From the moment she spotted his hamburger-and-French-fry emblazoned boxers with the word supersized on them, Bree knew Sexton St. Croix was trouble. Here was a man with just one thing on his mind, but Sex had hired her to do a job and she'd let nothing get in her way. Not even a sudden insatiable craving for fast food, the hotter the better.
Sexton St. Croix had a big problem. His luxury ocean liner was haunted--by the ghost of an unflappable flapper named Daisy. Now, in an effort to persuade Daisy to "cheese it," he'd opened the ship to a veritable psychic circus. With every type of paranormal phony swarming the decks, he was counting on Bree's "clairsentience" to save his bacon. Her exquisitely sensitive fingers could detect the emotional vibrations of an 80-year-old love triangle and the unsolved murder that had resulted, while her tender touch unlocked secrets in his own heart. Here, at last, was the woman to convince the pleasure-before-promises playboy of the virtues of good, old-fashioned romance.
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