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her imposing stature was bettersuited to the high-testosterone arena she had chosen to enter than to ballet.
    Like a hermit crab out of its shell, Cynthea looked laughably out of place at sea, or even outside a city. But she couldn’t help noticing lately that she was being herded out to pasture in the youth-centric jungle she inhabited.
    Cynthea had produced two number-one reality shows for MTV. But the cutthroat environment she lived in would not tolerate a single misstep. After her last network reality show, the misbegotten
Butcher Shop
, had cratered, her only offer was the job every other producer in town had passed on: a round-the-world sea voyage with none of the comforts of home.
    Sensing that she had to adapt or go extinct, and in the midst of an acute panic attack, she told her manager to take the offer.
    She knew she had won the
SeaLife
gig because of her talent for spicing up a show’s content, which the show’s producers were painfully aware could be a problem if the science stuff got dull. Over the last three weeks, however, her efforts to get seasick scientists to mate had been a gruesome debacle.
    If this show was killed, she was convinced it would be the end of her career. No husband, no kids, and no career: all of her mother’s prophecies checked off. Which would be much easier to bear if Cynthea’s mother were dead, but she wasn’t—not by a long shot.
    Cynthea pressed her hands together in a gesture of thanks to the powers-that-be. “This could not have come at a better time, people! I think we would have killed and eaten each other before we ever got to Pitcairn. Tell me more about this island, Glyn!”
    “Well, it’s never actually been explored, is the neat thing. According to Nell—”
    “When can we land?”
    “Tomorrow afternoon,” Glyn answered. “If we can find a place to put ashore. And if the captain grants permission to go ashore, of course…”
    “You mean we can shoot our landing on an unexplored island for the anything-can-happen segment of tomorrow’s broadcast at five-fifty? Glyn, you will be my
superhero
if you
say yes!”
    “It’s possible, I should think, providing the captain agrees.” The Englishman shrugged. “Yes—”
    “Glyn, Glyn, Glyn!” Cynthea actually jumped for joy. “What was it you were saying about a British sea captain?”
    “The island was discovered in 1791 by Captain Ambrose Spencer Henders…”
    Nell was amused to see Glyn’s vanity flattered by Cynthea’s spotlight.
    Glyn looked at Nell. “However, Nell is the one who—”
    “That’s just
gold
, Glyn! Do me a favor and make the announcement to the crew?” Cynthea interrupted. “At sunset—right after dinner—and really build it up? Oh, pretty, pretty
please?”
    Glyn looked apologetically at Nell. She nodded, relieved to have him do the honors. “Well, all right.”
    “You know Dawn? The tan, leggy brunette with the tattoo?” Cynthea gestured in the vicinity of her tailbone. “Yes? She was just remarking to me how she thought British scientists were the sexiest men alive.” Cynthea leaned forward and crooned in Glyn’s ear: “I think she was talking about YOU!”
    Glyn’s eyes widened as Cynthea turned to Captain Sol. “Captain Sol, can we land?” She jumped up and down like a little girl pleading with her grandfather. “Can we, can we, can we?”
    “Yes, we can land, Cynthea.
After
we check out the beacon.”
    “Thank you, Captain Sol! You know ship’s surgeon Jennings is just crazy about you?”
    Warburton shook his head.
    “Now if we could only find someone for Nell,” the producer persisted. “What about it, sweetie? What
is
your type, anyway?”
    Nell saw Glyn looking out the window at Dawn, who was performing yoga stretches on the mezzanine deck below. Hard-bodied and sporting buzzed black hair, Dawn wore a midriff-baring mustard mini-T over her imposingly toned core. A purpleand yellow sun tattoo peeked over the rear of her black bikini bottoms. “I don’t