by Daphne Clair
The last person Annys wanted to see when she embarked on an adventure cruise along New Zealand’s coast was her ex-husband, Reid Bannerman. Annys had married in haste and repented at leisure. Now she was a successful businesswoman and determined to show Reid that she didn’t need him in her life anymore. She could cope very well on her own!
Trapped on a small sailing-ship together, Annys and Reid were unable to deny the attraction that still sizzled between them. But, while the problems of their past relationship remained unresolved, surely it was madness to get involved again? Was it possible they still had a future after all?
A Flame On The Horizon
DAPHNE CLAIR
MillsBoon
First published in Great Britain 1993
Australian copyright 1993
New Zealand copyright 1993
Philippine copyright 1993
© Daphne de Jong 1993
ISBN 1 86386 564 0
CHAPTER ONE
If Annys had known that Reid Bannerman was booked for the voyage, nothing would have induced her to board the Toroa.
It was bad luck that her car had a flat that morning when she went to throw her kit into it. The wheel nuts were locked tight, and it took her longer than it should have to change the tyre. After which she surveyed the dusty knees and oil-streaked top of her sky-blue silk-look tracksuit—a new design boldly displaying her own logo—and realised she’d have to change.
Reluctant to unpack her kit, which contained some very smart casual wear that she’d hoped would constitute discreet advertising, she’d taken time to find a pair of jeans that would pass, and a purple sweatshirt that looked reasonably decent. They wouldn’t make the impression she’d hoped for but she had no time now to worry about that.
She was confident of making up the twenty minutes easily on the four-hour journey north between Auckland and the Bay of Islands, but was further delayed by a truck that had lost its load of kiwi fruit on the winding road over the Brynderwyn Hills, south of Whangarei.
Calm down, she told herself as she helped the driver and his mate retrieve broken boxes and return them to the truck, and clear piles of ruined fuzzy green fruit to the side of the road. She glanced at her watch and took several deep breaths to still a rising panic. Proof, she realised, that she needed this break from the business.
‘Not my idea of a holiday,’ her friend and assistant Kate Driver had said. ‘You mean you pay to be allowed to haul on ropes and set sails and—whatever you do to make sailing ships go? Sounds like a gigantic con to me. If you’re crewing, shouldn’t they pay you?’
‘An adventure cruise is a learning experience,’ Annys pointed out. ‘They take on amateurs as crew, and teach them how to sail a three-master. And it’s not just sailing all the time. We land at various places on the coast, do some hiking and diving, spend time on several islands, and try rock-climbing, rafting—’
Kate moaned. ‘You need a rest, woman! You’ll come back even more exhausted than you are!’
Annys laughed. ‘It’ll be a change from drawing designs and talking to buyers and doing the accounts. I’d go mad just lying on some beach, or eating myself sick on a luxury liner.’
‘It would do me. You’re so physical, Annys!’ Kate was an excellent saleswoman and a very capable manager, but her interest in sport was purely as a spectator.
‘Big business corporations send their junior executives on adventure voyages, you know,’ Annys told her. ‘Character-building. It’s supposed to increase resourcefulness and initiative. Maybe I’ll send you when I come back, if I think it worthwhile.’
Kate shuddered. ‘My character’s had all the building it needs, thanks. And you’re not short on resourcefulness and initiative, either,’ he observed. ‘How old are you? Twenty-nine,’ she answered herself. ‘And the owner of a chain of sportswearboutiques that’s known throughout New Zealand and now exporting to the States and Europe—all done in five years, working all kinds of hours without a break. No wonder your doctor told you to take a holiday. But I’m still not sure that he meant what you have in mind!’
By the time Annys had garaged her car at a friend’s house in the little tourist town of Russell and got a lift to the wharf, the Toroa’s crew was just about to raise the gangway. She had no trouble identifying the tall ship, a nineteenth-century anachronism with its masts towering over the sleek sea-going modern yachts and cabin cruisers in the bay.
‘Miss Sherwood?’ asked a young Maori man, his brown skin a stunning contrast to a spanking white T-shirt with a picture of the albatross for which the Toroa was named blazoned on the front. ‘We’d given you up. Let me carry that.’ He had taken a quick inventory of her tall, lithe figure, clear hazel eyes and shining brown hair tied back with a scarf, as she’d raced towards him, and obviously decided he liked the result.
‘Sorry!’ she gasped as he took her pack. ‘Thanks. I had a puncture first thing this morning, and then got held up on the road.’
‘Well, glad you made it. I’m Tony, the first mate.’
‘Hi, Tony. My name’s Annys.’
He dumped her pack on the deck and helped to bring the gangway up. ‘Do you want someone to show you down to the women’s quarters now, or would you rather wait until we leave the harbour?’
‘I’ll wait,’ Annys said. ‘I don’t want to miss any of this. We don’t start helping to work the ship yet, I take it?’
He laughed. ‘Just keep out of the way and enjoy the view,’ he advised. ‘In a couple of days we’ll have you all working like galley-slaves. Most of the guest voyagers have introduced themselves already, but we’ll do it formally later.’
She ought to go and say hello to some of the people leaning on the rails or gathered in a group on top of the deckhouse, get to know some of her fellow voyagers. But she needed time to calm down and unwind after her hectic dash. She turned instead to watch the wharf slide away, and the anchored pleasure boats, and the town strung along the shingly beach and climbing into the low hills dusted with white-flowered manuka scrub.
Crew members climbed into the rigging and let the sails go from their ropes with a whoosh, and when the wind filled the canvas she felt a leap of pure pleasure as the ship gathered speed and swayed, moving like a living creature beneath her feet.
Peering over the rail, she saw the blue water rippling against the timbers and curling back in a white lip. Looking aft, she watched the wake widening behind them, and a gull swooping down to the water and up again to soar above the masts.
That brought her eyes back to the sailors in the rigging, climbing nimbly down the ratlines now.
‘Think you can do that?’ Tony had come to stand beside her, grinning as he asked the question.
‘I don’t see why not,’ Annys answered him. She was nervous of heights but not terrified. And she always responded to a challenge.
‘Good for you.’ He put a hand briefly on her shoulder and went forward to speak to one of the crew.
They were still in the harbour, but the land on either side was getting further away. Historic Russell, once notorious throughout the Pacific when it was called Kororareka and was a gathering place for whalers and traders and maybe the first land that rough and ready sailors had touched on in months, huddled between the hills and the water. Nearly two hundred years ago the port would have been crowded with tall sailing ships like the Toroa, from England, America, France, even Russia.
Directly opposite was Paihia, then a mission station and now a thriving tourist centre with motels, hotels, and souvenir shops competing for the visitors’ attention. People still came to the Bay of Islands from all over the world, a few by sea in luxury liners, but most by air at least as far as Auckland, the journey taking just hours instead of months.
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On a tiny island just out of Russell she could see the distinctive signs of long-ago Maori habitation, the terraces that would once have been surmounted by high fences and backed by deep ditches, so that the resident tribe could defend itself against a marauding enemy.
The ship slid past Flagstaff Hill, where in the turbulent 1840s the chief Hone Heke had four times chopped down the symbol of British sovereignty, and many years afterwards his descendants had helped to erect a replacement as a gesture of reconciliation.
Soon the ship had passed the headland and entered the outer bay. Later a voice on the ship’s intercom told them they were passing Motuarohia, where Captain Cook on his voyage of discovery had made his first landing in the Bay of Islands. It was also known as Roberton Island, scene of an ancient tragedy when a Mrs Roberton and her children and manservant had been murdered there.
More cheerfully, the voice went on to tell them that there were about two hundred islands in the Bay. They were now passing Motukiekie where plantings of majestic, symmetrical Norfolk pine made a contrast to the supple native climber and other plants more common to these islands. And the larger one coming up was Urupukapuka, a popular island for camping and picnicking. Annys could see several inviting-looking coves with white, sandy beaches.
They had left Urupukapuka behind when there was a cry of excitement from the group on the galley roof, and at the same instant Annys saw a school of dolphins leaping and cavorting in the wake. They played about for several minutes before disappearing in a series of speeding shadows far down in the water.
She was still smiling at the unexpected sight when a deep, even voice said, ‘Hello, Annys. I thought it was you.’
No! Her head whipped round, the smile abruptly wiped from her mouth, her heart giving a lurch of stupid fright. She stared into dark, green-flecked eyes, then stepped back, instinctively glancing towards the land they had left behind.
‘It’s too far to swim,’ Reid pointed out. ‘And I don’t think they’d lower a boat to take you back.’
They would if it was an emergency, she thought. They could send a helicopter, couldn’t they? Or something...
She could say she was sick, feign appendicitis, food poisoning, anything.
No, she couldn’t. Sanity took hold. Of course she wouldn’t do that, put a lot of people to so much trouble and expense just because she found herself on a ship with a man who...
A man she couldn’t stand to be with. And what was he doing here, anyway? That thought she put into words. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She hadn’t meant to sound so furious, so shaken. But the vehemence in her voice made him raise his almost-black brows. He’d had time to control his own surprise, obviously. She wondered how long ago he’d spotted her. When she’d come on board, flushed and flustered and definitely not looking her best?
He said calmly, ‘The same as you, I suppose.’
‘I’m surprised you could spare the time.’
‘Ditto,’ he said crisply. ‘I’m doing a trial run, to see if I think it’s worthwhile to invest in adventure cruises for my staff members.’ He paused, while she digested that. His staff must have increased considerably. ‘You’ve been pretty busy yourself, these last few years.’
And successful. She hoped he knew how successful. ‘I was due for a break,’ she said. Some break! With Reid on board, she’d end up more strung out than ever at the end of the month. A whole three weeks in his company didn’t bear thinking of.
They would touch on land, though. She could leave then, tell them she didn’t think cruising was for her after all, she was going to fly to the Cook Islands instead. Or Hawaii, Alaska, Siberia—anywhere to get away from Reid Bannerman.
‘Me too,’ Reid said. ‘I need one.’
She looked at him properly for the first time. His hair was as dark and thick as ever, the wind blowing it over his forehead, and he was still built like an athlete, with no signs of flabbiness. There were more pronounced lines about his eyes, and something different about his mouth, a grimness that hadn’t been there before.
Returning her stare, he said, ‘You haven’t changed.’
It should have been a compliment, but she had the feeling he was talking about more than the way she looked, and that he’d wanted her to be changed.
Without thinking, she said, ‘You look older.’
‘I am older,’ he pointed out.
‘So am I.’ With some confused idea of making amends, she added, ‘You’ve no need to flatter me.’
‘I wasn’t. You look just the same.’
‘Well, I’m not.’ The years had changed her. She was harder, less vulnerable now. Tough. She didn’t need any man to validate her existence. Maybe she ought to be grateful to Reid for that.
Reid was looking thoughtful now, his eyes making a deliberate, slow inspection of her. Her body prickled with awareness, with anger. She stiffened, standing straighter. When his eyes returned to her face, lingering a moment on her mouth, she said, ‘Have you quite finished?’
‘I stand by my opinion.’
‘That’s typically male! Appearance is everything!’
‘I said,’ he pointed out, ‘you look just the same. So far I’ve no cause to think you’ve changed in any other way, either.’
Annys clutched the rail with her right hand to stop it coming up and slapping him, a dead give-away that he’d riled her into a temper. She’d always had a low flashpoint where Reid was concerned. He could make her angrier than anyone she’d ever known, but the reverse side was the passion that he had roused in her, sometimes with just a look, a word...
Her lips parted involuntarily at the memory, her gaze caught by his. She saw the dilation of his pupils, the tautness in his expression, and knew that he could read her expression just as she read his.
‘God!’ he said, sounding as appalled as Annys felt. ‘That, too!’
‘No,’ Annys said, denying the undeniable, her voice scarcely audible. She shook her head. ‘No, Reid!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice harsh and low. ‘I’ve no intention of falling into that trap again.’
Then he turned and left her standing there. She watched him stride to the stern rail, where he placed his hands wide apart on broad polished wood and stood with his back to her until she wrenched her gaze away and forced herself to walk in the opposite direction.
She picked up her bag and took it down to the women’s cabin amidships. It wasn’t hard to find, and she noted the only bunk—a lower one—that didn’t have belongings on it proclaiming ownership, and sat down.
There must be a way out of this, she thought, trying to recall the itinerary. When did they reach the mainland again? Not for about ten days, ‘depending on weather conditions and the captain’s discretion’, the printed sheet had said. Surely she could survive ten days? They weren’t the only people on board, after all. There were nine regular crew and two dozen paying ones. Thirty other people to talk to, people she could place between her and Reid. She needn’t even speak to him. And as he obviously felt the same...
No problem, she told herself; they both wanted to avoid each other. Stop panicking, because that was what this shaking, damp-palmed adrenalin rush was. Relax and enjoy yourself. It’s what you’re here for.
And nothing, certainly not Reid Bannerman, was going to interfere with that.
It took an effort, though, to make herself go up on deck again. She might have remained skulking in the cabin, except that one of the other women came in and saw her.
‘Hi!’ She was about twenty-five, a solid young woman with short sand-coloured hair, wearing shorts and a thin sleeveless top. ‘It’s getting cool up there,’ she said in a soft North American accent. ‘I came to fetch a sweatshirt. You’re not sick, are you?’
Annys shook her head and stood up. ‘Do I look sick?’
‘A bit pale, but maybe you’re always like that. Some people are. I’m Jane Finch. I saw you come on board.’
‘Annys Sherwood.’ Sh
e explained briefly again about the disastrous morning.
Jane laughed. ‘You were lucky to get here.’
Was I? Annys thought grimly. Maybe someone was trying to tell me something, and I should have listened.
‘Coming up on deck?’ Jane asked, pulling a sweater out of a large khaki backpack. ‘I’ll introduce you to some of the others.’
‘Yes,’ Annys answered decisively. There was safety in numbers. ‘Thank you.’
Reid was still standing at the rail, and that fact made it difficult for Annys to concentrate on the introductions. But she settled in among the group on the deckhouse roof. Soon she was chatting to a middle-aged woman who said she’d always wanted to go on a sailing voyage but had never got the chance until her children left home and her husband offered this one as a birthday present, and a fortyish man who was a writer researching for a novel set in the nineteenth century.
His name was Tancred Withers, he told her hopefully, but she’d never heard of him. His hair was expensively cut to disguise an incipient bald patch, and he wore designer jeans and a Pierre Cardin shirt with several buttons open to discreetly expose what Annys suspected was a salon-tanned chest. The effect was one of studied casualness.
He rather fancied himself, but was entertaining to talk with, showing a dry wit that Annys enjoyed. And she liked the fact that, although his interest had been obvious when Jane had introduced her, he had simply courteously included her in the conversation he’d been having with the woman who’d described herself as a housewife, rather than transferred his attention, as some men might have. When she laughed at something he said, she saw Reid’s head twitch, his shoulders tense. A little later he moved, turning to rest back against the rail to one side of the bow with his arms folded, studiously looking at everything but the group on the roof.
Annys pushed back a strand of hair that the wind had loosened, and leaned closer to hear something Tancred said, exchanged some remarks with others in the group, and managed to ignore Reid’s silent, aloof presence until lunchtime.