Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  ‘So.’ Laurent sat back in his chair and applied some fine tuning to his guitar. ‘What would you like to sing?’

  Chellie shook her head. ‘You play something,’ she said. ‘And if I know the words, I’ll join in.’

  He thought for a moment, then played a few soft chords, quite different from any of the lilting West Indian or Creole numbers she’d expected.

  He said, ‘You will know this, I think? “Plaisir d’Amour”?’

  She knew it all right, with its echoing lament for betrayal and lost love, and for a moment she was tempted to ask him to choose another less potent melody. But that, she knew immediately, would be unwise. It would simply cause unnecessary fuss, might even turn an unwanted spotlight on her fragile emotional state. And that she could not risk—in case Ash looked again, and saw too much.

  So, she thought reluctantly, it was far better to sing with good grace and have done with it.

  She let him play the melody, then came in with the reprise, her voice warm and strong. ‘“Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment, Chagrin d’amour dure toute la vie”.’

  She sang the whole thing through in French, her own inner sadness and regret lending a whole new depth of emotion to her performance, then repeated the plangent melancholy refrain one last time in English. ‘“The joys of love are but a moment long, The pain of love endures the whole life long”.’

  It was, she thought, as she allowed the final syllables to linger on the night air, a reminder worth repeating.

  When she’d finished there was a silence, then Laurent said, ‘That was wonderful.’ He turned to Ash. ‘Didn’t you think so, mon ami?’

  ‘Beautiful.’ He looked at Chellie, his mouth twisting faintly. ‘Although it wasn’t quite what I had in mind. Those are fairly negative sentiments.’

  ‘Negative,’ she said. ‘Or realistic, perhaps.’ She gave a slight shrug. ‘Everyone has to make their own interpretation—choose for themselves.’

  ‘So, what side of the fence do you come down on, Michelle?’ The question was put lightly but his eyes were intense, fixed on hers. A hungry gaze, she realised. Warning her that he was asking far more than his words suggested at face value.

  Telling her without equivocation that her answer would decide whether or not she would spend the night in his arms.

  The joys of love are but a moment long. The line still sang in her mind, with its chilling emphasis that, however passionate or miraculous that moment might be, it could not last. And that, if she surrendered to it, an eternity of loneliness might follow. Something she could not afford to forget.

  Chellie lifted her chin. She said, quietly and clearly, ‘That’s quite simple. I choose not to be unhappy for the rest of my life.’

  She forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you both goodnight.’

  She walked away with her head held high, and without hurrying or glancing back. But at the bottom of the companionway she stopped, leaning shakily against the wall, pressing a hand to her trembling mouth.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘How long am I going to be able to carry on pretending?’

  Up in the wheelhouse there was a heavy silence which Laurent eventually broke, his voice quiet. ‘You have a real problem, mon ami.’

  Dull colour spread across Ash’s cheekbones. He reached for another cheroot. Lit it. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘First handle Victor,’ Laurent said shortly. ‘Explain to him why you have decided to keep the girl on St Hilaire instead of taking her back to England, as instructed. And see how near you come to the truth, hein?’ he added with dry emphasis.

  Ash dealt with Victor and his concerns in one succinct phrase.

  ‘I made it clear from the start that the final negotiations would be conducted on my own territory,’ he added curtly.

  Laurent gave him a level look. ‘Unfortunately Sir Clive Greer does not wish to come halfway across the world to make the payment and collect his daughter—and he is not a man used to having his wishes disregarded.’

  Ash shrugged. ‘He can take it or leave it. Just as long as he pays us the agreed amount.’

  Laurent stared at him. ‘You are still saying this is just about money?’

  Ash drew deeply on the cheroot. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘What else?’

  ‘Then why keep her with you instead of taking the next flight from St Vincent or Barbados?’

  ‘Because in a situation like this, he’s the obvious one for her to turn to,’ Ash said. ‘Yet she’s never even mentioned him. Admitted he’s her father.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Don’t you find that strange?’

  Laurent gave him a cynical look. ‘He is buying her back. That is all you need to know. And it is clear that he already regards her as damaged goods,’ he added, his mouth twisting in distaste. ‘So beware of making a bad situation worse.’

  ‘Why?’ Ash stubbed out the cheroot with sudden violence. ‘Because he may reduce the price?’

  ‘And you said it was just the money.’ Laurent shook his head as he began to collect the used crockery together. ‘I think you are fooling yourself, mon vieux.’

  Ash glared at him. ‘When I need your advice, I’ll ask for it.’

  Laurent grinned back. ‘Life is too short, I think,’ he said, and began to hum ‘Plaisir d’Amour’ softly under his breath.

  Chellie sat on the edge of the bed, head bent, fingers almost convulsively gripping the edge of the mattress.

  She’d done the right thing, she told herself with harsh vehemence. The sensible thing. The only thing.

  She’d made it crystal-clear to Ash that she intended to hold him at arm’s length for the remainder of their acquaintance. However long that might be.

  Two days, she thought, if she was lucky. If the consul turned out to be co-operative and helpful, and actually believed her unlikely story. And then she would be on her way out of Ash’s life for ever.

  But going where?

  That was something she hadn’t yet thought through with any clarity. The present had been occupying her mind too fully to spare much time for the future.

  But she’d made a start by accepting that Ash could never be part of it, for so many reasons.

  He was very much an enigma, she thought, and that in itself carried its own kind of glamour. And he’d saved her, and she would always be grateful for that. So maybe that was all there was to it—and one day she would only remember the gratitude and dismiss the rest as a passing fancy.

  But now she had to concentrate on the rest of her life. Galling as it was, it was clear she had little choice but to return to England. She needed access to money, and although the money from her late mother’s legacy only brought in a modest income, it would support her until she could find work of some kind. And a bedsit, too. She could no longer afford her old flat.

  Besides, by this time Ramon would probably have run up astronomical bills on her credit cards, and she would have to deal with that.

  She would also need to get some qualifications. Becoming a professional singer was beyond her reach, but a catering course would be useful, she thought slowly, although she was cancelling her original wild idea of working on boats. Dry land would be much safer. Or maybe she would learn computing skills.

  She sighed soundlessly. The outlook seemed pretty bleak. She’d been taught a very costly lesson in the past weeks—but the financial implications were the least of it. And somehow she would have to deal with that. Somehow.

  But first and foremost she had to tackle the consul—get him on her side. Because she didn’t want to contemplate what might happen if he refused to help. And they were not always sympathetic to people turning up on their doorstep without means.

  I should have to turn to Ash again, she thought, her heart missing a painful beat. I’d have no choice. I can’t count on some other saviour coming to my rescue.

  She slid off the bed and began to undress, her mind still going in weary circles.

&nbs
p; She would have to borrow some more clothes, of course. That was unavoidable. She couldn’t visit the consul wearing a crumpled denim skirt or Mama Rita’s black dress, not if she wanted to be taken seriously.

  Some underwear, a pair of cotton trousers and a couple of tops should be enough, she thought, replacing the crimson blouse and skirt on their hanger and touching their silky folds with a rueful hand. Emergency rations from now on.

  And she would have to find some way of compensating her unknown benefactress, too, for the unrestricted access to her wardrobe.

  Although she probably won’t miss any of the stuff I’ve used, Chellie thought with a faint shrug. Most of it seems to be brand-new. I expect she has a new selection in every port.

  But she’d return what she could, she decided—washed, ironed and pristine.

  She took another quick shower, then cleansed and toned her face, and ran a brush through her hair before reaching for her nightgown.

  And paused, looking at her naked reflection in the mirror, seeing herself for the first time as an object of desire in a man’s eyes. Remembering, with a sharp indrawn breath, how Ash had stared at her, his gaze urgent—demanding. Wanting her.

  No one, she thought, had ever looked at her in quite that way before. And maybe no one would ever again.

  And she’d rejected him. She closed her eyes, pressing her clenched fist against her mouth. She’d gone for the wise, brave option. Obeyed her mind and not the unbidden, uncontrollable clamour in her flesh.

  But would Ash accept her no for an answer? Or would he choose instead to come and find her—and take—because he knew that was what she really wanted…?

  She could not be dishonest with herself any longer.

  There was a flask of her favourite scent among the toiletries in the bathroom. Chellie found herself almost dreamily touching the crystal stopper to her throat, her breasts, the curve of her elbows and her thighs.

  She picked up the lip-lustre she’d used earlier and softened the lines of her mouth with colour.

  The girl looking back at her from the mirror seemed totally alien, her bare skin faintly flushed, her eyes wide and drowsy with expectancy and her mouth curving into a slow smile.

  She breathed the cloud of fragrance rising from her warm flesh, and the older, muskier scent that she realised was intermingled with it. A scent that was totally wanton—and wholly female.

  There was an ache in her breasts, their rosy peaks already jutting in excitement. A soft, sensual throb that was echoed deep inside her and yearned to be assuaged.

  She was a woman at last—ready and eager for her lover.

  He will come to me, she thought. He must…

  She went softly to the door and drew back the little bolt she had fastened earlier. She extinguished all the lights except the small shaded lamp beside the bed.

  Then she slid under the covers, drawing the sheet loosely up to her hips, and settled back against the pillows to wait for him.

  It was his own choice now, she thought. All he had to do was tap at the door, and she would say his name and open her arms to welcome him.

  She measured out the time by the pace of her own heartbeat. Was it really so agonisingly slow?

  And when at last she heard his footsteps, descending the companionway and approaching down the passage, her heart seemed to stop beating altogether.

  She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the door, listening—hoping for his knock.

  She heard him slow—come to a halt outside her door. There was a silence—endless—brooding—and she wanted to call out to him, but her taut throat muscles refused to obey her.

  She heard a faint noise, saw the doorhandle turn slightly. Her entire body tensed in a mixture of nervousness and longing as she waited for the door to open.

  But it remained where it was, and a moment later she realised the handle had been gently released again.

  Then she heard him going away from her, his footsteps fading, and presently the sound of his own door shutting with an awful finality.

  She knew then that he would not return. That she would spend the night alone. And she turned over, burying her face in the pillow, her body as rigid and as cold as a stone.

  And, presently, she wept.

  Chapter Seven

  CHELLIE awoke early the following morning and lay for a while, looking out at the cloudless sky. The storm of tears that had assailed her the previous night had left her feeling drained of all emotion. At one point she had even been forced to stuff the corner of the pillow into her mouth to muffle the harsh sobs that were tearing through her, terrified that they might be heard. And eventually, she supposed, she must have fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  She could remember brief, uneasy dreams, but none of them had left any lasting trace.

  And now it was the next day, reality once more. All dreams must be forgotten. She had to get up and repair the ravages, and pretend that everything was fine.

  Maybe I should take up acting as a career, she thought with a grimace as she pushed back the sheet and got out of bed.

  The scent she had applied with such hope last night still lingered on her skin, making her feel vaguely nauseated. She knew she would never wear it again.

  She looked pale, she thought critically, catching sight of herself in the mirror, and her eyes felt bruised, but apart from that she appeared relatively together. Her face would not give away any secrets.

  She showered rapidly, and dressed in pale pink linen shorts and a matching camisole top. Then she made her way straight to the galley, reviewing all the information that Laurent had passed on yesterday.

  Today, the bread was cut precisely, and toasted evenly, the coffee was strong and aromatic, and the eggs boiled for four minutes only. She gave a nod of satisfaction as she rang the bell.

  She was setting the food on the table in the saloon when Ash appeared, wearing a pair of frayed denim shorts. He halted in the doorway, the blue eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her.

  Chellie met his gaze, her smile deliberately cool and non-committal.

  He said slowly, ‘You’re an early riser.’ He paused. ‘Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘Just as soon as my head hit the pillow,’ Chellie lied. ‘But after the trouble I got into yesterday I thought I’d better make a prompt start today.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘After all, I don’t want to be keel-hauled at this stage of the voyage.’

  Ash’s brows lifted as he surveyed the table. ‘It all looks—wonderful. You amaze me.’

  ‘It’s not really very astonishing.’ Chellie poured coffee with a steady hand and handed him the cup. She added quietly, ‘I try never to make the same stupid mistake twice, that’s all.’ She let that sink into the silence, then picked up the waiting tray. ‘I’ll take Laurent’s food up to him.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that. You stay here and have your breakfast. I’ll be straight back.’ He paused. ‘I think we need to talk.’

  Alone, Chellie sank down on to a chair, aware that her mouth was dry and her legs were trembling under her. She took a gulp of chilled pineapple juice.

  Talk? she thought desperately. What could he possibly want to talk about? Especially when she was so anxious to avoid any kind of tête-à-tête?

  She wondered with sudden dread if he had come back to her door after all the previous night, and heard her weeping.

  What am I going to say to him if so? she asked herself frantically. How can I possibly explain?

  The worst-case scenario was that he intended to tell her why he’d had second thoughts and walked away from her last night.

  Because, however reasoned his explanation, she wasn’t sure that she could bear to hear it. Knowing there was no place for her in his life was one thing. Hearing it from his own lips quite another.

  Supposing her emotions got the better of her all over again?

  ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered to herself. That would be the ultimate humiliation. To weep for his favours in front of him.

  And sh
e couldn’t let him arrive back and find her sitting like a bump on a log, staring at the food, either, she told herself with renewed determination. Somehow she had to make herself eat something, and do it with every sign of appetite and enjoyment. Everything normal in this best of all possible worlds.

  She poured herself coffee, took a heartening swig, then cut the top off her egg and reached for a slice of toast.

  ‘I started without you,’ she said brightly as Ash returned and took a seat opposite her. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said politely. ‘You may find this hard to believe, but I’m really quite tolerant.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember.’ She forced down another spoonful of egg.

  There was a pause, then he said, ‘Laurent has been very complimentary about your French accent’

  ‘Oh.’ She flushed. ‘That’s—kind of him.’

  ‘It’s a pity we’ll be at St Hilaire so soon,’ he went on. ‘Or you might have revealed even more hidden talents.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Chellie returned shortly. ‘I can sing and speak French. That doesn’t amount to much.’

  ‘And you can dance, too,’ he said. ‘We mustn’t forget that,’ he added silkily, a disturbing glint in his eyes. ‘Even if the performance was a little—curtailed.’

  Her face warmed. ‘I’d prefer not to be reminded of that—any of it.’

  ‘Well, there we differ,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Because it will always remain one of my most cherished memories.’ He paused. ‘So, where did you learn to speak French so well?’

  Chellie hesitated. ‘My mother was French,’ she revealed reluctantly.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then that would explain “Michelle”.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not exactly. I was named for my grandfather. He died just before I was born. Otherwise…’

  Her voice faltered into silence, and Ash sent her a keen glance.

  ‘Yes?’ he prompted.

  She stared down at her plate. ‘Otherwise my father would never have agreed,’ she said slowly, angry with herself for revealing so much. ‘He always hated the name and had wanted me to be christened Elizabeth. In fact, that’s what he started calling me after my mother died, until he was eventually persuaded it wasn’t a good idea.’