Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

“We’ll get along even if it kills us.”

To Lucy’s horror she heard herself say, “You mean you’ll actually be nice to me?”

“I’ve never in my life met a woman as contentious as you! Don’t you ever let up?”

“I wouldn’t be so cranky if you’d act like a human being,” she retorted. “It’s because you’re so—so unreachable.”

“Unreachable is exactly what I am, and what I intend to remain,” Troy answered grimly. “And don’t, if you value living, ask why.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the first of three scintillating books by Sandra Field. When Sandra first came up with the idea for Beyond Reach she fell in love with her characters so much that she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. So she wrote another book. And then another….

“This series of three books crept up on me unawares. After Troy and Lucy met in the West Indies, I found myself curious to discover how marriage would change them. Hence Second Honeymoon, again set on an island, this time off the coast of Nova Scotia. Lucy’s laid-back friend Quentin and her uptight sister Marcia played minor roles in Second Honeymoon. Once Quentin had appeared on the scene, I knew I wouldn’t rest until I’d brought him face-to-face with Marcia, which I did in my next book, After Hours.”

Follow Lucy and Troy’s continuing story in Second Honeymoon, out in August 1996. Marcia and Quentin’s own romance appears in After Hours— coming in early 1997 in Harlequin Presents!

With warm wishes,

The Editor

Beyond Reach

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

LUCY BARNES stared at the words on the board as if she was mesmerized, as if someone was offering her precisely what she wanted most of all in the world.

The individual letters were printed forcefully on a square of white cardboard with an indelible black marker. A masculine hand, she’d be willing to bet, Lucy thought with a distant part of her mind, and read the notice again.

Wanted. Cook/crew-member for four weeks, starting immediately, on chartered 50-foot sloop. Maximum four guests. Apply at Seawind.

She raised her head, looking past the bulletin-board where the notice was pinned to the sunlit row of yachts moored along the cement dock. Several of them were sloops. Which one was Seawind? As if in response to her question, the wind from the sea lifted her hair, teasing its long mahogany-colored curls against her neck. The trade winds, she thought in pure excitement. The famous trade winds of the West Indies that she had read about in geography class, when she had been a little girl and had thought the whole world open to her… But that she had waited until now to experience. She could sail out of this harbor under their impetus. Sail among the green-clad volcanic islands that rose from a sea so blue that it made her feel like shouting for joy. She took two impetuous steps toward the dock.

And then she stopped. Think, Lucy. Think, she ordered herself. You’ve already landed yourself in one mess by acting on impulse. A royal mess. One that you’re not finished with yet. Are you going to compound it by taking another leap into the unknown without considering all the consequences? Let’s face it. An hour ago all you wanted to do was get on the first plane out of here and head home. Where at least you know the rules, even if you don’t like them very much. Chewing her lip, she stood indecisively, the sun beating down on her face and arms, her flowered skirt blowing against her legs like a sail luffing in the wind.

How she wanted to be on that boat! Four weeks of sailing among the Virgin Islands. Four weeks…

Lucy thrust her hands in the pockets of her skirt, looking around her. On the other side of the road that led into the marina there was a wooden bench under a tree adorned with fat clusters of orange flowers. An oleander hedge flanked the road, its sharp-pointed leaves rustling gently, its salmon-pink blooms bobbing up and down. So much color, so much beauty… Lucy marched across the road and sat down, and knew even as she did so that this way she could see if anyone else came along to read the notice and try for the job on Seawind.

The slats of the bench were hard under her thighs. The dappled shade of the tree played with the flowers on her skirt. Tame flowers, she thought absently, running her fingernail along the stem of a tidy little rose. Northern flowers. Nothing like the exuberant blossoms of Road Town, capital of Tortola, largest of the British Virgin Islands. Where she, Lucille Elizabeth Barnes, now found herself.

Her money-belt dug into her waist. At least she still had that. Her money, her return ticket and her passport. Even if that was all she had. Her luggage was sitting in the guest bedroom of the villa belonging to Raymond Blogden, who had been—very briefly—her employer. And there it was likely to stay until she went back with reinforcements. Large male reinforcements. Because she wasn’t going back alone, that was for sure.

Her two sisters had thought she was crazy to answer the advertisement in the Ottawa paper, while her cool, commonsensical mother had said, ‘But what about the clientele you’ve worked so hard to build up, Lucy? Surely if you leave for a month—especially after you’ve just been ill for three weeks—some of them will look elsewhere? Had you thought of that?’

But the ad—rather like the printed notice on the bulletin-board across the road—had seemed like a message from heaven.

Family vacationing in British Virgin Islands requires a massage therapist for month of April. Excellent salary and comfortable quarters in hillside villa in Tortola.

The ad had been placed in March, when winter had been at its worst in Ottawa. Dirty snowbanks edging all the streets. Gray, overcast skies. Not a blossom to be seen anywhere… only the dull, dispirited green of pine and spruce trees that had been battered by frigid winds since December. No wonder she had jumped at the chance of warmth and color and sunshine! To top it all off, she’d been ill for nearly a month, miserably ill, with a flu virus that had clung to her as tenaciously as the patches of ice had clung to the front steps of her apartment building. She had craved a change of scene, a break in her routine. Something different and exciting.

Her lips twisted wryly. Well, she’d certainly gotten that. Rather more than she’d bargained for. Shutting from her mind the ugly little scene that had been played out in the spacious hallway of the hillside villa, she firmed her mouth and tried hard to think in a manner of which her elder sister Marcia would approve.

She could go to the police station, explain what a fool she’d made of herself, trust that they would help her get her luggage back and then head for the airport. Her return fare, luckily, was an open ticket, prepaid by Mr Blogden. She could fly out on the first available seat and go back to Ottawa. Because her mother was right. She, Lucy, had worked extremely hard over the last four years to build her reputation and steady list of clients, and it was irresponsible of her to jeopardize everything she had struggled so long to establish.

She got up. The police station was only a few blocks away. The worst part would be the explanation of why she had fled the Blogden villa at high noon minus her luggage. After that, she’d be home free.

She should go home. Of course she should. Even though she’d finally paid off the last of her student debts, she had her eye on a little house in the country outside Ottawa. If she was going to take on a mortgage she had to do everything in her power to ensure a regular income.

She didn’t want to live in the city for the rest of her life. Her good friend Sally thought she should stay there so she’d meet more men; the countryside was devoid of eligible males, according to Sally. But, for now, Lucy was through with men. Big blond men who weren’t there when she needed them. The only kind she ever seemed to be attracted to.

A woman in a colorful sarong skirt was approaching the bench. Lucy collected her wandering thoughts; this wasn’t the time or the place to deal with her problems with the opposite sex. Perhaps this woman could direct her to the police station.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Lucy saw a flock of gulls rise in the sky over the moored yachts. She stood still, her gaze following the graceful curves they were inscribing against the depthless blue of the heavens, where the rays of the sun made the flashing white wings translucent. Their cries were like the cackling of a coven of witches, mocking her decision. Making nonsense of it.

Responsible. Sensible. Should. Ought. Horrible words, Lucy thought blankly. Words that had ruled her life for as long as she could remember.

The woman in the sarong skirt had already walked past her. In sheer panic Lucy made a small gesture with her hand, as though to call her back. Then her hand fell to her side. Feeling her heart pounding in her chest, she knew that somehow she had made a decision. A momentous decision. She wasn’t going back. She was going to walk down the dock and find Seawind and do her level best to get herself signed on as cook and crew.

Rubbing her damp palms down her skirt, she fastened the image of the gulls in her mind’s eye like a talisman and crossed the road. The sign was still there, its black letters every bit as forceful as she remembered them. There was an urgency behind the words, she decided thoughtfully. Whoever had written them was desperate. Good. All the more chance that he’d hire her. That she’d have four weeks at sea. Four weeks to figure out why the job she’d worked so hard to create had swallowed her up in the process. Four weeks to try and understand why she was always drawn to the wrong kind of menhandsome, blond, sexy, undependable men.

Four weeks to have fun?

She suddenly found that she was smiling. Taking a deep breath, Lucy marched down the dock.

She passed Lady Jane, Wanderer, Marliese and Trident. Then she stopped in her tacks, feeling her heart leap in her ribcage. Seawind was painted white with dark green trim, her furled headsail edged in green, the bimini awning over the cockpit a matching green. She was beautiful. Wonderfully and utterly beautiful.

‘Can I help you?’

Lucy jumped. A bemused smile still on her face, she turned to face the man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. He was standing on the dock four or five feet away from her, wearing a faded blue T-shirt and navy shorts. For a moment, knocked off balance, Lucy thought she must have conjured him up out of her imagination, for he was big, blond, handsome and sexy— exactly the kind of man who had become anathema to her over the last few months. The kind she was intent on avoiding at any cost. ‘Oh, no. No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for the skipper of Seawind actually.’

‘Are you applying for the job?’

None of your business, thought Lucy. ‘Yes, I am.’ With a sudden clutch of dismay she said, ‘It’s not filled, is it?’

‘No. What are your qualifications?’

‘I think I should leave that for the skipper, don’t you?’ she said sweetly.

‘I’m Seawind’s skipper.’

Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? Lucy thought crossly. And why in heaven’s name did you have to be big and blond and overpoweringly masculine? Smothering the words before she could speak them, she held out her hand with her most professional smile. ‘I’m Lucy Barnes.’

His grip was strong, his own smile perfunctory. ‘Troy Donovan. Tell me your qualifications.’

He had every right to ask; he was, after all, the skipper. She said calmly, ‘Would you mind if we went on board? I’m not used to the sun and I’m not wearing any sunscreen.’ Her sunscreen, along with everything else, was back at the villa.

After a fractional hesitation he said, ‘Go ahead.’

She stepped from the dock to the transom of the boat called Seawind, and without being asked slipped her feet out of her sandals before stepping on to the teak deck. The bimini cast a big square of shade. The wood was warm and smooth under her bare soles. She had to get this job, Lucy thought, determination coursing along her veins. She had to. Waiting until Troy Donovan had positioned himself across from her, she said, ‘For nearly four years, as a teenager, I spent all my free time sailing. Daysailers, Lasers, and then as crew on a forty-five foot sloop not unlike this in design.’

He said edgily, ‘Would you mind taking off your sunglasses? I like to see the person I’m talking to.’

She pushed her glasses up into her hair. Her eyes were her best feature—thick-lashed and set under brows like dark wings. Beautifully shaped eyes, that hovered between gray and blue and bore tiny rust flecks that echoed the rich, polished brown of her hair. Her face had character rather than conventional prettiness: her chin pointed but firm, her nose with a slight imperious hook to it. To the discerning eye it was a face hinting at inner conflicts, for, while her lips were soft and her smile warm, a guardedness in her eyes hinted that she might withhold more than she gave.

Troy Donovan said abruptly, ‘How old are you now?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘Haven’t you sailed since then?’

Unerringly he had found her weakest point. ‘No—I’ve lived in Ottawa for many years. But I’ve never forgotten anything I learned, I know I haven’t.’

‘Where did you do your sailing?’

‘Canada. Out of Vancouver.’

‘So you don’t know these waters at all?’

She tilted her chin. ‘I can read charts, and I’m a quick learner.’

‘Can you cook?’

Although one of Lucy’s favorite haunts was the Chinese take-out across the street from her apartment building, her theory had always been that if you could read, you could cook. Somehow she didn’t think that particular theory would impress Troy Donovan. But her mother had always taught her that you could do anything you put your mind to, and not even several flunked physics exams and a failed engagement had entirely destroyed Lucy’s faith in this maxim. With a nasty sensation that none of her answers were the right ones, she said evasively, ‘I haven’t actually cooked on a boat before. But I’m sure the same general principles hold true at sea as on land.’

‘What about references?’

His eyes, too, were gray. But unlike hers they were a flat, unrevealing gray, like the slate from the quarry near her old home on the west coast. With a sinking heart she said, ‘I’m self-employed. But I can put you in touch with the bank manager where I do all my business dealings, and my physician would give you a personal reference.’

He looked patently unimpressed. ‘You can come back tomorrow, Miss Barnes. If I haven’t found anyone by then, perhaps I’ll reconsider you.’

He was dismissing her. He wasn’t interested. She was going to lose out on something that she craved more than breath itself. Lucy said in a rush, ‘I don’t think you quite understand—I love the sea! I come alive on a boat that’s under full sail. I’d give everything I own for four weeks on the water.. .please.’

He had been standing with one hand wrapped around the backstay. Straightening, he ran his fingers through his hair and said, exasperated, ‘I’ve got enough on my mind without taking on someone who’s never sailed here before. I’m sorry, Miss—’

‘I’ll do it for nothing,’ she blurted. ‘Food and board, that’s all.’

‘Are you in trouble with the law?’ he said sharply.

‘No!’ Her brain racing, she sought for words to convince him. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted anything so desperately that you’d sell your soul to get it? You don’t really know why—you only know that your whole body is telling you what you want. That you’re denying yourself if you ignore it.’

So quickly that she almost missed it, a flash of intense emotion crossed the carved impassivity of his features. He, like her, had pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, where they rested in hair that was a thick, sunstreaked blond. While Lucy was something of an expert in body language and the long term effects of tension, she didn’t need her expertise to realize that Troy Donovan had been under a severe stress of some kind for far too long: the toll was clearly to be seen in his shadowed, deepset eyes, his clenched jaw, the hard set of his shoulders.

He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said slowly, ‘So you’re desperate… Why are you desperate, Lucy Barnes?’

‘I—I can’t tell you that. I’m not sure I know myself. But I’ll work my fingers to the bone and I’ll do my very best to please your guests. And I’m certainly strong enough physically for the job.’

His eyes ranged her face with clinical detachment. ‘You don’t look strong. You look washed out. In fact,’ he continued, with almost diabolical accuracy, ‘you look as though you’re not fully recuperated from some sort of illness.’

Damn the man! He’d found every chink in her armor. Worse than that, by telling him how much she wanted the job she’d revealed to him a part of herself that she would have much preferred to keep private. ‘I’ve had the flu,’ she replied shortly, and with reckless disregard for the frown on his face plunged on, ‘Why don’t you take me out for a trial run? So I can prove I’m the right person to crew for you.’

‘Give me one good reason why I should bother doing that.’

She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Her nails digging into her palms, Lucy said with false insouciance, ‘Your notice said you needed someone immediately.’ She looked around and gave him an innocent smile. ‘And I don’t exactly see a huge line-up of other applicants.’

As his facial muscles tightened she felt a thrill of primitive victory. He said flatly, ‘The trouble is, it’s too early for college students, and anyone else who’s half reliable has long ago been snapped up by the big charter companies.’ He added, his gray eyes inimical, ‘Let’s get something straight, Miss Barnes. I’m the skipper, you’re the crew. I give the orders and you take them. Is that clear?’

Refusing to drop her own eyes, Lucy said, ‘Those are the rules on board, yes.’

‘Didn’t you bring a pair of shorts with you?’

A blush crept up her face. ‘No. I—no.’

‘Check in the forward cabin—the drawer under the port bunk. You can borrow a pair of mine.’

In spite of herself her voice shook. ‘You mean you’ll take me for a trial run?’

‘Yeah… that’s what I mean.’

She gave him a dazzling smile that lit up her face and gave her, fleetingly, a true beauty. ‘Thanks,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You won’t regret it.’

Before he could change his mind, she climbed up on the foredeck, her bare feet gripping the roughened fiberglass. The forward hatch was open. With the agility’ of the fifteen-year-old she had once been, she climbed down the wooden ladder into his cabin. It had two bunks, one unmade; a faint, indefinable scent of clean male skin and aftershave teased her nostrils. Closing her mind to it, as she had closed her mind to the awkward truth that once again she was doing her utmost to involve herself with a big, handsome, blond man, Lucy pulled open the left-hand drawer. She scrabbled among Troy Donovan’s clothes, not quite able to ignore how intimate an act this was, and shook out the smallest of the three pairs of shorts there. Dropping her skirt on the bunk, she pulled them on. They might be the smallest pair, but they were still far too big, the waist gaping, the cuffs down to her knees. After grabbing a canvas belt coiled neatly in the corner of the drawer, she cinched in the waistband and let her T-shirt fall over it.

She looked ridiculous. And somehow she wasn’t so sure that that was a bad thing.

Not stopping to analyze this, Lucy climbed back on deck. A skipper from another boat had ambled over to help with the mooring lines. Troy said, giving Lucy’s attire a single derisive glance, ‘The ignition switch is by the radio. Then you can retrieve the anchor—these are the handsignals I’ll use.’ Briefly he demonstrated them. ‘We’ll head out under power, and once we’re in the strait you can hoist the mainsail.’

She should have been nervous. But, as the diesel engine began to throb beneath her feet, Lucy felt such a purity of happiness rocket through her body that there was no room for anything else. Again she went forward, pulling on the gloves she found stowed by the anchor winch and glancing back over her shoulder to catch all Troy’s instructions.

The groaning of the winch and the clanking of the anchor chain made her feel fully alive, every nerve alert, every muscle taut. As she guided the chain into its berth she found herself remembering for the first time in many years how at fifteen she had anticipated in hectic detail the way such feelings might be deliciously enhanced by that mysterious act called making love.

How wrong she’d been! Big blond men. Bah! The next time she fell in love, Lucy decided, it was going to be with someone short and stout and bald. Then Seawind began to move, and all her concerns, her love-life included, vanished from her mind.

Within minutes she’d hauled in the fenders and stowed them away. The dock was receding. The channel with its red and green buoys beckoned them on. Troy said, ‘There’s sunscreen in the cupboard under the bar. You’d better put some on before we get out on open water.’

Again Lucy went down the companionway steps. The cabin was spacious, constructed from highly polished mahogany. Two couches, flanking a dining table inlaid with marble, two padded swivel chairs, a chart cupboard and a neatly appointed galley were all fitted in without any sense of constriction, and again Lucy felt that shaft of unreasoning happiness. As she smoothed the cream over her face and arms the deck began to lift and fall beneath her feet.

When she want back up, Troy said tersely, ‘You can hoist the mainsail now.’

She fastened the halyard to the headboard and began hauling on the sheet, bending her knees to give herself leverage, using every bit of her strength. Following Troy’s instructions, she tightened the winch, slotting the handle and bracing herself against the companionway. Then she unfurled the headsail and trimmed it to a port tack. The breeze had freshened as they left the confines of Road Harbor. Troy turned off the engine and suddenly Seawind came to life, her bow rising and falling as she heeled into the wind that was her reason for being.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ Lucy cried, giving Troy another of those brilliant smiles that held nothing in it of seduction yet was infinitely seductive.

Her shirt was molded to her body, her hair whipping about her ears. ‘Ease off the headsail,’ he ordered in a clipped voice.

Lucy knew enough to do as she was told. But, spoiling her exultation, a cold core of dismay had appeared somewhere in the vicinity of her gut. Did she want to sail with a skipper who so plainly hated his job? He had yet to give her anything approaching a real smile. Even now, as he checked the masthead fly and adjusted the wheel, he didn’t look the least bit happy to be out on the water.

‘We’ll change tacks in a few minutes,’ he called. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

This maneuver went without a hitch. Then Lucy took a stint at the wheel, delighted to find that her old intuitive sense of wind and sail had never left her. After they’d changed tacks again, Troy questioned her on the rules of the road and threw a number of hypothetical situations at her to see how she’d deal with them. Then they headed back to the harbor, running before the wind. Finally, Lucy furled the headsail and folded the mainsail on the boom, and before she knew it Troy was backing into the dock. He was, she had to admit, a more than competent skipper.

The engine died, and into the silence Lucy said tautly, ‘Do I pass?’

He leaned against the folding table that ran along the centre of the cockpit and answered her question with another. ‘It’s ten or eleven years since you sailed, right?’

‘Ten.’

‘You loved it.’

‘They were the best years of my life,’ Lucy heard herself say, and felt her face stiffen with shock as the truth of her words struck home. ‘That’s nuts, isn’t it?’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘It can’t be true…’

‘It sure doesn’t say much for anything that’s happened since then.’

‘No…’ she whispered. ‘It doesn’t.’

Ruthlessly Troy Donovan hurled two more questions at her. Are you married—or living with someone?’

‘No and no.’ Fighting to regain control of herself— what was it about this cold, unfriendly man that made her reveal herself so blatantly and so unwisely?—she added, ‘Are you?’

‘I’m interviewing you, not the reverse,’ he retorted. ‘If you’re independent, and you so clearly love sailing, why aren’t you living on the west coast again?’

‘Mr Donovan,’ Lucy said coldly, ‘this is a hiring session. Not a counseling session.’

‘The name’s Troy. Why don’t you answer the question?’

‘Because I can’t!’ she flared. ‘Because the reasons I live where I do are nothing to do with you. ‘I’m not asking you why you never smile, why you have a job that you seem to dislike so thoroughly. Because it’s none of my business.’ Her face changed. ‘Please… are you going to hire me?’

‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’ he said unpleasantly. ‘The first guests come on board the day after tomorrow and there’s a pile of work to do in the meantime. However, I won’t make you do it for nothing.’ He named a salary that was more than fair. ‘I want you to take my vehicle now, and go to the grocery—’

‘You’ve hired me—for four whole weeks!’ Lucy interrupted. ‘But that’s terrific! Oh, I’m so excited!’ Grabbing the extra fabric that flapped around her slender legs and holding it out like a skirt, she did a solemn little dance on the deck. Then she gave him a wide grin. ‘I’ll do the very best I can, I promise.’

Because Troy was standing in the shade he had pushed his sunglasses up again and there was in the flint-gray eyes an unquestionable, if reluctant, smile. Much encouraged, Lucy said pertly, ‘So you do know how to smile. You’d be extremely handsome if you smiled properly, you know.’ She bared her teeth in an exaggerated smirk. ‘You should try it some time.’

‘Lucy,’ he said tightly, ‘maybe now’s as good a time as any to make something else clear. You and I are going to be living and working together in pretty close quarters for the next month. There’ll be no male-female stuff between us—have you got that?’

His smile was gone as if it had never been, and the anger that she’d already sensed as a huge part of his make-up was very much in evidence. She stared right back at him. ‘You’re afraid I might make a pass at you?’

Biting off the words, he said, ‘Of course I’m not afraid of you! But the comfort and security of the guests is our only concern for the next four weeks. You and I are coworkers—and that’s all.’

She could match his anger with an anger of her ownit would be all too easy—or she could keep her sense of humor. Choosing the latter—because his pronouncement definitely had its funny side—Lucy gave a hoot of laughter. ‘No problem! Now if you were fivefeet-seven, bald and overweight, then you should worry. But tall, blond and handsome—nope. I’m immune. Thank you very much.’

‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ he snarled.

‘I don’t think you see anything very much as funny,’ Lucy said, with more truth than tact. ‘And I swear that’s the last remark of a personal nature that’ll cross my lips today.’

He said—and Lucy was one hundred percent sure he hadn’t meant to say it, ‘Immunity implies exposure.’

‘Indeed,’ she said drily. ‘I fell in love with my first blond hunk—the history teacher in school—when I was twelve, and I’ve been doing it ever since. When I came down here, I’d made a vow—no more blond men. Bald is beautiful. So you’re quite safe, Troy Donovan. Now, what was that about groceries?’

‘For their sakes, I’m glad none of them married you,’ he said nastily.

Lucy flinched. She would have married Phil, who’d had wavy blond curls and had proposed to her among the tulips along the Rideau Canal when she was twentythree years old. But Phil had met Sarah, chic, fragile Sarah, two months before the wedding, and had gone to Paris with Sarah instead of staying home and marrying Lucy. She said, almost steadily, ‘If they had I wouldn’t be crewing for you, would I? What did happen to your previous cook, by the way?’

‘Her son crushed several bones in his foot last night. She flew to San Juan with him this morning.’ His scowl deepened. ‘I shouldn’t have said that about marriage— I’m sorry.’

Despite her vow, a vow she fully intended to keep, Lucy was already aware that it would be much safer if she disliked Troy. He was taller than Phil, more handsome than the history teacher, and sexier by far than anyone she had ever met. ‘Grocery store,’ she repeated in a stony voice.

‘I’ll give you the keys to my Jeep. I want you to cook supper for me tonight, as if I were a guest—an appetizer to go with drinks, then dinner and dessert. This evening you can draw up menus for the next six days and I’ll check them over. Our first charter is just one couple, Craig and Heather Merritt, from New York. They’ll come on board the day after tomorrow—by then you’ve got to have the boat provisioned and spanking clean brass and woodwork polished, bathrooms spotless, beds made so they can have their choice of cabin. I’ll look after ice, water supplies and the bar, and in the meantime I’ll overhaul the engine and the pumps. Any questions?’

She blinked. ‘No. But some time today I’ll have to get my suitcase.’

‘Use the Jeep,’ he said impatiently.

It was by now blindingly obvious to Lucy that Troy didn’t like her at all and wouldn’t have hired her if he’d had any other options. In fact, he thought so little of her that he considered her unmarried state a boon to the male sex. So she might as well confirm him in his dislike; it would beat going to the police. She said in a small voice, ‘I need to borrow you as well as the Jeep.’

He frowned. ‘Surely you haven’t got that many clothes? Storage space is limited on a boat, as you should know.’

Lucy said rapidly, ‘I arrived in Tortola this morning, planning to work for a family with a villa in the hills. But when I got to the villa it very soon became plain that the family wasn’t about to materialize and that the man of the house and I had radically different ideas about the terms of my employment.’

‘He put the make on you?’

She grimaced. ‘Yes. So I left with more haste than grace via the nearest window, and my suitcase is still there.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m scared to go back there alone,’ she confessed. ‘But I could go to the police if you don’t want to go with me, Troy. It’s nothing to do with you, I do see that.’

‘I’ll go,’ Troy said with a ferocious smile. ‘This has been the week from hell, and I don’t see much chance of it improving—I could do with a little action. Why don’t we go there first?’

Lucy took a step backwards and said with absolute truth, ‘I’m not so sure that you don’t frighten me more than Raymond Blogden.’

‘I almost hope he resists,’ Troy said, flexing both fists.

The muscles of his forearms moved smoothly and powerfully under his tanned skin and there was such pent up energy behind his words that Lucy backed off another step, until the teak edge of the bench was hard against the backs of her knees. ‘I know nothing whatsoever about you,’ she muttered, ‘and yet I’ve agreed to live on a fifty-foot boat with you for a month. Maybe I should be asking you for references.’

‘You can always check with my bank manager and my physician,’ he said with another fiendish smile. ‘Anyway, if nothing you’ve done since you were fifteen has impressed you as much as sailing a Laser, you might benefit from throwing caution to the wind. Let’s go.’

It was, Lucy thought, not bad advice.

And throwing caution to the winds had brought her to Tortola in the first place, hadn’t it?

CHAPTER TWO

LUCY hurried below, changed back into her skirt, and five minutes later was driving west out of Road Town. Troy drove the Jeep as competently as he drove a boat; she couldn’t help noticing that the muscles in his thighs were every bit as impressive as those in his arms, and forcibly reminded herself of her vow. Fortunately, in her opinion, to be truly sexy a man had to be able to laugh…

They braked for a herd of goats trotting along the road, and then for a speed bump. ‘The turnoff’s not far from here,’ Lucy said, her pulses quickening.

The driveway to the villa wound up the hill in a series of hairpin turns; all too clearly she remembered running down them, glancing back over her shoulder in fear of pursuit. It seemed like another lifetime, another woman, so much had happened since then. And then the Spanishstyle stucco villa came in sight and her heart gave an uneasy lurch. It looked very peaceful, the bougainvillaea hanging in fuchsia clouds over the stone wall, the blinds drawn against the glare of the sun.

Troy drew up in front of the door and pocketed his keys. ‘Why don’t you stay here?’

She had an obscure need to confront Raymond Blogden again. ‘I know where the case is,’ she murmured, and slid to the ground.

Troy pushed the doorbell.

The chimes rang deep in the house. A bee buzzed past Lucy’s ear, and from the breadfruit trees behind the house a dove cooed monotonously. Troy leaned hard on the bell, and from inside a man’s voice said irritably, ‘Hold on, I’m on my way.’

Lucy recognized the voice all too well, and unconsciously moved a little closer to Troy. The door swung open, Troy stepped inside without being asked and Lucy,

perforce, followed. ‘What the? Who are you?’

Raymond Blogden blustered. ‘Get out of my—’ And

then he caught sight of Lucy. His recovery was instant. ‘Well, well… I’m glad you came back, Miss Barnes,’ he sneered. ‘I was about to call the police. Breach of contract and destruction of personal property should cover it, don’t you think?’

He was a big man, his black hair slicked back in the heat, his expensive white linen suit dealing as best it could with a figure whose musculature had long ago been subsumed by fat. Rings flashed on his fingers. Lucy remembered how they had dug into her arm and shivered.

Troy said with icy precision, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Blogden—you should be thankful Miss Barnes isn’t at the police station charging you with assault… Go get your case, Lucy. You’re quite safe this time.’

The house was shaded and cool and very quiet. Lucy scurried down the hall to the bedroom that was to have been hers, finding her blue duffel bag exactly where she had left it on the tiled floor. She picked it up and ran back to the foyer. Raymond Blogden’s complexion was several shades redder than when she had left. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me your name, young man?’ he was saying, and to her horror Lucy saw his right hand inching toward his pocket.

‘Troy, he’s got a weapon!’ she cried.

In a blur of movement Troy went on the offensive. Three seconds later Raymond Blogden’s arm was twisted behind his back and Troy was saying calmly, ‘Search his pocket, would you, Lucy?’

As gingerly as if a tarantula inhabited Raymond Blogden’s pocket, Lucy inserted her fingers and came up with a pearl-handled knife that was disconcertingly heavy. ‘We’ll take that,’ Troy said cheerfully. ‘And since I’m rather fussy about those with whom I associate, Mr Blogden, I think I’ll keep my name to myself.’

‘She’s nothing but a hooker,’ Raymond Blogden spat. ‘She dresses it up with fancy words, but that’s all she is.’

‘Shut up,’ Troy said, very softly, ‘or I’ll have your hide for a car seat… Ready, Lucy?’

She was more than ready. She opened the door and heard Troy say, in a voice all the more effective for its lack of emphasis, ‘If I ever see you within fifty feet of Miss Barnes again, I’ll wipe the floor with that pretty white suit of yours… Goodbye, Mr Blogden.’

The sunlight almost blinded Lucy. Troy gunned the motor and surged down the driveway. He was whistling between his teeth and looked extremely pleased with himself. ‘You enjoyed that,’ Lucy said shakily.

‘Damn right I did.’ With casual skill he took the first of the turns. ‘What in heaven’s name made you think you could work for a man like that?’

‘I never met him,’ she said defensively. ‘The interview was in Toronto, with his personnel adviser.’

‘And what do you do that led him to call you a prostitute?’

‘I’m a massage therapist,’ she said. ‘There are certain people who seem to think that massage has everything to do with sex and nothing to do with healing—I get so tired of all the innuendoes and off-color jokes.’

‘It’s a very useful profession,’ Troy said mildly.

She shot him a suspicious glance. ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Kindly don’t equate me with the likes of that creep up in the villa!’

Only wanting to change the subject, Lucy looked distastefully at the knife in her lap. ‘What am I going to do with this?’

‘Keep it. In case you’re ever silly enough to work for someone like him again. Naivete doesn’t pay in any job, but particularly not in yours, I would have thought.’

Troy had spoken with a casual contempt that cut Lucy to the quick. I won’t cry, she thought, I won’t. If I didn’t cry when it happened, why would I cry now?

But the hibiscus blooms that bordered the driveway were running together in big red blobs, as red as Raymond Blogden’s face. She stared fiercely out of the side window of the Jeep and felt Troy slow to a halt as they reached the highway. Then his hand touched her bare elbow. ‘Don’t!’ she muttered, and yanked it away.

‘Look at me, Lucy.’

‘No!’

‘Lucy…’ His fingers closed on her shoulder.

She turned to face him, her eyes brimming with fury and unshed tears, her mouth a mutinous line. ‘You’re only the skipper when you’re on the boat,’ she choked. ‘Let go of me!’

If anything, his hold tightened. Lines of tension scoring his cheeks, his gray eyes bleak, he said, ‘I owe you another apology, don’t I? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m—out of touch with the female sex. You did well to get away from him; he’s as nasty a piece of work as I’ve come across in a long time.’

A tear dripped from her lashes to fall on his wrist. ‘I—I was so f-frightened.’

‘Of course you were, and rightly so. That charming little object in your lap is a switchblade.’ As she regarded it with horror, Troy asked, ‘How did you get away from him?’

‘He has a collection of jade in the hallway. I picked two pieces up and told him I’d drop them if he didn’t stay where he was. I g-guess he didn’t believe me. So I dropped one on the floor and it s-smashed. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do.’ She gave a faint giggle. ‘You should have seen the look on his face. He said he’d paid nine thousand five hundred and forty dollars for it. Once I’d climbed out the window I put the other piece on the sill and ran for my life.’

The look on Troy’s face was one she hadn’t seen before. Admiration had mingled with laughter, and with something else she couldn’t name but that sent a shiver along her nerves. She said fretfully, ‘Let’s get out of here—I want to go back to Seawind.’

Troy checked for traffic and turned left. ‘The supermarket’s going to be an anticlimax after this.’

Knowing her lack of culinary skills, Lucy wasn’t so sure that he was right. Although wrestling with menus would certainly beat wrestling with Raymond Blogden. ‘I need to blow my nose,’ she mumbled.

Troy fumbled in the pocket of his shorts and produced a small wad of tissues. He checked them out, then said, grinning at her, ‘No engine grease—I thing they’re okay.’

It would be a great deal safer to dislike Troy Donovan, Lucy thought, swiping at her wet cheeks then burying her nose in the tissues and blowing hard. When he grinned like that it not only took years off his age, it put his sexual quotient right up there with Robert Redford’s. She blew again, reminding herself that violence was what had put the grin there in the first place. A physical confrontation with another man. She’d do well to remember that.

She put the tissues in her skirt pocket and said, before she could lose her nerve, ‘Thank you for going with me, Troy. I was dreading having to explain the whole situation to the police.’

‘You’re entirely welcome,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t had as much fun in months.’

‘You’d have made a good pirate,’ she snapped.

‘Blondbeard?’ he hazarded.

Smothering a smile, she went on severely, ‘You like violence?’

‘Come on, Lucy—that was a situation straight out of a Walt Disney movie. He was the bad guy, I was the good guy coming to the rescue of the beautiful maiden, and because I was bigger than him and, I flatter myself, in better condition, right triumphed. How often in these days of moral ambiguities do we have the chance to participate in something so straightforward?’

She frowned. ‘You haven’t answered the question, and I don’t think the grin on your face is quite as easily explained as all that.’

‘Of course it’s not,’ he said shortly. ‘Mind your own business.’

So she wasn’t to be told why Troy hadn’t had as much fun in months. And his tone of voice had pushed her away as decisively as if he’d strong-armed her.

Women must be after him in droves, she thought, her lips compressed. So, didn’t he like women? Certainly he hadn’t answered her when she’d asked if he was married or living with someone.

All her warning signals came on alert. Keep your distance. So what if he’s a handsome blond? You know your weakness for them and you’re not going to fall into that trap again. You’re not!

But the sunlight through the windshield was glancing on the blond hair on Troy’s arms, shadowing the hollow in the crook of his elbow where the veins stood out blue, and his fingers gripped the wheel with an unsettling combination of sensitivity and strength. Lucy remembered the speed with which he’d pinioned Raymond Blogden’s arm behind his back, the strength with which he’d almost lifted the other man off the floor.

The knight in shining armor. The villain. And she herself cast as the beautiful maiden.

A hackneyed story. But—she knew from the languorous throb of blood through her veins—a primitive and still powerful story, nevertheless.

She’d better bring her mind back to the menus. She could handle Seawind; she had no fears on that score. But meals for several days for four people, one of them the steel-eyed Troy Donovan? Now that was a challenge.

Not nearly the challenge of keeping her distance from that same steel-eyed Troy Donovan.

An hour later, after paying ten dollars for a driver’s license, and having been given Troy’s account number at the supermarket and strict instructions to drive on the left, Lucy was on her own. All she had to do was get the supplies for tonight’s dinner and come up with ideas for the next few days.

That was all, she thought wryly, standing in front of the meat counter and wishing she’d paid more attention in her grade nine home economics classes. But home economics had taken third place to sailing and the captain of the basketball team: six feet tall, blond and—by the not very demanding standards of a fourteen-year-old— incredibly sexy.

Tom Bentham. Who’d dated her, Lucy, twice and then gone steady for the next two years with petite and pretty Tanya Holiday.

Someone jostled her and Lucy brought her mind back to the present with a bump. She roamed the store, cudgeling her brain for some of her mother’s recipes. Her mother combined a career as a forensic pathologist with a reputation as one of the city’s most elegant hostesses, whereas Lucy’s idea of fun on a Saturday night was a group of friends, a case of beer and pizza ordered from the neighborhood Italian restaurant.

She began putting things in the cart. The couple from New York no doubt had very sophisticated tastes, and Troy, she’d be willing to bet, was on a par with them. A man didn’t acquire the kind of confidence he wore like a second skin by doing nothing but chartering yachts in Tortola. She’d got to impress him. She didn’t think he’d fire her—he needed her too much for that—but he could make life very unpleasant for her if he chose.

Another forty-five minutes had passed before she was lugging the brown paper bags of food on board. Troy, stripped to the waist, his hands coated with grease, had the various components of a pump spread over the table in the cockpit. He gave her a preoccupied nod as she eased past him. ‘I ran the engine while you were gone— so the refrigerator’s cold.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and disappeared into the cabin as fast as she could. His image had burned into her brain: the dent in his chin, the entrancing hollow of his collarbone, the tangled blond hair on his deep chest. It’s not fair, she thought wildly. No man should look that gorgeous.

Not only gorgeous, but oblivious to his own appeal. Because Troy, she was quite sure, wasn’t trying to impress her with his physique. Troy was merely oiling the pump and didn’t want to get his shirt dirty.

He wasn’t interested in her enough to try and impress her.

Scowling, Lucy stepped down into the galley. It was past six o’clock already. She’d better get moving. She’d decided to make a crab and cream cheese dip, chicken Wellington, a sweet potato casserole, broccoli with a hollandaise sauce, and a chocolate fondue with fruit. All of these were tried and true recipes of her mother’s that she herself had made at least once. She’d mix the pastry first and put it in the refrigerator to set, then do the two sauces and get the dip in the oven.

An hour later Troy came down the stairs, shrugging into his shirt. ‘How’re you doing? I’m getting hungry.’

The hollandaise sauce had curdled, so she’d had to resuscitate it in the blender; she’d forgotten to get cream for the chocolate sauce and every inch of counterspace was cluttered with dirty dishes and partially cooked food. ‘Fine,’ she said, trying to look cool and collected when she could feel the heat scorching her cheeks and wisps of damp hair clinging to her neck.

‘I wouldn’t want the guests seeing the galley in such a mess,’ he commented.

‘Troy,’ Lucy snapped, ‘I haven’t figured out where everything is yet, I’ve had a long and difficult day, and chaos is a sign of creativity. Didn’t you know that?’

The anger that was so integral to him flared in response. ‘Chaos can also be a sign of disorganization. Didn’t you know that?’

It had been a more than difficult day, and Lucy suddenly realized she was spoiling for a fight. Making a valiant effort to control her temper, she said, ‘The crab dip will be done in fifteen minutes, and I’ll serve it to you in the cockpit.’

‘I’m serious, Lucy… People come on these cruises to relax, to get away from it all. The state the galley’s in is totally unacceptable.’

She should count to ten. She should smile politely and ask him if he’d like a drink. Lucy banged a saucepan on the plastic counter and cried, ‘You may be the skipper—but I’m the cook! The galley’s my territory. Not yours. I’d appreciate your keeping that in mind.’

He leaned forward, his voice honed to an edge as deadly as the pearl-handled switchblade. ‘Don’t think I’m so desperate for crew that I can’t fire you.’

‘Go ahead!’ she stormed. ‘I dare you.’

Her eyes, fueled by rage, were the turbulent blue of the sea under gray skies. In her free hand she was clutching a butcher-knife she’d been using to chop onions; her breast was heaving under her blue knit shirt, her whole body taut with defiance.

Troy said scathingly, ‘You’re behaving like a ten-year-old.’

‘At least I’m capable of emotion!’

‘Just what do you mean by that?’

‘I mean you’re as cold as the refrigerator. You’re frozen, solid as the block of ice in the—’

A man’s voice floated down the companionway. ‘Ahoy, Seawind… Anyone on board?’

Troy’s muttered profanity made Lucy blink. He said furiously, ‘Don’t think we’re through with this—because we’re not. I’m the boss on this boat, Lucy, and you’d better remember it.’ Then he turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time. She heard a stranger’s jovial laugh and then the murmur of masculine conversation.

For two cents she’d follow Troy up those steps, march down the dock and leave him in the lurch. Let him find another crew-member! What did she care? One of the reasons she’d become self-employed was so she wouldn’t have to deal with dictatorial male bosses. Because one thing was clear to her: what she had earlier labeled as Troy’s confidence wasn’t confidence at all. It was arrogance. Downright arrogance.

High-handedness. Despotism. Tyranny.

The buzzer rang on the stove. The crab dip was as perfectly browned as any her mother had ever made, and smelled delicious. Balancing it on top of one of the gas elements on the stove, Lucy heaved a heavy sigh. Tyrant though Troy was, she still wanted to sail out of the harbor the day after tomorrow. She wanted to hear the slap of waves under the prow and feel the helm quiver with responsiveness. She wanted to swim in the turquoise waters of a coral reef…

She reached for the packages of crackers she’d bought, and five minutes later was climbing the steps with a platter on which the crackers and some celery stalks were artistically arranged around the dip. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a friendly smile at the man sitting across from Troy.

‘Jack Nevil,’ he said bluffly, getting to his feet. ‘Skipper of Lady Jane… Is this for us? You’ve lucked out, Troy.’

Lucy smothered a smile. Troy said with a dryness that wasn’t lost on her, ‘I sure have… Want a beer, Jack? Or something stronger?’

‘A beer’d be great… and one for the lady?’

‘The name’s Lucy,’ she said limpidly. ‘I’d love one; it’s been pretty hot in the galley.’

Her eyes, wide with innocence, met Troy’s. He was quite aware of her double meaning, she saw with some satisfaction. He said blandly, ‘Jack, who was that chemist who won the Nobel prize—Prigogine? His thesis was that at a state of maximum disequilibrium, a system will spontaneously create its own order—I think that’s Lucy’s theory of cooking.’

‘If this dip is anything to go by, the theory works,’ Jack said enthusiastically. ‘Have a seat, Lucy.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’d better get back to work. Troy’s a hard taskmaster.’

‘Only that I have a preference for eating before midnight,’ Troy responded equally amiably. ‘Thanks, Lucy…see you later.’

And who had won that round? Lucy wondered as she went back to the steaming-hot galley. If she were an optimist she could call it a tie.

But Jack Nevil and her mother’s crab dip had probably saved her from being fired.

Two hours later Lucy twirled the last strawberry in the chocolate sauce and took another sip of the German dessert wine in her glass. She’d drunk rather more wine than was good for her in the course of the meal. Maybe to hide the fact that Troy had spoken very little as they ate. Or maybe so she’d have the strength to face all the dirty dishes stashed below. ‘What a glorious night,’ she said soulfully.

Jack had left before dinner, having demolished the crab dip and three beers. She and Troy were eating on deck, where the smooth black water was illumined by a three-quarter moon and stars glimmered in the blackness overhead. It was blissfully, blessedly cool.

‘That was an excellent meal, Lucy,’ Troy said brusquely. ‘But entirely too elaborate—I can’t have you spending all day in the galley when you’ll be needed out on deck.’

She took a gulp of wine. ‘Is that what’s called damning with faint praise?’ she said provocatively.

His eye-sockets were sunk in shadow, his irises reflecting the harbor’s obsidian surface. ‘And that’s another thing,’ he said, in the same hard voice. ‘You and I can fight like a couple of tomcats from sun-up till sundown tomorrow. But when the Merritts come on board there’ll be no more fighting. We’ll get along even if it kills us.’

To her horror she heard herself say, ‘You mean you’ll actually be nice to me?’

He banged his clenched fist so hard on the table that the cutlery jumped. ‘I’ve never in my life met a woman as contentious as you! Don’t you ever let up?’

‘I wouldn’t be so cranky if you’d act like a human being,’ she retorted. ‘It’s because you’re so—so unreachable.’

‘Unreachable is exactly what I am, and what I intend to remain,’ he answered grimly. ‘I said no male-female stuff and I meant it. And don’t, if you value living, ask why.’

Any flip reply Lucy might have made died on her lips, because there was genuine pain underlying Troy’s voice and the moonlight lay cold along his tightly held jaw and compressed lips. He had a beautiful mouth, she thought unwillingly. Strongly carved yet with the potential for tenderness. What had made him so unreachable? Had filled him to the brim with suppressed rage?

Whatever it was, it was his secret. Nothing to do with her.

Swallowing the strange bitterness this conclusion caused her, Lucy let her thoughts march on. There was more than an element of truth in everything Troy had said. The meal had been too elaborate. And people didn’t pay high rates for a charter to spend their time listening to the crew fight all day. She downed the last of her wine and said forthrightly, ‘I’ll prepare simpler meals from now on. And I’ll do my best not to lose my temper again.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘Or at least not more than once a day.’

His mouth softened infinitesimally. ‘I should have told you there’s a very good delicatessen on one of the backstreets—you can buy a lot of stuff already prepared and freeze it. Quite a lot of it’s West Indian style, so the guests enjoy it. Plus, it would make life much easier for you.’

‘Oh. That’s a good idea.’ And because Troy’s voice, like his face, had gentled, and because she was alone on the deck of a yacht in the tropics by moonlight with a handsome blond man, she babbled, ‘I’m going to give the galley a good cleaning tomorrow before I bring in the supplies. The brass lamps and fittings are tarnished, so I’ll polish them, and then I’ll—’

‘It’s okay, Lucy… If there’s one thing I’ve learned today it’s that you’re a hard worker. Why don’t you go to bed now? You must be exhausted. You can take one of the cabins downstairs and I’ll sleep up at the bow.’

‘I think you just gave me a compliment,’ Lucy said dazedly. ‘A real one.’

‘I believe I did. Off you go.’

Struggling to collect her wits, Lucy muttered, ‘I’m going to do the dishes first, they won’t take long.’

He stood up. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

As he stretched lazily, a bare strip of skin showed itself between his waistband and his T-shirt. She dragged her gaze away. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Two confrontations with Raymond Blogden today, along with a yelling match with me, is more than enough for one woman. Come on, let’s get at them.’

‘You can be so darn nice when you forget about being angry,’ Lucy blurted, then, before he could reply, ran on, ‘I know—I shouldn’t have said that. My sisters always tell me I speak before I think, and they’re right. They’re right about nearly everything,’ she added gloomily, ‘it’s very depressing. But it seems such a waste when you could be nice all the time.’

‘You’d be bored,’ Troy said. Then he raised one brow in mockery as he gathered the dessert dishes from the table. ‘Besides, I was just practising for when our guests arrive.’

And that, thought Lucy, was that. After picking up the leftover chocolate sauce, which now looked sickeningly sweet, she followed Troy down the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE

LUCY woke at daylight. She knew exactly where she was as soon as her eyes opened. On board Seawind in Road Harbor. With four weeks ahead of her to cruise the Virgin Islands.

She jumped out of bed, filled with the tingling anticipation she had felt as a little girl every Christmas Eve. Except that this time she was the one who’d given herself a gift. The gift of time, she thought fancifully. What better gift was there?

Although even Christmas Eve hadn’t always been trustworthy, she remembered, her hands faltering as she pulled on her darkest shorts. Her father had died when she was three, and confidently, at three, four and five, Lucy had requested Santa Claus to bring him back. Only when her elder sister Marcia had laughed at her efforts had she ceased to hope that she would find him early in the morning under the Christmas tree among all her other presents.

She gave her head a little shake. She rarely thought of her father now. And she had a lot to do today. Reaching up to look out of the open port, she saw that the sun was already glinting on the water, and again she was swept with excitement. When she went to the supermarket today she’d leave a message on her mother’s answering machine, explaining her change of plans, then she was free. All she had to do was work hard and have fun.

And keep her temper with Tory Donovan.

She could handle Troy. She was through with big blond men.

Just as everything had gone wrong the day before, today the gods were with Lucy. Before she left for town, the galley, the brass and the woodwork were all gleaming with cleanliness. Near the delicatessen she found a spice shop that sold a series of recipe books with all sorts of suggestions for easy and tasty meals and aperitifs—just what she needed. She bought the first volume and several bottles of mixed spices, had a lemonade in a little restaurant and drew up her menus, then hit the deli and the supermarket.

It gave her great pleasure to stow everything away in her tidy galley. In the tiny microwave over the gas stove she heated rotis for lunch—West Indian sandwiches stuffed with curried chicken and vegetables, that tasted delicious washed down with ginger ale. Troy had been scrubbing the deck and polishing the winches; they ate in a silence that she was quite prepared to call companionable. When she’d cleared away the dishes, she tackled the three cabins that led off the saloon.

She was down on her knees wiping the floor of the aft cabin’s shower when Troy spoke behind her. ‘Let’s take a break, Lucy.’

She glanced round, swiping at her hair with the back of her hand. ‘How does it look?’

‘You’ve done wonders,’ he said.

His praise gave her a warm glow of pride. ‘I’ve had a ball, actually—the woodwork and the fittings are all so beautiful that it’s a pleasure to clean them. Much more fun than cleaning my apartment.’ She sat back on her heels, stripping off her rubber gloves. ‘What was that about a break?’

‘I have to run the engine a couple of hours every day to keep the refrigerator and freezer cold. I thought we might head for Peter Island and have a swim. What have you got left to do?’

‘The saloon floor. Make the beds and put out the towels.’ Lucy tilted her head to one side. ‘You did say swim, didn’t you?’

She had managed to coax from him one of his reluctant smiles—a smile that, oddly, hurt something deep within her. He looked at her bucket and sponge. ‘I hate to tear you away from something you’re enjoying so much.’

‘For you, I’ll make the sacrifice.’ She got to her feet. ‘Will you show me how to snorkel?’

He looked surprised. ‘You don’t know how?’

‘Troy, I’ve never been further south than Boston in my entire life. Everything down here’s new to me.’

Her forehead was beaded with perspiration and there was a smudge of dirt on her chin, but her eyes were dancing and her smile was without artifice. Troy said slowly, ‘You’re making up for lost time, aren’t you?’

She wouldn’t have expected such discernment—or even interest—from him. Her heart beating a little faster, she said, ‘I guess I am. These four weeks seem like time out. A break from my normal life. I—I seem to have lost my sense of direction somewhere along the way.’

As though the words were torn from him, he said, ‘You’re not alone there.’ Then he raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Let’s pull up anchor and get out of here.’

No more revelations, Lucy realized, and knew better than to push. ‘I’ll dump the bucket and be right there,’ she said. But for a moment she stood still, watching him stride across the saloon and up the steps. His leg muscles were those of a runner, but what was he running from?

And how had he lost his way?

Once they were anchored off the beach at Peter Island, Lucy went below to put on her swimsuit. She had bought it—acting on another of her impulses—in the middle of a hailstorm in March. It was, in direct consequence, a bright red and quite minimal bikini. If she’d known about Troy Donovan, she thought, trying without success to cover even a fraction of her cleavage, she’d have purchased a staid one-piece. In an innocuous shade of beige. She pulled a white sport shirt over the bikini and went up on deck.

But the wind instantly whipped the shirt away from her body. As Troy turned around, about to say something, his jaw dropped, and he gaped at her as though someone had hit him hard in the chest. She was tall and full-breasted, her hips ripely curved, her long legs tapering to narrow ankles and feet. As an adolescent Lucy had hated her body, for she had shot up at the age of thirteen, towering over the boys in her class yet having to endure their covert and not-so-covert sniggers at her generous breasts. She had wanted to be tiny and delicate and feminine, like Tanya Holliday.

In the intervening years she had more or less made peace with her build. But right now she felt absurdly self-conscious, as though she were fourteen again. Grabbing at the shirt, she yanked it over what felt like an immense expanse of bare flesh.

This gave her something to do. Because if Troy was staring at her, she was struggling hard not to return the compliment. Under his taut belly his dark green trunks sat low on his hips; any attempt to regard his torso as nothing but neatly delineated groups of muscles—like the diagrams in her anatomy text—was a miserable failure. She said weakly, ‘Where’s the snorkeling gear?’

He snapped his mouth shut, knelt down and began hauling fins and masks out of a storage hatch. The wind played with his thick, unruly hair. Lucy quickly found a pair of fins that fit, then Troy passed her a mask. ‘Try this one. Keep your hair out of the way—when you breathe in through your nose, the mask should stay airtight.’

The first mask was too big. As she pulled on the second Troy came closer, checking the seal. ‘That looks good,’ he said. ‘You put this piece in your mouth and clamp your teeth over it. If water gets in the tube, throw your head back and breathe out hard.’

He was standing so close to her that Lucy was having difficulty breathing at all. Fighting to subdue her pleasure in the way Troy towered over her, she nodded her understanding of his instructions.

‘The reef’s to our left,’ he added. ‘I’m going to dive down and check that the anchor’s holding, then we’ll head over there.’

He pulled on his own fins and slid off the transom of the boat into the water. Lucy shed her shirt and followed with rather less grace; with her fins flapping in front of her and an undignified splash she fell forward into the sea. But she soon discovered that the fins added immeasurably to her speed, and by the time Troy surfaced with a thumbs-up sign she was over the reef. She dunked her mask into the water and gave a gasp of delight.

Below her in the clear turquoise water big purple seafans waved in the current, and a coral that looked like nothing so much as ostrich feathers swayed lazily back and forth. Patterns of sunlight danced on the white sand. Through the prongs of a hard coral shaped like antlers a school of fish darted; when they turned as one, their scales flashed with the iridescence of sapphires. Lucy opened her mouth to tell Troy about them, swallowed seawater as bitter as Epsom salts and raised her face, choking.

Immediately, it seemed, Troy was beside her. ‘You okay?’

She spat out the water and the mouthpiece. ‘The fish— they’re like jewels!’

His own mouthpiece was hanging by his ear and he had pushed his mask up. ‘Indeed. But when you’re underwater you’d better keep your mouth shut—unless you want an early supper.’

‘Yuk,’ she said. ‘I never did like sushi.’

‘And, seriously, don’t brush against any of the corals. Fire coral can sting you quite badly.’

‘I won’t.’ Flashing him another smile before she adjusted her equipment, she struck out again. There were fish everywhere: black, yellow, silver, red and blue, small and large, striped, spotted and lined. Fascinated, she hovered over the shelves and crenellations of the corals, then Troy gestured to her and she swam over to him, forgetting how little of her body the bikini covered, ignorant of how gracefully she moved, her limbs all pale curves, her cleavage shadowed. Following his pointed finger she saw three small pink squid fluting through the water, their huge eyes, like silver coins, riveting her gaze.

Impetuously she surfaced again, shoving her mask away from her face. ‘Thank you so much for bringing me here, Troy!’ she sputtered. ‘It’s unimaginably beautiful—like another world.’ But then her voice died away. ‘What’s the matter?’

He said with a savagery that frightened her, ‘You’re the one who’s unimaginably beautiful.’ The flat of his hand hard against her back, he pulled her closer, the water swirling between them. Then he bent his head and kissed her wet lips, his mask bumping against hers, his arm heavy across her shoulders.

Her fear vanished. It was as though all the wonders she had just seen, all the brilliant hues of the fish and of the corals, had exploded in her body in a wild kaleidoscope of color, and for a split second that was outside of time Lucy was consumed by an all-powerful and allconsuming happiness. But, as suddenly as he had seized her, Troy thrust her away, his heavy breathing overriding the splash and ripple of the sea. He looked as though he hated her, she thought blankly, and could not, for the life of her, think of a word to say.

‘We’d better go back,’ he grated. ‘We’ve still got a lot to do.’ As if he was being pursued by sharks, he began stroking toward Seawind in a strong overarm crawl.

Lucy, barely remembering to tread water, stayed where she was. She was about as adept a judge of character as she was a gourmet cook, she decided. Never, in a thousand years, would she have anticipated that kiss.

Troy hated her. So why had he kissed her?

Or did he hate her because he’d kissed her?

She had no answers to either question, and she could see him hauling himself up on Seawind’s stern. She didn’t think he’d leave her behind. But then what did she really know about the man called Troy Donovan?

Painfully, pitifully little.

Once she’d washed the salt water from her body with the transom hose, Lucy winched in the anchor and disappeared below to get changed. She was pegging her wet swimsuit to the lifeline that ran round the hull when Troy finally spoke to her. ‘You can call that kiss temporary insanity or insatiable lust or just plain curiosity… I really don’t care. I assure you it won’t happen again.’

There was as little feeling in his voice as if he were discussing the lunch menu. Carefully not looking at him, because if she did she wasn’t sure she’d be answerable for the consequences, Lucy went below decks and started washing and buffing the mahogany floor of the saloon. When they reached the harbor, she went to the forepeak and used the agreed hand signals to anchor Seawind. No need for conversation there. Afterward, she finished the floor, made two of the three beds with fresh sheets and threw together a shrimp salad for supper—activities that kept her busy and out of Troy’s way, but did nothing to tame the tumult of emotion in her breast.

She was bent over the refrigerator, wondering where she’d hidden the bottles of dressing, when a sixth sense told her Troy had come downstairs and was watching her. Feeling her scalp crawl, not looking at him, she said, ‘Ten minutes and we can eat.’ As she moved two blocks of cheese to one side she saw the yellow caps on the dressing and pulled the bottles out. ‘Good, there they are.’

‘What the devil happened to your arms?’ he demanded.

She put the bottles on the counter and clicked the hatch shut. ‘What are you talking about?’ she said, glowering at him.

He stepped on to the narrow strip of floor between the stove and the sinks, crowding her into the corner. ‘Those bruises—how did you get them?’

Craning her neck, Lucy for the first time saw the ugly purple blotches high on the backs of her arms. Involuntarily she shivered, knowing exactly how she’d gotten them. ‘Blogden—when he grabbed me, his rings dug in.’

Troy’s epithet was unprintable. But Lucy wasn’t in the mood to be impressed. ‘I wonder what his motive was,’ she said shrewishly. ‘Temporary insanity, plain curiosity or insatiable lust?’

There was a small, deadly silence. ‘Are you comparing me to him?’

As clearly as if it had just happened Lucy remembered how Troy’s kiss had filled her with a joy as many-hued and vivid as the fish, and how everything he had done since then had repudiated that joy. She was honest enough to know she was as angry with herself as with him—for she’d been the one to feel the joy, she who had sworn off tall, blond men. She didn’t want to fall in love again, it hurt too much and got her nowhere. She said, ‘I am, yes. Although overall I’d have to say he showed more emotion than you.’

‘Don’t push me, Lucy.’

‘Why did you kiss me, Troy?’

‘I gave you three good reasons.’

‘I want the real one.’

‘I already gave it to you,’ he said with a wolfish smile. ‘Insatiable lust.’

Her knees were trembling. Bracing them against the cupboard door, Lucy said, ‘You’re the one who said no male-female stuff between us.’

‘Haven’t you ever wanted something—or in this case, someone—so badly your whole body told you what it wanted?’ he quoted mockingly.

Lucy paled. ‘You know what’s so horrible about all this?’ she demanded, with sudden, searing honesty. ‘I liked you kissing me. I wanted you never to stop.’ She dashed at the tears that had filled her eyes. ‘What a stupid idiot I am… because you’re nothing but a coldblooded manipulator. You wouldn’t recognize an emotion if you fell over it.’

If her vision hadn’t been obscured by tears she might have seen Troy flinch. But all he said was, ‘So you’re not quite as immune as you thought you were. Maybe we should sleep together, Lucy—then you could add me to your total. One more blond hunk to notch in your belt. Or wherever it is you keep tally.’

There was plenty of emotion in his voice now, and all of it was anger. ‘No, thank you,’ she said, as steadily as she could. ‘I’m a little more discriminating than that.’

‘That wasn’t the impression I got.’

That he should so misread her hurt horribly. She wasn’t one bit immune, she thought wretchedly, and knew she had to end this. Turning, she cut three slices of bread with a reckless disregard for safety, plastered them with butter, put two on Troy’s plate and one on hers, then put the butter back in the refrigerator. How could she possibly have woken this morning feeling as if it was Christmas Day? More to the point, how on earth was she going to get through the next four weeks?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.