"Jump!"

"Go ahead, jump!" chorused the contingent of college students leaning over the railing on the upper deck.

Did they think she was crazy? Johanna looked down at the widening gap between the ferry bow and the dock.

"Jump! I'll catch you," yelled a confident male voice.

It was jump or miss the ferry. "Oh, my God!" she yelped, and jumped. Strong arms closed around her and she looked up into the face of the man she thought she'd put in jail. "You!" She planted both hands on his hard chest and pushed.

He hung on his smoke-gray eyes filled with laughter. "Yep. Me. Call it kismet. Call it fate. Call it the hand of God."

Johanna snorted. "Hardly the hand of God. Coincidence maybe."

The ferry shuddered under her feet, its propellers digging into the gray-green waters of Elliott Bay to churning up a pungent mix of mud, saltwater and seaweed. With a deep-throated whistle, the elderly car ferry announced its scheduled departure.

"Don't do something like that again," a deckhand growled.

"She ended up in good hands," her rescuer said.

She wasn't so sure about that. For all that she had both palms pressed firmly against his chest, he held her in a full body press and gave no indication he intended to let go. For an instant, she allowed the tantalizing press of thigh to thigh, belly to belly and chest to chest. He was devilishly good looking and had a killer smile and, she sternly reminded herself, she'd left him shoveling forkfuls of stolen breakfast into his mouth while she hurried off to notify the maitre d'.

She'd just wound up a week's worth of negotiations with Harper Manufacturing, and stood at the bay window overlooking the street, indulging in a final cup of coffee and a few minutes of peace and quiet before heading for the office. Partially concealed by the drapery, she'd not been visible from the door when he poked his head in, sniffing the air like a bird dog.

He grinned and headed straight for the steam table where, with the aplomb of an invited guest, he loaded a plate with the remains of the catered breakfast and carried it to the nearest table, two pieces of ham balanced on top of a mound of scrambled eggs and home fries. Returning to the buffet, he got several muffins, a pot of jam and a glass of juice. Carrying his stolen treasures, he went back to the table and sat down. She almost laughed out loud when he shook out a white linen napkin and spread it neatly over his worn denim jeans.

His brazenness astonished her. Surely he knew that a restaurant employee could walk in at any moment, sound the alarm and have him carted off to jail. For reasons she hadn't fully examined, she waited until he'd consumed well over half the food in front of him before she stepped out of the alcove. He paused, loaded fork halfway to his mouth, looking more amused than alarmed.

"You going to scream?" he asked, his words muffled by the food he'd taken the time to shovel into his mouth.

"I should."

"Absolutely." He bit down on a large wedge of ham. "But I'd really appreciate it if you didn't. Hard on the ears."

She had no idea why she wasn't screaming. Maybe the boyish humor gleaming in his gray eyes and his so obvious enjoyment of the food she knew would end up in the garbage if he wasn't stealing it, silenced her.

"Thanks." He buttered a muffin. "Actually, they know I'm up here."

"Oh, really?" The boldness of his lie amused her. "Do you routinely get permission to clean up banquet tables?"

"Now and then." He bit down on the muffin, his expression sublime. "Heavenly. Best baker in the city." He gestured at her suit and heels with the remnant of muffin in his hand. "You on your way to work?"

"No, I'm at work. Have been for over two hours. You ought to try it."

He arched an eyebrow.

"Working," she clarified.

"Oh, that." He dismissed work with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, that. If you were working you wouldn't have to steal breakfasts. You could buy them."

He stuffed half a muffin into his mouth. "I've got a job. Kind of."

"I can tell." Her glance took in his wash-faded sweatshirt and threadbare jeans.

"Clothes do not make the man. Could be you work too hard and dress too fancy. Ever think of that?"

"I dress for the occasion."

He waved a long-fingered hand in her direction. "That what they call a power suit?" Another wedge of ham went into his mouth.

"Not exactly." This morning she had selected a pale gray linen sheath with a tuxedo jacket trimmed in dark rose embroidery.

"I hope you didn't want something to eat," he said, looking concerned. "I've kind of cleaned things up."

"You certainly did." Nothing remained but a few crumbs. "Fortunately, I ate earlier." And last night and the day before, and every evening this week as she escorted Harper's representatives in and out of some of Seattle's finest restaurants. She'd eaten and over eaten and intended to spend the weekend nibbling on salad greens and sipping herbal tea. While this man ate what? Probably nothing.

She'd first thought him one of the homeless street people who occasionally sneaked in through a side door hoping to find just the sort of repast this fellow had found. But he didn't have the look of a street person. His gaze was too direct and his posture too erect. He lacked the hunched shoulders and furtive manner so typical of the homeless, most of whom found just being alive a heavy burden. He had the confident air of someone in full control of his destiny. Interesting demeanor for a man stealing food from a four star restaurant.