With the MD...at the Altar?. Jessica Andersen

close behind her, making her feel as though she was being stalked.

      Or herded.

      She turned to him. “Can you get me twenty or so of those little bags you use for small shellfish orders? I need to keep each of the samples separate. A grease pencil would be good, too.”

      He didn’t budge, instead moving closer. His voice dropped to a growl. “What, exactly, are you going to test for?”

      “That’s up to the CDC team,” she said, playing dumb.

      “Where else have you taken samples?”

      She was almost positive he would call and check, so she didn’t lie. “You’re the first.”

      Catching movement out of her peripheral vision, she turned her head and saw two men enter from the pier. One was moving strangely, shuffling his feet as though he was having neurological problems.

      Panic knotted Rox’s gut and her heart hammered in her ears. “Maybe I should come back later.”

      “I don’t think so.” Smith blocked her exit on one side, and raised his voice to call, “Hey, boys, the lady doctor here seems to think our fish is poisoning the town. What do you think about that?”

      There was an ugly mutter from the men, and they moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking her on that side as well.

      She was trapped.

      Chapter Four

      Rox’s heart hammered as the two fishermen approached and Smith remained unmoving at her back, blocking her escape.

      She held her hands away from her sides, palms up. No harm, no foul. “Come on, guys, I’m not looking to start any trouble here. I’m just trying to do my job.”

      “By ruining ours,” the big guy on the left said. “It’s bad enough you’re telling people it’d be good for them to eat tinned foods and drink bottled water, and you’ve got the coast guard telling us we can’t put the boats into harbor anywhere but here. Now you’re trying to prove it’s the fish making people sick? What do you think’s going to happen to the town if the feds shut down the fishing grounds? We’ll starve!”

      As he drew closer, she identified the dark-haired, dark-eyed man as Phil Jenks, a deckhand on one of the more prosperous fishing boats. He was big and brawny, shading toward overweight, and wore a plaid shirt beneath his waterproof coveralls. She’d seen him around town, didn’t know anything good or bad about him, but he gave her a seriously not-good vibe as he approached.

      “I don’t want to ruin anything,” she said quickly. “Don’t you want to know if there’s something wrong with the fish you’ve been catching? Better yet, don’t you want me to prove that they’re fine?”