by Dana James
Her only problem had been one of choice. After buying fresh bread she had gone on to the fish market where boxes full of melting ice displayed what was left of the morning’s catch, much of which she didn’t recognise.
‘I just wandered around and watched for a few minutes, to see how things were done,’ she said over her shoulder, stowing a small block of fresh Parmesan in an airtight container before putting it in the fridge. She giggled. ‘I’ve never seen such a performance. The customers complain about price, quality, and even colour, for all I know. The traders argue and plead. And it’s all done with flashing eyes, waving arms, tossed heads and wringing hands. Eventually the women pick out what they want, the traders praise their keen eyes and good sense—at least, I assume that’s what they’re praising. Money changes hands and everyone is delighted.’
‘You’ve had yourself quite a time,’ Nathan observed. His mouth curved in amusement, but his narrowed gaze was thoughtful, as though her observations had surprised him.
Polly sighed. ‘Haggling definitely loses something in sign language. But yes, it was fun.’
Her own smile faded as she closed a cupboard door. ‘It was odd, though. The woman in charge of the launderette was quite different. It wasn’t her clothes. She wore the usual black dress, and a black scarf around her hair. I don’t suppose she was more than forty, yet—It wasn’t that she looked old, but there was something about her, as if she was somehow apart from what was going on.’
She recalled her own efforts, with few words and much gesturing, to find out if she could collect the washing, all clean and dried, in two hours. The woman had watched distantly, then inclined her head in dignified assent.
‘Grief has that effect sometimes,’ Nathan said quietly. ‘If we were to stay longer you’d see many like her. Sicily is still trapped in its own past. Perhaps because it’s an island old customs die hard here. Family feuds last for generations, and slurs on honour are avenged by murder.’
Polly’s bright cotton skirt and sleeveless white broderie anglaise top had been perfect for shopping in the balmy warmth. But the images of violence and tragedy evoked by Nathan’s words chilled her, and gooseflesh pimpled her arms.
He looked round. ‘Did you pick it up?’ he asked.
Still thinking about the woman and her aura of sadness, Polly started. ‘Did I pick what up?’
‘The washing.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ she replied tartly. ‘I’ve only got two hands, and though you were probably too busy kicking the VHF set to notice, I was already loaded like a packhorse. Oh, that reminds me—’
‘I’ll get it,’ Nathan cut in, glancing at his watch. ‘I won’t be long.’ He moved forward to the ladder. ‘As soon as I get back we’ll go and eat. Tell me then.’ He hesitated, then vanished through the hatchway.
Polly stared after him, then, with a shrug, went into the tiny shower-room. She was probably making something out of nothing. No doubt when she told Nathan he would simply say, ‘So what?’ But what she had seen had certainly given her a shock.
She rinsed her hands and face, and combed her windblown curls into a smooth feathery cap. The fresh air and exercise had given her skin a radiant bloom that didn’t need enhancement.
There was no disguising the strain around her eyes, or the plum-coloured shadows beneath them. But lack of sleep due to the four-hour night watches was a perfectly reasonable, if not wholly true, explanation for both.
With hands that weren’t quite steady Polly took the top off her lipstick. The soft shade of coral was the perfect finishing touch.
She thought of the woman in the launderette and shivered. Was it really better to love and lose than to try and avoid the inevitable pain by not loving at all?
She heard Nathan’s footsteps on the pontoon. With a final searching look at the haunted image in the mirror she drew herself up with a deep breath and walked down the narrow passage to meet him.
They were the only customers in the restaurant. ‘It’s too early in the season for tourists, and too early in the day for the locals,’ Nathan explained. ‘The Mediterranean peoples rarely sit down to dinner much before nine.’
The view from their table by the window took Polly’s breath away. The sun, a huge ball of fire low on the horizon, had turned the sea pewter-grey and edged the streaks of peach and rose-hued cloud with molten silver.
While they ate their first course, a delicately flavoured clear soup, Nathan told her about the winemaking establishments which lay along the shore to the south of the town.
‘An Englishman named Woodhouse introduced winemaking to the town in 1773, and his firm is still operating from the same premises. Would you like a bottle to take back with you?’
Polly started to shake her head, but he didn’t give her the chance to say anything.
‘How stupid of me. You don’t drink. Besides,’ his face was set and hard, ‘I don’t suppose this trip is something you’ll particularly want to remember.’
Polly opened her mouth, then looked quickly away before she betrayed her anguish. How could she tell him that every moment they had spent together was engraved on her soul? That she could never forget even if she wanted to? That her entire outlook on life had been turned upside-down?
She heard the clink of the dishes being taken away, then, from the corner of her eye, glimpsed movement as Nathan leaned forward.
‘Why wouldn’t you ask your father to put up bail for you?’ His lowered voice was harsh. His gaze pierced her soul.
His generosity had got her out of gaol, and she had misled him about her sailing ability. He was entitled to the truth.
‘I didn’t want them to know,’ she said quietly. ‘Not unless it was absolutely unavoidable.’ She raised her eyes to meet his. ‘My mother’s quite convinced that what she calls my “footloose lifestyle” is a recipe for disaster. But all I wanted was a bit of independence, a chance to find myself and discover what I really wanted from life.’
Nathan’s eyes drilled into hers. ‘And do you know yet?’
Yes. I want this voyage to last forever. She swallowed, but was saved from having to answer by the arrival of their swordfish steaks, brought in person by the restaurant owner who, Nathan had told her, was also the cook.
Polly’s relief at the interruption must have made her smile of thanks warmer than she realised, for the lumbering bear of a man, swathed in a spotless white apron from his ripple of stubbled chins to the turn-ups of his elephantine trousers, beamed back. And after putting her plate in front of her he kissed the bunched tips of his pudgy fingers and shot rolling-eyed glances of admiration at her as he murmured to Nathan.
Polly felt a blush warm her cheeks and looked down at the food. In spite of the tension between her and Nathan the aromatic scent of the cooked fish in its herb and lemon dressing made her mouth water.
‘Would you like me to tell you what he said?’ Nathan enquired gravely as their host hurried back to the kitchen.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied quickly.
‘It’s quite repeatable,’ Nathan assured her. ‘Paolo recognises a lady when he sees one.’
Polly’s blush deepened, the compliment a painful delight. ‘Thank you, but I got the drift.’ Self-conscious beneath his narrow-eyed scrutiny, she glanced out of the window again. Like a giant golden disc, the sun was sliding into the sea, turning it to blood. The sky above it burned orange and flame. But while the upper edges of the thickening cloud were bright as polished brass, underneath they were a sullen purple.
Though the violent fiery colours seemed somehow to suit this ancient volcanic island, to Polly there was something ominous about them.
‘That’s quite a sight,’ she murmured.
‘It is indeed,’ Nathan agreed softly. But when she glanced at him she saw he was supporting his chin on one hand and gazing directly at her.
Her heart gave an erratic lurch. ‘I meant the sunset.’ She gestured.
Reluctantly he turned his head. Watching him, Polly saw his jaw
tighten, but all he said was, ‘It looks as if we might be in for another blow.’
Polly could have hit him. It wasn’t so much that he had confirmed her fears, it was his tone she found infuriating. He could afford to be casual about the odd Force Nine. He had years of sailing experience behind him. She glanced up. He was watching her.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘Seawitch can handle anything.’
Polly made a face. ‘It’s not Seawitch I’m worried about.’
His smile made her toes curl. ‘I have complete faith in you.’
He’d said that as though he really meant it. Thrilled, but trying not to let it show, she darted him a look from under her lashes. ‘And my one functioning grey cell?’
He winked. ‘Added to my millions it bonds us into a formidable team.’
Polly was suddenly so happy she wanted to shout and sing. She wasn’t a nuisance or a liability any more. She and Nathan were a team.
Then she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘Lord, I nearly forgot. I started to tell you earlier, but you dashed off.’
‘So tell me now,’ he suggested, smiling briefly at the owner, who had returned with a steaming dish of tiny new potatoes sprinkled with chopped mint, and a shallow wooden bowl containing a salad of crisp endive, sliced cucumber, radicchio, olives, and chopped tomatoes.
Beaming, Paolo murmured in his thick Sicilian dialect words which Polly took to mean ‘enjoy your meal’, then waddled back to the kitchen.
Suddenly she wasn’t sure. ‘It probably doesn’t mean anything. I expect it’s just coincidence. After all, you said yourself—’
Nathan put down his knife and fork and leaned forward. ‘Perhaps I’d be able to contribute something if I knew what you were talking about.’
‘Not what, who.’ Polly glanced over her shoulder. No one else had come in, yet she automatically lowered her voice. Which just goes to show how an overload of stress can make you totally irrational, she thought fleetingly.
‘I saw him when I was leaving the market. He was with two other men. They looked like bankers or accountants.’
‘For the love of God, Polly,’ Nathan controlled himself with an effort, ‘who did you see?’
‘That awful little man from Gibraltar. The one who stopped at our table and was so falsely sympathetic.’ She shuddered.
Nathan’s smile vanished. ‘Louis?’
Polly nodded.
‘You’re certain it was him?’
‘Positive,’ she said at once.
‘Damn!’ Nathan exploded with quiet violence. ‘Did he see you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m sure he didn’t. I was behind a group of people.’ She frowned. ‘How do you suppose he got here? There isn’t another yacht on the pontoon. I don’t remember seeing one in the harbour either.’
‘There’s an airfield a few miles north, between here and Trapani.’
She shook her head in bewilderment. ‘But your original plan was to go to Ibiza. How could he possibly know you would be coming here?’
Nathan looked up at her, his strong features set, his gaze diamond-hard. ‘He didn’t. Louis isn’t here because of me. He’s come to meet with his backers.’
Polly was even more puzzled. ‘In Sicily?’
Nathan’s fleeting smile was bleak. ‘I told you there have always been a lot of unanswered questions about Louis. Like how he started his business empire, where the money came from. Many of us had our suspicions, but because he covered his tracks so well no one has ever been able to prove anything. You could say his being here is simply coincidence, but I think not.’
Polly shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Surely you’ve heard of the Cosa Nostra? Otherwise known as the Brotherhood?’
She shook her head.
He gave a small impatient sigh. ‘The Mafia, Polly.’
She stared at him, wide-eyed. He was teasing her. No, he wasn’t—one glance at his chilling expression convinced her of that. She could hardly believe what she’d heard. Yet why not? In the past week she had been arrested, charged with smuggling heroin, released on bail, learned how to sail a forty-foot yacht, and was now listening to the man she had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with talk about his colleague’s connection with the most vicious and widespread criminal organisation in the world. She gulped hard, struggling to suppress the impulse to laugh, knowing that if she gave in to it she would not be able to stop.
‘I’m not sure whether Louis knows Seawitch is my boat,’ Nathan said, ‘but we can’t take that chance. If, by some appalling stroke of bad luck, he and I happened to bump into each other while we’re here—’ He broke off. ‘Well, it’s better we don’t, that’s all. We’ll leave tonight.’
‘But what about the radio?’ Polly had total faith in Nathan’s seamanship, but they still had a lot of ocean to cross, and the radio was a source of vital information regarding sea and weather conditions.
His mouth curled in a silent snarl of frustration.
‘We could manage without it, but—No, I’ve got a better idea. We’ll move Seawitch along the coast. She’ll be out of sight, and so will we until I can pick up the replacement set.’ He paused, glancing out at the sky.
The blaze of sunset had faded, leaving the sky coloured like a huge bruise as crimson and purple paled to light green and oyster. A thick dark blanket of cloud with torn ragged edges was moving slowly across the sky.
‘If the weather doesn’t break first,’ he murmured.
The wind had died away and the throb of Seawitch’s diesel engine seemed loud to Polly as Nathan guided the boat out of the harbour.
She had been prepared to leave the restaurant at once, but Nathan had insisted they finish their meal.
‘If we rush away now, our host is going to be curious,’ he’d pointed out. ‘And someone asking questions might just jog his memory.’
So they had followed their main course with torta di albicocche, a sweet pastry case filled with apricots in a creamy egg custard.
‘That was absolutely delicious,’ Polly had sighed, spooning up the last crumb, amazed that the extra pressure had not completely destroyed her appetite. Maybe, she told herself, there was a limit to the number of shocks a person could take. Perhaps a sort of protective emotional numbness set in. But not when she thought about Nathan.
‘What was it flavoured with?’ she’d asked hurriedly. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like that before.’
The corners of Nathan’s mouth had twitched. ‘Marsala.’
‘Wine?’ She’d gazed at her plate, then at him.
‘See what you’ve been missing?’ He’d wagged a finger at her as she opened her mouth. ‘You said it was delicious,’ he had reminded her.
She had closed her mouth again. ‘Mmm.’ There wasn’t anything else she could say.
As soon as they had emptied their tiny cups of black coffee, Nathan had settled the bill and they had walked quickly back down the hill to the waterfront.
‘We should be all right here,’ he said, bringing Seawitch into the shelter of a small, high-sided cove. Dusk was thickening into darkness, unbroken by any lights along this part of the shore.
Half an hour later Seawitch was anchored, the engine was silent, and Nathan had switched off the bow, stern, and masthead lights. ‘No point in wasting the batteries,’ he said as he pulled the hatch cover across, then pulled the doors closed.
Or letting anyone know we’re here, Polly thought. A tremor shook her hand and the kettle she was filling clattered against the tap. She tried to hold it steady.
It wasn’t the possibility of Louis learning of their presence in the town that was making her so nervous. It was the thought of the next fifteen hours. There was no meal to prepare, no chores to catch up on, no watches to keep. She had to do something.
Putting the kettle down on the worktop, she hurried past the ladder before Nathan reached the bottom.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.
; ‘T-to g-get my n-navigation notes,’ she stammered the words over her shoulder. ‘I-I-left them on the locker.’ She hurried down the passage.
As she picked up the notebook she heard a sound close behind her and jerked round. Nathan stood in the doorway, filling the narrow space. ‘Why do you want those?’ he asked.
Polly looked at her scribbled notes, then shrugged. ‘It seems like a good time to—’ At the cynical lift of his eyebrows her voice trailed off.
Silently he took the notebook from her nerveless fingers and dropped it on the floor.
She could feel the edge of the bed pressing against the backs of her legs. Say something, she told herself. But no words would come.
Nathan’s gaze flickered over her, his own thoughts hidden behind eyes reflecting the soft glow of the bedhead lamp. His hands came up to rest on her shoulders. Their warm weight made her stomach quake. She stared at his throat, hypnotised by the pulse beating beneath the bronzed skin. As his hands slid down her upper arms and he drew her slowly but inexorably towards him, her throat grew dry.
No. That was all she had to say. And he would stop—he had before.
His lips brushed her forehead, then her temple. ‘No more running, Polly,’ he whispered.
Her eyes closed and she turned her head to one side. Not her mouth. If he touched her mouth then she would be lost. But this—this she could handle. She couldn’t fight, but she wouldn’t respond.
His lips traced the curve of her cheekbone to her ear, then followed the line of her jaw. And though the kisses were feather-light, his grip on her arms tightened as his breathing grew deeper and more ragged.
She swallowed convulsively. Her skin tingled and her heart thumped wildly as he moved closer. Her hands flew to his shoulders, but whether to fend him off or make him stay she could not have said. Then, as her quick intake of breath parted her lips, in one smooth, sweeping movement he wrapped his arms around her, holding her so close, so tight, that she could barely breathe.