by Penny Jordan
When she had inspected everything she possibly could below decks, she went back topside, pausing for a moment to study the back view of Simon’s male outline as he stood behind the wheel. He was wearing his faded denim cut-off shorts and nothing else, his body burned a rich dark brown, his dark hair tousled by the breeze. Trickles of awareness slithered down her spine as Christy watched him. He was all male power and grace; a subtle mixture that fascinated and yet repelled in the same way that one was drawn to the savage beauty of the hunters of the animal world. As though sensing her presence he turned and looked at her. For a moment neither of them spoke, and Christy knew with a deeply rooted feminine instinct that if he had come to her then she would not have been able to resist him. But of course he could not come to her; he had to navigate the ketch.
‘Only another hour now. We’ll drop anchor and then I’ll make the first dive.’
He didn’t say anything else, and Christy did not go over to join him by the wheel. Instead she sat down on the deck, watching the water skim by, momentarily entranced by a school of dolphins, as different from sharks as white from black—good from evil; happy, peaceful creatures as loved by man almost as much as sharks were hated. They with their great intelligence had no desire to kill and maim and yet in many ways because of their peace-loving natures they were vulnerable. Perhaps as with man they needed a little of the shark’s natural aggression in order to survive.
They were well outside the reef now, and Christy felt it the moment the ketch turned towards the point, the effect of the powerful cross-currents below the surface, ruffling the ketch’s smooth progress. Even today with the winds and currents in their favour she could feel the power that lurked beneath the surface and she shuddered to imagine what it would be like to be the captain of a craft like Kit Masterson’s faced with the full fury of a Caribbean storm. He would have needed skill; and faith, not just in God but in his own abilities, and his attention for one moment deflected…perhaps as it had been on that fearful night when he realised there was no familiar light shining from Isabella’s bedroom window…Shivering, Christy looked away from the sea, chiding herself for her overactive imagination. She must put a curb on these foolish daydreams, especially when she was diving. Diving…excitement had given way to faint trepidation, and she admitted inwardly to herself that without the security of Simon’s skill and support she doubted that she would have felt confident to make the dive. Was that why she was so powerfully attracted to him sexually? Because deep down inside herself, against her will, against everything she knew about him, some part of her insisted on placing in him the blind faith of an adoring teenager? Not wanting to pursue the thought any further she paced the deck restlessly until she realised they had reached their destination.
Beyond the boiling surf she could see the peace of the lagoon, but to reach it one would have to brave those cruelly sharp teeth of coral she could just see protruding above the foam-flecked sea.
‘We’ll anchor here. Can you come and hold the wheel for a moment?’ She did as Simon requested, feeling the fierce tug of the current as she obeyed his instruction. Once they were secured by the strong sea anchors the tug diminished, but it was still there, she reminded herself, shivering a little. Because it had been tamed by man’s inventions that didn’t mean it was totally controlled.
‘Keep an eye on things up here while I go down and get ready will you?’ Simon asked. ‘There shouldn’t be any problems, but there’s no point in taking risks.’
This was the other side of him; the side that had been tempered in the melting pot of life, and Christy respected it. He was barely gone for ten minutes, emerging from below clad in a black wet-suit, holding his oxygen tanks in one hand. While he put them on Christy watched him, admiring the skilled economy of his movements. He was a man who, whatever he did, he would have to do well and she shivered a little remembering how her body yearned to have him as its lover. In that too he would be skilled and knowledgeable.
His preparations over, he looked at his watch and said curtly to Christy. ‘Time check?’ When they had synchronised their watches, he pointed to the support line he had clipped round his waist.
‘If I haven’t made contact in an hour, three tugs on this will remind me how long I’ve been down. If I find anything, I’ll give one tug; if I run into any problems and I’m in difficulty I’ll give two. Okay?
Christy watched as he slid neatly below the boiling surface, all her attention concentrated on the spot where he had disappeared. For a moment the acute sense of desolation she experienced shocked her. She was a fairly experienced diver—experienced enough for Simon to believe she was quite capable of handling this type of dive—and yet she was behaving like a complete amateur. As the minutes slipped by her sense of loss eased; she was able to monitor the movements of the ketch as well as keeping an eye on the line. Occasionally a fiercer tug than those she was used to on the ketch’s anchors reminded her of the power lurking beneath the turquoise blue surface.
Promptly, just on the hour, without her needing to remind him, Simon surfaced. Christy waited until he was on board, and rid of his oxygen tanks before she questioned him.
‘I’m convinced there’s something there,’ he told her, ‘but whether it’s Kit Masterson’s ship or not, I can’t tell until I’m able to remove enough coral to bring up something that can be tested and dated. That’s one of the reasons I was so keen to have you with me. I’ve explored right along the coral, and I’m convinced I can make out the definite line of a hull. I’m not going to tell you exactly where, I want you to see it for yourself and then sketch it for me.’
His words brought back all Christy’s original excitement. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to see what he was describing for herself.
When Simon answered ‘after lunch’ in response to her enquiry as to when she could go down, she was bitterly disappointed. ‘But if I eat, I’ll have to wait at least a couple of hours. I’m not at all hungry, I could go down now.’
Simon seemed to consider. ‘Well if you’re sure,’ he said at last. ‘But remember, the first hint of any problem, and you come back up. That was what we agreed.’
Now it was her turn to go below and don her wet suit. The familiarity of it close to her skin enclosed her in a different world, she could almost taste the chlorine and hear the voice of her first diving instructor.
Up on deck Simon insisted on checking her tanks before he helped her on with the heavy equipment. For a moment as she waited on the deck apprehension quivered along her spine and then it was submerged by the tide of tingling excitement racing along her veins.
‘Ready?’
She nodded briefly, securing the line round her waist, all her attention concentrated on what she was doing
‘Christy…’ There was a note in Simon’s voice she didn’t recognise; something almost approaching concern. ‘No heroics,’ he warned her soberly, and then his tone changing to brisk efficiency, he gave her a cool nod. ‘Okay then if you’re ready.’
The initial shock of the water as she slid beneath the waves disorientated her, but only for a moment. The sea was so crystal clear and pure that she had to remind herself to take it slowly, the clarity of the water making the depth deceptive. Luckily they weren’t having to dive to dangerous depths, but no diver ever took risks with the unpleasant spectre of the terrible diver’s disease, ‘the bends’ as it was known, always hovering over them. For diving to these depths they did not need a decompression chamber, but nevertheless caution was always necessary, and so Christy dived slowly, pausing occasionally to study the delicacy of the coral face, fascinated by its apparent frailty, and yet knowing that for all its delicacy it could rip the bottom out of an unsuspecting boat as easily as she could slit open an envelope.
Tiny brilliantly coloured schools of fish darted past her, weaving in and out of the coral face. Below her she could see the sandy bottom and now, also, she could feel the fierce surge of the cross currents, and was glad of her supporting line. It would be ea
sy to be distracted by this fascinating underwater world and swept away by those dangerous currents before one realised what was happening.
She was down here to do a job she reminded herself, almost breathless with delight as she watched the antics of a school of angel fish, longing intensely for her pencil and pad. Simon had told her that he had already taken photographs, but no one photograph could take in all that he wanted to show and so the elusive character of the lines he was hoping to discover beneath the coral were lost.
Manoeuvring herself carefully Christy examined the coral face, emptying her mind of preconceived ideas and concentrating instead on letting the shape of it become absorbed into her concentration.
Yes, she could see how this might easily have once been the hull of some ship. Excitement quickened along her veins as she swam slowly to and fro, studying one particular outcrop from several angles. Simon had not told her exactly where she would find Kit’s ship, but she was sure that this was it. Coral had covered whatever was left of it, but the shape of a hull was almost unmistakable. Her fingers ached to tug and pull it away and discover what lay beneath, but she knew that would be almost impossible. Great skill and care would be required for such a task. A ship the size of Kit’s, well-loaded down with men and their possessions, must have possessed dozens of artefacts which must lie here somewhere, buried in the sand and coral. She went down to the sea bed, disturbing small sea creatures as she set up spurts of sand. Lumps of coral and debris lay everywhere. A sensation of desperation overwhelmed her. There must be something here that would confirm Simon’s theory, if she could only find it. A guilty glance at her watch showed her that her hour was nearly up. It had seemed only minutes since she came down here—that was the fascination and the danger of an underwater world. Reluctantly she started to swim back to the surface, her mind full of images and colours.
Simon was waiting to help her back on deck. ‘Well?’ he asked when he had helped her strip off her tanks.
‘I think I found it.’ She described to him what she had seen and he nodded. ‘Umm…that’s what I think. Can you draw it from memory?’
‘I should think so. It’s a pity you don’t have any drawings of Kit’s ship. That would give an interesting comparison.
‘I do.’ His grin caught her unawares, momentarily stunning her into forgetting everything but her need to reach out and touch him; to trace the curving warmth of his male mouth and then to press her fingers to it. Anticipation tingled through her, swiftly controlled as she realised where her errant thoughts were leading. ‘Well, not exactly Kit’s ship.’ Simon amended, apparently unaware of what she was experiencing, ‘but one of the same class. I checked with the admiralty and they had some drawings dating from the time and were kind enough to let me photograph them. They’re in the main cabin.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about them before?’ Christy asked him as she followed him down, too excited to be aware of any discomfort from her wet-suit.
‘Because I want to see what you produce first,’ he told her calmly. ‘You must have a rough idea of what a vessel of that time looked like. I want you to produce a drawing for me based on what you’ve seen underwater, using that as a guide-line towards size and so on so that I can compare it with my drawings.’
He was setting her a difficult task, and yet it was one she could feel herself responding to. She couldn’t wait to get started, and as though he sensed her anticipation Simon said, ‘Lunch first though. You go and get out of those wet things and I’ll get it ready.’
He was no mere stereotyped macho male, Christy thought ten minutes later showering briskly, reflecting on how few men of her acquaintance would have so readily assumed the domestic role.
When she emerged from her cabin, washed and dressed, Simon was in the galley cooking a delicious-looking omelette.
‘I thought you’d prefer something light,’ he told her. ‘Go and sit down, I’ll bring it through in a second.’
It was obvious that he had everything under control; she could smell the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and in the main salon she found that the table had been set, a plate of tempting crusty bread and a bowl of fruit waiting in readiness.
Simon’s omelette tasted every bit as good as it looked. Christy ate hers hungrily, pausing when she realised that Simon was watching her. His scrutiny made her colour slightly. ‘Something wrong?’
‘No, I was just thinking that six years haven’t changed you that much after all. You always did have a healthy appetite. Miles is something of a picky eater as I remember.’
Christy wasn’t sure why he had brought that up. It was true that Miles, as an only child, had grown up to be rather fussy about his food, and it had been something that had occasionally annoyed her in India, but she had learned to cope with it.
Now she gave a brief shrug. ‘Why should Miles’ eating habits worry me?’
Simon didn’t answer her first, simply giving her a rather enigmatic look, before drawling laconically, ‘Why, indeed?’
It was as though a barrier had suddenly come between them; the warm camaraderie they had just shared suddenly transmuted into a totally unexpected veiled hostility. Gone was the intelligent, instructive companion Simon had been that morning and in his place was the laconic, mocking male who had first approached her about this venture. Simon was as dangerous and changeable as the Caribbean itself, she thought crossly, refusing to let him bait her into any unwise comments, as he taunted her with sardonic comments about Miles and their work together in India.
What could it possibly matter to him whether or not she had slept with Miles she reflected inwardly, when she realised the direction his jibes were taking. For her own self-preservation she deemed it sensible to allow him to think that they had. It would never do for him to guess the truth—not in this mood.
‘Tell me?’ he demanded in a lazy drawl when they had both finished eating, ‘is it part of your policy to have a sexual relationship with all the men you work with?’ Without waiting for her to answer, he continued insultingly, ‘It certainly proved a bonus to Miles. I understand some of the passages in his new book are almost erotic.’
She wouldn’t deign to tell him that it had been her idea that Miles included a romantic element in his novel or that Miles had been inspired to do so after their visit to a remote shrine one ruler had built in memory of his love for the daughter of a British merchant who had lived beneath his protection. Miles was not a highly sexually motivated man. Originally a university don, he had confided to Christy that as a boy he had contemplated entering the priesthood and she could well imagine him being suited to such a celibate life. A successful writer was a definite matrimonial catch, but Christy had never heard of him being intensely romantically involved. However, she was not going to admit any of this to Simon. Let him make as much fun of her and Miles as he wished, she was not going to respond to his taunting.
However, it was with great difficulty that she held on to her temper when he said softly, ‘Tell me…are you as passionately responsive to him as you are to me?’
It was an unexpected question and one she could not in honesty answer, so instead, she merely compressed her mouth and said pointedly, ‘I haven’t questioned you about your personal life, Simon.’
His mouth twisted, and if she hadn’t known better she might have suspected it was bitterness that twisted its well-shaped outline. ‘No, you haven’t have you?’ He stood up then, pushing his chair back with a rare awkwardness. ‘If you’ve finished, I suggest you get on with your drawings. I’m going to go and get some weather checks, with a bit of luck I might manage to get another dive in before it goes dark.’
She ought to have been pleased that he was leaving her alone to work, but instead she felt restless, unable to settle, her mind and emotions too keyed up for her to be able to concentrate properly, but gradually she was able to recapture the mood of excitement that had gripped her underwater, her fingers deftly reproducing the images relayed to her by her mind so that the coral
wall gradually began to take shape on the paper in front of her.
Only when her task was completed to her satisfaction did she turn her mind to the other challenge Simon had set her. For several minutes she simply studied what she had already drawn, and then slowly she allowed other images to fill her mind; her imagination slowly stripping away the coral to reveal Kit’s ship as she must once have been. Only when a definite picture had formed in her mind did she reach for fresh paper but once she had begun she started to sketch with an almost feverish intensity; working almost too fast to be aware of what was taking shape in front of her.
When Simon suddenly walked into the cabin wearing his wet-suit it took her several seconds to drag her attention away from what she was doing. When she did she glanced frowningly at her watch, stunned to discover how long she had been working.
‘I’m going down now,’ Simon told her tersely, without showing any interest in her work. ‘I won’t be more than an hour.’
Following his example Christy checked her watch, and then followed him up on deck to watch him strap on fresh air cylinders and drop gracefully overboard while she tried to quell a surge of disappointment that he hadn’t asked to see what she had done.
While he was gone she decided to work on deck so that she could keep a check on his safety line. After half an hour she was satisfied that she had done as much as much as she could and, stretching her tense fingers, she studied her own drawing, half surprised by the amount of detail she had managed to put into the small sketch. Who would have believed her memory could retain so much extraneous detail, although she suspected what she had drawn was probably more Hollywood’s vision of how an Elizabethan vessel should look, than the Admiralty’s. Shrugging she went below decks to put the drawings safely in the main cabin, not stopping to linger there, mindful of her responsibility towards Simon. A brief glance at her watch showed her that he had fifteen minutes more to go and she sat down close to the line, having checked that the sea anchors were still holding them firm. During the afternoon the wind had changed direction and although its freshness was welcome in the enervating heat, she was concerned that the change in the weather might herald unworkable conditions for them to dive in.