by Dana James
Nathan kept shouting orders at her. But he might have been speaking a foreign language.
‘For God’s sake, girl, stop dithering,’ he roared, impatience turning rapidly to anger.
Mountains of foam-streaked grey water humped and dipped all around them as Seawitch porpoised through the broken waves. The roller-coaster movement was distinctly uncomfortable, and Polly’s stomach began to rebel.
‘The wind’s backing,’ Nathan shouted across.
How on earth could he tell? she wondered, hunched against the banshee howling that came at her from all directions, hurling rain against her skin with such force it stung like grit. And what did it mean?
‘Get ready to come about.’
She glanced in dismayed confusion at the array of winches, then up at him in desperate appeal. ‘I don’t—I can’t—’ she shrugged hopelessly.
His brief puzzled frown hardened into furious realisation. ‘First that one,’ he rasped, pointing, ‘then those two.’ His jaw was set like chiselled granite. Rain ran down the harsh planes of his face and dripped from his chin on to the slick oilskin. His narrowed eyes were dagger-bright.
Polly looked away, her stomach churning with a nausea that couldn’t be blamed solely on hunger or seasickness.
Nathan spun the wheel and Seawitch changed direction. As he loosed the mainsheet the sail swung across to its new position.
Polly worked swiftly, hauling in and securing the various ropes. She focused all her concentration on getting it right, not daring to look at Nathan, or even to think about what would happen next.
The lurching and corkscrewing stopped and the boat sliced more smoothly through the turbulent water. Polly slumped down on the moulded seat. Stretching her arms out on either side to steady herself, she clung to the edge of the cockpit. She was shaking all over, partly from cold, partly from shock at the suddenness and ferocity of the squall, but mostly in anticipation of what was to come.
She had realised the moment he walked into the Customs office that Nathan Bryce was not a man to cross. But when she had made her reckless decision to sail with him, it had never occurred to her that the smooth, sunny Mediterranean of holiday brochures might have a darker, more dangerous face. Now her plan to bluff her way through had been reduced to a pitiful shambles.
As quickly as it had arrived, the squall passed. The rain ceased as if a tap had been turned off. The wind dropped from a screaming, gusting gale to a fresh breeze.
And as she raised her chilled, dripping face to look at the sky, the black clouds parted. Golden rays beamed down like spotlights, transforming the charcoal water to sapphire-blue and making the streaks of foam sparkle like sugar frosting.
The squall moved rapidly away, fading into the distance like a memory, leaving behind it crystal-clear air and a freshly washed sky the colour of forget-me-nots. The deck was already beginning to dry and for Polly the sun’s luxuriant warmth on her soaked head was like a blessing. But the wet clammy oilskins were beginning to resemble a sauna.
As she fumbled with trembling fingers at the clip on her safety harness she could feel Nathan’s gaze burning into her.
‘How much sailing did you say you’d done?’ he enquired in that soft even tone she knew to be lethal.
Polly tried to suppress the shudder that galvanised every nerve from the roots of her hair to her toes and fingertips. His very quietness terrified her. She swallowed. ‘I didn’t.’ Her voice was husky. She was surrounded by water, yet her mouth was as dry as the Sahara.
‘You have sailed before.’ His tone made the words a statement which merely required confirmation. Polly took a deep breath and shook her head.
His gaze pierced her like cold steel. ‘But you told me—’
‘I told you I could cook,’ she broke in. ‘It was as a cook that I was sailing with Clive.’
‘You have never crewed on a yacht?’
Moistening her lips, Polly shook her head. ‘Clive said he didn’t need a crew, only someone to take care of the meals—’ She drew her palm across her forehead. She was sweating, yet her skin felt cold. Rainwater dribbled down her temples and the back of her neck.
Beneath his tan Nathan was pale with fury. ‘You lied to me.’ He ground the words out through gritted teeth.
Polly had never been so frightened in her life. Given the choice, she would rather have faced the squall again.
‘I didn’t,’ she defied him, her voice thin. ‘I never claimed to be an experienced sailor. You simply assumed I was.’
‘Well, if you’re not, what the hell are you doing on my boat?’ he roared.
Oddly, his loss of temper was a relief to Polly. She could cope with that, whereas his icy controlled quietness petrified her.
‘The alternative was gaol. Remember?’ she shouted back. ‘I preferred to take my chances out here.’
‘You stupid, pea-brained idiot,’ he stormed. ‘This isn’t a pleasure trip—’
‘You can say that again,’ she hurled the words at him. ‘Pleasure is the last word I’d associate with your company.’
Fear, attraction, dismay, and total confusion: she had experienced them all since meeting him the previous day. But not pleasure. That was far too weak and mild a word for the emotions he stirred. Her stomach lurched and she wiped her forehead again.
His eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ she snapped. In fact she felt awful, nauseous and light-headed and clammy. More than anything in the world she wanted to lie down. Maybe if she could just curl up on her bed and sleep for a while she’d feel better. But she’d bite her tongue off sooner than ask him for any favours.
‘Get below,’ he ordered.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she began.
‘If you feel as sick as you look, you most certainly are not all right,’ he retorted.
Oddly, it wasn’t his anger that made her eyes prickle and her vision blur. It was the totally unexpected sympathy tempering his exasperation as he said, ‘Go and lie down, Polly.’
Furious that a rare kind word from Nathan Bryce could so easily demolish the façade of efficiency and confidence she had worked so desperately hard to maintain, she blinked hard and sucked in a deep breath. She must not, would not give way now. Ironically, his next words gave her spine just the stiffening it needed.
‘I need time to decide what to do with you,’ he mused—then added darkly, ‘At this precise moment heaving you overboard has its attractions.’
Polly’s head flew up. Tears forgotten, she gasped. ‘You—’
‘Wouldn’t dare?’ His narrowed eyes glittered. ‘Don’t bet on it.’ He turned his head away. ‘And I was beginning to think you were different,’ he muttered, his tone full of self-mockery. His brief laugh was a harsh, tearing sound. ‘But you’re not. You’re just like all the rest.’
‘All what rest?’ she demanded blankly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No, of course you don’t.’ The cutting scorn that hardened his eyes and thinned his mouth made her flinch.
Then she realised. ‘How dare you? I’m not the least bit like the fleet of models and would-be actresses the Press politely call your constant companions. But even if I were, what right have you to be so disappointed? After all, you chose them. Nobody held a gun to your head.’
Pushing unpainted fingers through her cropped chestnut curls, she looked down, and thought of her own boyishly slender figure beneath the enveloping oilskins.
‘I wasn’t referring to physical appearance,’ he snapped.
She flushed. ‘You couldn’t be, as I’m neither blonde nor shaped like an hourglass. And as the kind of girls you seem to prefer would think a job like mine utterly boring, I don’t see how you can possibly say I’m just like them. I’m not just like anyone. I’m me.’ She broke off, breathless, confused, and feeling worse than ever.
‘Yes,’ he snarled. ‘And you wouldn’t recognise truth if it jumped up and bit you. You lied about being ab
le to sail.’ His face was a taut bitter mask. ‘Did you lie about the drugs too?’
Anguish overwhelmed her. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Nathan, please, you have to believe me—’
‘Get below, Polly,’ he repeated with soft, tightly reined violence, and turned away.
Though something told her his fury was greater than her deception over her sailing experience warranted, Polly felt too ill to force the issue by demanding explanations. She went.
At the bottom of the companionway she struggled out of the wet oilskins and dropped them on the floor in a heap. They were quickly followed by her damp jumper.
Sweating and shivering, she stumbled through the saloon to her cabin. Pulling a fresh towel from her locker, she wiped her face, neck and throat, and gave her head a quick rub. Then, tossing the towel to one side, she closed her eyes and collapsed on to the open sleeping-bag.
Her cheek touched cold wet cotton. She frowned, hazily exploring the area near her face with one hand.
Her eyes flew open and she reared back, scrambling to her feet. The sleeping-bag was soaked. She explored further. So were the pillows, and the mattress.
Leaning against the door, she forced her weary fuddled brain to work. How? As realisation broke over her like a drenching wave her whole body sagged.
The hatches. She had closed all the others but, busy trying to remember Nathan’s list of instructions, she had forgotten hers. And as it couldn’t be seen from the cockpit there had been nothing to remind her that it was still open.
Feeling more wretched than ever, she stumbled out of her cabin. She couldn’t possibly sleep there. She’d probably die of pneumonia, if Nathan didn’t throw her overboard first. And he had even more reason to now.
Dragging two musty-smelling blankets from the storage locker outside her door, she left one folded up as a pillow, shook the other one out and wrapped it around her, then lay down on one of the settees which provided seating and converted to pilot-berths on either side of the drop-leaf dining table.
The relief was indescribable. She was still shivering and her head felt muzzy, but now she was lying down the boat didn’t seem to be doing quite so much heaving and rolling. Nor did her stomach.
Gradually the shivering stopped and her muscles began to relax. She began to drift and was just dozing off when she heard the squeak of Nathan’s deck shoes on the ladder.
Fearing the worst, Polly jerked upright, wild-eyed and blinking. ‘What’s the matter? What’s gone wrong?’ Her voice emerged, cracked and husky, from a throat tight with dread. ‘Who’s sailing the boat?’
Startled, clearly not expecting to see her there, Nathan dumped his own oilskins and sweater on top of hers. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he replied curtly. ‘At least, not with the boat.’ The teeming rain had run down his neck and soaked the top half of his T-shirt, which clung damply. Hooking the shirt off over his dripping head, he dropped it on to the pile. Then, taking the towel from the rail in front of the cooker, he wiped his face, head and forearms.
Polly watched him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with lean hips and muscular legs, he was magnificent to look at. He was also formidable, demanding, difficult—and smouldering with anger, but she still found it impossible to tear her gaze away.
‘Seawitch is on auto-pilot.’ Flipping the towel over his shoulder, he raked his fingers through his spikily tousled hair a couple of times, restoring it to rough order. Starting towards his cabin, he stopped and turned back, frowning.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he demanded. ‘Why aren’t you in your cabin?’
As the boat lurched Polly sat down suddenly, clasping her hands tightly together. She knew it was useless to lie.
Swallowing, she moistened her lips. ‘My sleeping-bag and mattress got wet. I forgot to close the deck hatch when the squall—’ Her voice tailed off and she moved her shoulders briefly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
His features tightened. ‘Of all the stupid, careless—’ Flinching beneath contemptuous anger that gave each word the force of a blow, Polly could only watch as he made a visible effort to control himself. ‘You were right,’ he gritted. ‘You’re unique. In a class of your own.’
She bit her lip. He wasn’t paying her a compliment.
His gaze swept over her from head to foot. It was impossible to guess from his narrowed eyes and set features what he was thinking. Did she look as bad as she felt? Leaping up like that had brought back the awful queasiness.
‘Obviously, lying down hasn’t helped much,’ he observed. ‘Have you been sick?’
Miserably, she shook her head. She almost wished she could be. Anything would be better than feeling like this.
‘In that case, work is the answer,’ he announced briskly. ‘You can start by cleaning up that mess.’ He indicated the sink.
Swallowing, Polly looked up at him, wretched but defiant. ‘Are you punishing me?’
His gaze softened. ‘For feeling seasick? Of course not. But keeping busy really is the best cure. It takes your mind off how you feel. Besides,’ his features underwent a subtle change, setting to granite hardness, ‘I paid your bail because I needed a crew as well as a cook. And seasick or not, you’re going to honour your end of the deal.’
Polly moistened her lips. ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ She hated the quiver in her voice. But just at that moment, standing tall and bronzed in nothing but a pair of ragged denim shorts, his black hair tumbling damply across his forehead, Nathan Bryce did not fit the expected image of a millionaire yacht designer.
‘Pirate’ was the word that leapt into Polly’s mind as she stared helplessly at him.
‘I mean that, among other things, you’re going to learn to sail. And you’re going to learn fast. If you want to eat, that is,’ he added with quiet menace.
Polly opened her mouth, and closed it again quickly. Already she knew him well enough to realise he would never make threats he wasn’t prepared to carry out.
Never in her life had she felt less like eating than she did at this moment. But if she didn’t try, or he refused her food because she wouldn’t do as he told her, she would quickly become too weak. Too weak for what? To get away. She hadn’t even realised the thought was in her mind until this moment. Her best chance would come when they reached Ibiza in two days’ time.
‘So,’ Nathan pulled the towel from his shoulder and tossed it aside, ‘after you’ve tidied the galley, wipe the oilskins dry and hang them in the locker. When you’ve done that, open the saloon deck hatch and put the sweaters on hangers, then hook them over the coaming. That’s the raised rim around the hatch that keeps the water out,’ he explained as if talking to a three-year-old. ‘Then bring your sleeping-bag up on deck. And your mattress. They’ll take days to dry, so the sooner you get them into the sun the better. And then make us both a hot drink. Do you think you can remember all that, or shall I write it down?’
Polly’s flaring anger at his sarcasm was quickly extinguished by a far more pressing question. She screwed up her courage. ‘You aren’t going to take me back to Gibraltar?’
He gazed at her in silence for several seconds, then replied with icy simplicity, ‘No time. You lied your way on to this voyage by implying you were an experienced crew. And that’s exactly what you’re going to become.’ A momentary pause gave his final words chilling emphasis. ‘No matter what it takes.’
As he strode off to his cabin Polly sank down on the settee, wondering how she was going to survive. She felt sick and shivery. Her head was thumping, and her damp shirt was sticking to her. What was she doing here?
Would she rather be in gaol?
At least there the floor would be still, and she wouldn’t be feeling so horribly queasy, and she’d have a dry bed.
The sound of Nathan’s returning footsteps brought her swiftly and instinctively to her feet. She reached down to pick up the sweater she had thrown on to her own oilskins.
Tucking a clean pale blue T-shirt into his shorts, he didn’t even glance in her dir
ection, but called over his shoulder as he hoisted himself up the ladder, ‘I’ll expect a mug of tea in five minutes.’
‘Yes, master,’ she muttered, glaring at his bronzed legs as they disappeared through the hatch.
As she lurched her way to the galley and filled the kettle, anger seethed through her. Nathan Bryce might have a temporary advantage, but no slate-eyed, ruthless, mercenary businessman with a calculator instead of a heart was going to get the better of her.
Lighting the gas, she secured the kettle within the rails which would hold it in place, then snatched up the dishcloth. Spreading the oilskins out on the floor, she wiped them off, finishing the process with the towel Nathan had tossed on to the worktop.
As she hung the waterproofs in the locker she remembered with vivid clarity how his gaze had met hers after Giles had been led away by the stewards.
Since then she had seen many different expressions in his eyes: amusement, surprise, speculation, even respect. But contempt had returned with a vengeance, erasing everything else the moment he realised she didn’t know what to do when he changed the boat’s direction.
He had written her off as a useless, lying bimbo. Well, she was going to show him just how wrong he was. She could almost be grateful for the experience with Giles. For she was wiser now and stronger. Quite strong enough to deal with a man like Nathan Bryce.
A shudder ran through her as she suddenly remembered one very valid point. With Giles she had been able to turn her back and walk away.
She couldn’t walk off a boat in mid-ocean. She had to keep going until they reached Ibiza. The next few days would test her nerve to the limit.
The kettle began to whistle, breaking into her train of thought. She looked around, surprised. She had been so immersed in her anger and indignation that she had been working on automatic pilot herself. The sweaters hung beneath the open hatch, the sink was empty and the oilskins stowed away.
She took Nathan’s tea up and, at his insistence, returned to fetch her own.