Night Swimming by Laura Moore

owner of the hottest spot in town.
    “Your boss strikes me as exactly that type of woman.”
    “Banyon?” John tried to remember what they’d been talking about. The champagne was really good. He was getting a bit tanked. “You think?”
    “Yeah.” Ferrucci grimaced in distaste. “A walking, talking superbitch.”
    “Oh, right. Damn straight.” He knew just what a frigid bitch Banyon could be. And he was also damn sure everyone at the center still laughed about it. Still laughed at him .
    It had happened in late August. A group of the center’s scientists and assistants were up in Maine, working on a study that hopefully would shed some light on the inexplicable surge in the local lobster population. New to the team, John hadn’t yet understood about Lily Banyon: she was cold as ice inside that purely dynamite body. So, for a week he followed her around, bumping against her accidentally on purpose, and feeding her some of his best lines—damned confident he was making progress. Those cool glances had really turned him on.
    One afternoon, she’d been bending over a box, packing up samples to take back to the lab.
    Hey, what was a guy supposed to do when presented with an ass like that? Of course he’d copped a feel. Big fucking deal.
    His hand hadn’t even left that sweet cheek when Banyon nailed him with some kind of Bruce Lee martial arts move. She’d twisted out of his grasp, kicking with her leg as she spun. Somehow she managed to plant it right in his midsection. Next thing John knew, he was toppling over the Drifter ’s port side, and landing with a splash in the chilly Maine waters.
    The bitch. Thank God it was August and a heat wave.
    He’d surfaced, spluttering, and swam as best he could in his sodden shirt, jeans, and sneakers over to the ladder.
    Banyon was waiting for him. John had a choice, she told him. He could climb up the ladder and cut the crap permanently, leaving her and the other women on the team alone. Or he could stay there. The water might be just cold enough to act as an anesthetic. She would dive in and bring one of the lobster traps to the surface. Since he’d been asking all week, she’d happily handle his you-know-what for him. And stuff it in the lobster trap. It’d be a yummy little appetizer for those big, hungry lobsters.
    An angry flush crept up the sides of John’s neck as he remembered how everyone onboard the research boat had overheard Banyon. He drank thirstily. Yeah, superbitch was an excellent description for Lily.
    “Yeah, your boss is easy to figure out,” Ferrucci said. “I had her number in seconds. Now that she’s where she wants to be professionally, she’s determined to keep any man who might overshadow her from getting promoted. Take yourself, John.” He lifted his champagne flute, tilting it toward John in a salutary gesture. “Why, after the advisory meeting I went straight to my computer and looked up your site on the Internet. My God, a guy with a mind like yours, with the number of articles you’ve written, let me tell you, I was shocked. . . . It’s an outrage.” The base of his glass clinked against the tabletop as though in emphasis.
    From across the table, Pete Ferrucci regarded John Granger calculatingly. For the past half hour, he’d been plying him with champagne and praise. He probably could have skipped the bubbly and stuck to the articles he’d downloaded from Granger’s Web site. It hadn’t even been necessary to read the crap. A few key sentences and Granger had ballooned with pride. Now to prick his ego before the jerk became too shit-faced to understand a thing.
    “It’s an outrage, a real outrage,” he repeated heavily. “You’ve got this prodigious body of research, yet you’re nothing but an assistant at the Marine Center—on paper, no better than that ditzy photographer, Karen Masur.”
    Oh, yeah, a direct hit, he thought with satisfaction when Granger’s face darkened with resentment.
    “I know,” John