Ordinarily, I'm a fan of pink-lovely colour, does smashing things for the complexion. But not when it's the bright, glaring stripe staring back at me on the pregnancy test. Then, pink is the colour of major oops, of morning sickness, of boyfriends who seemed decent but now are part of some Jerk Witness Protection Program. Still, I've got a few things going for me-bitter humour, a divine right to eat till I'm the size of Marlon Brando, and good friends who've managed to get me a job interview with one Damien Sharpton: in need of a personal assistant, and some say, a good, swift kick in the arse. If you want to make a lasting impression, by all means, toss your cookies in your future boss's wastebasket, which is located directly between his excruciatingly sexy legs. Apparently, Mr. Gorgeous-But-Unbearably-Anti-Social must like personal assistants who violate his trash can, because I got the job. And if I can avoid him via text messaging for the next seven months of health insurance, everything will be just fine. Except that he's just asked-no, insisted-that I go with him on a business trip to the Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for celebration. Ordinarily, I'd shave my legs, pack my bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But there's nothing ordinary about this situation...which means it could be absolutely extraordinary...