairly warm. The plaza was crowded with people.

“I come here often and eat my lunch,” Ashley said, hoping to keep the conversation casual and Jeremy’s suspicions at bay. “It’s a great place to watch people.”

“And be watched,” he added.

“I’m better at watching. Frankly, I’m not the type to hang out at bars and all the ‘in’ places just to be seen.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression enigmatic, unreadable. “I suppose dates wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“Not especially.”

That was the truth, she thought. She did have lots of dates—but not many lasting relationships. Somehow, she’d just never met a man she’d consider bringing home to the farm and Barky, a man who’d understand them and the Liechtenstein trust and what they meant to her—and didn’t mean. She’d never met a man who’d go out collecting maple sap with her in the dead of March and who’d brave the briars and the red ants to pick wild blueberries and who understood why, despite her millions, she continued to save old jars and eat Barky’s pole beans. She’d never met a man who didn’t want her to be just Ashley Wakefield the mystery heiress. Or just Ashley Wakefield the dolphin rescuer. Or just Ashley Wakefield the businesswoman.

She was all those Ashley Wakefields. And none of them.

A reporter jumped out from behind a fountain and snapped their picture together. “Where you been hiding, Ashley?”

He sounded as if he’d known her for years. She responded with a tight smile.

“Who’s the guy? Latest love interest?”

Ashley tugged on Jeremy’s sleeve, but he didn’t budge. “Name’s Carruthers,” he said. “Two r’s. Jeremy Carruthers.”

“Got it. From Boston?”

“San Diego.”

Ashley groaned. “Carruthers!”

He glanced at her. “And you advise people on how to deal with the media?”

“I like operating behind the scenes, not being a scene. If I wanted my picture in the paper every day, I assure you, I could arrange it.”

He laughed and slung his arm over her shoulder and smiled for the camera. Ashley knew she looked mortified. “Must you be so obnoxious?” she complained.

“It comes naturally—to both of us, I fear.”

“For that, you can pay to get into the institute.”

“Fine with me.” Then he saw the entrance fee. “Five bucks to look at fish?”

“You can always pay more. The institute would be delighted to accept your tax-deductible contribution.”

He paid precisely five dollars.

There was a lecture in ten minutes on sharks of the North Atlantic, but before she could suggest, in jest, that they attend, Jeremy shook his head. “Forget it.” Instead she introduced him to the moray eel.