Secret Intentions

by Caitlyn Nicholas

  “Never have I had the misfortune to meet such an unattractive person as yourself. Don’t email me, don’t talk to me and certainly don’t expect me to sit here any longer and listen to this crap.” She stalked out of the office and hurried to the lift. She sighed in relief when the doors opened immediately.

  “Well don’t expect any more help with your computer, you…” The lift door clicked shut, cutting off the rest of what Phil was shouting from the safety of his office. Zani was rather glad.

  She wanted a shower. She wanted to run from the building never to return. Close to tears, she decided she hated Sunberri and Corbin and her brother. She didn’t care about her father, either. It was too much. They’d all asked far too much of her.

  Back in her office, Corbin stood at her desk, talking on the phone.

  “No, it’s fine, no you haven’t ruined my weekend, I just won’t take the boat out. It was a stupid idea anyway, I should be working.”

  He hung up.

  “Problems?” asked Zani. The word boat had distracted her from the skin-crawling Phil.

  “No, not really. I need someone to crew on my boat. It’s a multi-hull, a catamaran, and is too much of a handful to sail alone. My friend cannot make it. His wife will soon be having a baby and she won’t let him leave the mainland. But I need to work anyway.”

  “I’m a Yacht Master,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Corbin look surprised. She’d instantly realised the benefits of spending the day on a boat with Corbin. He’d be bound to let something slip, or if not, she could spend the time needling him. The thought filled her with a nasty satisfaction.

  “A Yacht Master? Don’t you have to have years of experience to qualify to be one of those? Anyway, I couldn’t possibly impose on your weekend. I’m sure you had other plans.” His eyes darted this way and that, searching for an escape. Zani wasn’t going to give him an inch, especially after the Yacht Master comment.

  “Oh it would be so exciting. I’d planned to spend the day alone at home, watching documentaries.” Zani made her face light up with excitement and clapped her hands together. She positively glowed with hope and happiness.

  Corbin looked afraid. “Zani I can’t, it wouldn’t, I’d feel…”

  “What?” She looked dismayed and let her lower lip tremble just a little.

  “No, Christ, please don’t cry again.”

  “So then we’ll go, tomorrow, together… I promise, you won’t regret it. It’ll be fun.” She giggled dizzily. Get out of this, you slimy worm.

  “Okay, okay.” Holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he gave her a patronising grin. “We’ll head over to the Isle of Wight. I’ll arrange lunch. You deserve a day out. It’s the least I can do…”

  Zani kept up the vapid smile, though inside she seethed. How dare he be so condescending? You deserve a day out? How dare he suggest she didn’t have a life.

  She was still managing to maintain righteous indignation and not slip into excitement when she arrived home to a cranky Fang and a copy of Klebnikoff’s contract. It’d been translated into Russian.

  She stared at it for a moment in complete disbelief. “You’ve got to be joking, mate,” she muttered to herself. “I won’t be signing that, now will I Miss Fang?” she asked the dog, who was clearly deciding whether to continue sulking or ignore her pride and beg for her dinner.

  Zani rustled about in one of the plastic bags she’d hauled inside from the car. “Chicken Mornay…” she said, proudly producing a tin of dog food, but then, to Fang’s profound dismay, left it on the kitchen bench top. She disappeared into the little sitting room and reappeared lugging a large black case. Sitting at the table, she heaved out her laptop and plugged it in.

  “Sorry, Fang, I just want to take a quick look at this.” She glanced at the dog. “No, it can’t wait.” Fang gave her most disapproving glare.

  After a few minutes she plugged the USB key into the port at the back of the machine. Holding her breath, she waited as the computer opened the files, clicked on the first on the list, read for a moment, then her shoulders sagged in disappointment.

  “Well this just seems to be copies of what went up on the Internet,” Zani told Fang. To be sure, she opened her web browser and went to www.gamingsecrets.blog.com. It was exactly the same.

  “This doesn’t tell me anything.” She shut the laptop with a snap. “He could have just downloaded this from the net himself, for a record. Bloody Hell.”

  She crankily searched through the pantry for some alcohol. A dusty bottle of sweet sherry was the nearest she had.

  “It will have to do,” she sighed. Pouring a tumbler-full, she abandoned it on the bench and instead picked up the phone and dialed a number by heart. “Gregorio, it’s Zani. Can I have an extra large supreme with everything, except capsicum, olives, mushrooms and anchovies? Tell Keith there’s an extra £5 in it if he gets it here in twenty minutes.”

  She hung up and sat back at the table, staring at the contract and vainly trying to make sense of the Russian alphabet. Preferring to feel annoyed that Klebnikoff had rewritten the contract, she refused to acknowledge the blossoming relief that she’d found no evidence whatsoever that Corbin was behind the leaks.

  Secret Intentions

  Chapter Five

  Two white swans wove their way majestically through the boats moored in the shallow water of the Hill Head Sailing Club harbour. Zani shivered on their behalf, wondering how they could look so nonchalant swimming in water that hovered a few degrees above freezing. The sun had just risen and it was going to be one of those rare clear winter days. A grey pink haze hung like a veil over the Isle of Wight, its white cliffs luminescent in the distance.

  She crunched across the gravel of the carpark, a thin ground mist swirling around her legs. Excitement surged through her as she caught sight of Corbin, waiting by the ramp to the club’s jetty. Taking a deep steadying breath she reminded herself, for the thousandth time, that she would be spending the day flirting, giggling, simpering and chatting-up. Not, repeat not, being mean, nasty, sarcastic, in any way inflammatory or unreasonable. Zani hated to admit it, but she could very occasionally be unreasonable.

  She was going to behave as if Corbin was the only person who had occupied her thoughts for the past twelve hours, lure him in, then pounce on him with subtle questions. He didn’t stand a chance.

  Of course other things besides Corbin de Villiers had occupied her thoughts. She’d thought about plenty of stuff. Fang, for example. She’d fed Fang. She hesitated for a second thinking over what she’d done before dropping Fang at Karen’s house. Yes. She’d definitely fed Fang.

  “Zani! Bon. I’m glad you’re here. We’ll have a great day.” He bent and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. She gasped in surprise, her hand flying to the spot where his lips had touched. Then, thinking she must seem gauche—after all, French people went round kissing practically everyone—she snatched her hand away and tucked it firmly in her jeans pocket. Rugged up in a windproof jacket, clutching a steaming Styrofoam cup, Corbin looked fabulous. Like a model in a chandlery catalogue. She smiled up at him. This softly, softly approach was going to be a breeze.

  “Which boat are we?” She stamped her feet and snuggled further into her jacket, her words hanging like her breath on the cold still air.

  “The Vixen.” He showed her down the jetty to a medium-sized catamaran.

  “It’s a Lagoon 440? You didn’t tell me. I was just reading about these. She’s beautiful.” She didn’t have to pretend to be impressed. “Is she yours?”

  “No, my parents own her, but they never sail in winter, so I get to play with her.” He climbed the few steps at the back of one of the boats two hulls, tossed the large holdall he carried ahead of him, then turned back to give Zani a hand aboard. Despite the freezing cold, warmth spread from his fingers to hers as they touched and, caught unawares, Zani snatched her hand back.

  “I won’t bite,” he said quietly.

  Zani paid careful
attention to stepping aboard. Holding firmly onto the boat railing, she refused to look at him, afraid he might see her confusion.

  “For an ‘off the rack’ boat, these Lagoons are fantastic. It’s been ages since I sailed a catamaran. I usually sail a single hull,” she said.

  “You know an awful lot about boats don’t you?” he asked. She glanced back at him, catching a speculative look that he quickly erased.

  “Hey, it’s got a rigid bimini! Does that work?” She pointed to the small roof that covered the doorway to the inside of the catamaran.

  “Actually, no, I hate it. I keep hitting my head,” he grumbled, but she was already admiring the next thing which caught her eye.

  “I love the flying bridge.” She climbed up to the outside control area and looked out over the small harbour. “You can see everything from up here.”

  “Come and see inside,” said Corbin, ducking under the bimini to open the door. “I didn’t realise how much you’ve sailed.”

  She stopped abruptly, balancing on the edge of the step down with one hand on the bimini. “I told you, I’m a qualified Yacht Master. Didn’t you believe me, did you think I was lying?” Her voice rose a note, and she drew in a breath. Be NICE.

  “Sailing was my hobby as a kid. Never grew out of it.” She smiled pleasantly and stepped down into the interior of the boat.

  “Zani, I never thought you lied,” he said. Unwilling to get into a discussion about what Corbin de Villiers did or did not think, she continued her self-guided tour, barreling along like a Gloucestershire cheese roller.

  “It’s huge,” she said looking over the boat’s fit out with a professional eye.

  Corbin put the kettle on and watched in amusement as Zani showed herself around. Overflowing with transparent enthusiasm, she exclaimed over everything she came across. He wondered how long the performance was going to last. She seemed hyped and tense, despite making considerable effort to hide it.

  “Look at the size of this. It’s even got a hand-basin,” she called when she found the heads, launching into an indelicate story about a bathroom so small that you had to reverse into it. She reappeared in the galley grinning, almost glowing with excitement, cheeks pink under her woolen hat. He suddenly remembered exactly why he’d kissed her after the art gallery opening. The urge to do it again pulled at him. Instead he handed her a cup of tea.

  “We need to get going, tide is turning,” he said gruffly. Corbin had spent a lot of time convincing himself that he was taking Zani sailing to make up for kissing her when under the influence of migraine tablets.

  “Sure, want me to cast off?” She left the tea on the galley bench top and nipped outside. “There’ll be a breeze on the open water. We can get the sails up right away.” She ducked her head back under the bimini. “Sorry. Is that ok?”

  Corbin leant against the sink, arms folded as if waiting further instructions. This really wasn’t turning out as he’d planned. “Oh, I only know how to use the motor, never had time for those confounded flappy saily things.” He waved a hand dismissively.

  Horror passed over Zani’s face, replaced by a sheepish smile as she realised he was teasing her.

  “Just get the motor running, and let’s get out of here,” she ordered.

  “What, no time to finish my drink?” he grumbled to her retreating back, trying to decide if he liked Zani knowing more than him about his favourite toy.

  Zani cast the boat off, coiling the ropes that had secured the craft to the harbour jetty on the deck. Inside, Corbin guided the boat through the maze of moored boats and out toward the open sea.

  As they emerged from the protection of the harbour, the swell picked up and the boat began to roll gently. It was so cold, and so early, they had the Solent almost all to themselves. A tanker sat in the distance, imperceptibly creeping toward the nearby Port of Southampton. Near the shore, an insane kayaker paddled along. Zani hoped he wore a thermal wetsuit.

  A few hundred metres away from the harbour they found a light breeze. It stirred the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her hat and was so cold that it made her teeth ache when she took a breath. Aware that her nose was probably going an unflattering shade of scarlet, she ducked back inside. For a moment she was unsure what to do next.

  “Here, take the helm, I’ll make breakfast,” said Corbin with a resigned smile.

  “Are you sure?” Zani itched to have a go, but didn’t want to be overbearing.

  “Well, if you get us into trouble, I’ve got this.” Corbin waved a small black box.

  “What on earth is that?”

  “The remote control for the autopilot.”

  “No way!” Zani pounced on it. “It’s an AP51, I’ve read about these.”

  “All I’d need to do is switch the boat onto autopilot from here and it’d do the rest.”

  “Yes, but that’s not really sailing, is it?”

  Corbin looked a little crestfallen.

  “Just steer the boat.” He grinned at her. Obediently Zani turned back to the helm.

  Turning off the motor, Corbin logged in to the onboard computer and sat back as the boat hoisted its own sails.

  “I can program where we’re going into the GPS and it’ll sail us there, if you want,” he said, sounding completely indifferent. But Zani could see the light of passion burning in his eyes.

  “I’d love to steer. It’s not often I get the opportunity to sail this type of boat. Where are we going, anyway?”

  “Suit yourself.” Corbin shrugged. “I thought we’d go to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. It’s only a couple of hours across the Solent from here.”

  “I love Cowes. I used to sail from there as a teenager. I thought it was as exotic as a foreign country, situated so far from Mum and Dad’s place in Hampshire, and on an island.”

  “You know it well, then?”

  “Uh huh.” Zani grinned. “Nice apron.”

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  Harrods green, it had Kiss the Chef written on it.

  “Are you actually cooking?” asked Zani, trying not to sound incredulous as Corbin clattered about in the tiny galley.

  “Of course. But I didn’t have time to make any béarnaise sauce, so it’ll have to be plain bacon and eggs, not eggs Benedict,” he said with a grimace of disappointment.

  “I suppose I can live with that.” She smiled. The smell of bacon drifted past as tantalising as expensive perfume. A man who made béarnaise sauce. If it wasn’t for the whole Sunberri mess, Corbin would be a dream come true. Then she remembered about their kiss.

  The breeze picked up to a respectable six knots, and with the sails well trimmed the Vixen skimmed across the water, almost directly into the breeze. The sky was duck-egg blue, and weak yellow sunshine glittered and danced on the wavelets that rippled across the surface of the sea. A perfect day, if she ignored the thin line of cloud which smudged the horizon.

  She’d slept later than she’d wanted and in a hurry hadn’t checked the morning shipping forecast. The Solent was usually as calm as a stoned hippy, but foul weather could arrive with little warning. She frowned at the horizon, hoping it was her imagination that made her think the clouds grew larger as she watched. Her sailing instincts nagged at her and she uneasily checked the surroundings for other signs of a developing storm.

  “Something wrong?” asked Corbin.

  Zani started self-consciously. She hadn’t realised he’d stopped cooking.

  “Have you seen any seagulls this morning?”

  “Seagulls? Here, eat this. I’ll steer.”

  She slid awkwardly past as he took the wheel and handed her a plate. Blushing for absolutely no good reason, she ducked her head and quickly sat at the small table.

  “I haven’t seen any seagulls. It means bad weather. There’s a gale forecast for tomorrow. I hope it hasn’t arrived early.” She took a mouthful. The eggs were perfectly poached and oozed sunny yolks over golden toast and crisp bacon.

  Corbin shrugged. “We’ll be
fine. The seagulls are just an old wives tale.”

  “Sometimes they have a bit of truth.”

  “What do old wives know about sailing?”

  “I suppose,” she said, unwilling to argue. But it wasn’t an old wives tale. Seagulls did go inland when bad weather was coming.

  “What shall we do when we get to Cowes?” she asked to change the subject.

  “I’ve booked lunch at the Holmwood.”

  “Oh, great.” Her smile became thin and tension pulled at the back of her shoulders. She pushed her half-eaten breakfast away, sickened by the fat glistening on the bacon and the jellied whites of the eggs. Her heart turned to lead in her chest.

  The Holmwood was a very cozy, very well known hotel. Its outstanding restaurant had just earned its third Michelin star. Zani should have guessed. Corbin de Villiers would hardly settle for fish and chips on the wharf. They know me at the Holmwood. They know me really, really well.

  She sifted through several plans of escape, but rejected each one as either counter-productive or involving getting very cold and very wet. Glancing at Corbin, she decided she had little option but to handle the situation as it unfolded. Insisting that they return to the mainland immediately would destroy the tenuous relationship between them, working or otherwise. He’d think she was a schizophrenic loon.

  She held on to the slim hope that her dear friend Sarah and her husband, Roger Holmwood, had taken time off, on holiday, maybe. It was the off-season, after all. Or maybe they’d both gone to the supermarket, or perhaps the hotel had burnt down. Then she felt terrible. What if the hotel really had burnt down?

  She decided she needed to calm down.

  Corbin watched her quietly from the helm.

  They arrived in Cowes at lunchtime and moored the boat at one of the hotel’s deep-water moorings. To her chagrin, Zani missed the first pass at the buoy. The wind had picked up and the small waves made the orange ball bob elusively on the water. Distracted by the efficient hotel staff heading toward the Vixen in a small runabout, Zani ineffectually dragged the boathook through the water.