Rapture of the Deep

by Margaret Rome

  Catriona bit her lip. She and Janelle, who was in charge of the university switchboard, had shared a flat for the past couple of years and had discovered that the arrangement suited them so well they had recently invested some of their joint savings in a Mini. The change of circumstances was bound to hit Janelle hard, therefore she was entitled to be told the worst so that she could be given as much time as possible to find another flatmate willing to share expenses.

  'I have some bad news, I'm afraid,' she plunged without preamble. 'I must return home soon— permanently.'

  'What? Leave university…!' Janelle's wiry copper hair seemed almost to stand on end. 'But you love it here—you live, sleep and eat work, you have no other interest in life!'

  Wincing from this blunt home truth, Catriona began outlining the reason behind her decision in a few concise sentences, and when she had finished her friend looked stunned, her expression a mixture of dismay, pity and shock. It said much for the regard they shared when, instead of dwelling upon her own personal difficulties, Janelle's first consideration was Catriona's welfare.

  'But what will you find to do?' she almost wailed. 'I gather from what you've told me that Shetland comprises a cluster of remote islands, mostly un­inhabited, situated halfway between Norway and Scotland and kept isolated from civilisation by the cold North Sea!'

  'There are mod cons available to those who can afford them,' Catriona corrected with a smile, 'water supply, electricity, television reception and so on. But in my opinion, one of the most valuable assets the islands possess is their air of tranquillity, a sense that there's always time to spare and peace in which to think and sort out the true order of priorities.'

  'Peace shouldn't be difficult to find where there are few marriageable men,' her forthright friend retorted.

  'I'm not interested in men, nor they in me,' Catriona responded, unmoved.

  'True, but they very soon would be if you'd stop giving them the fast freeze treatment. If only you'd let your hair down—literally let your hair down, I mean,' Janelle giggled, 'although metaphorically speaking it wouldn't be such a bad idea either! That flaxen halo of yours is very becoming, but unfortun­ately it's apt to put men off. Whenever you glide into a room, dignified, aloof, and with a golden cor­onet shimmering around your head most men, especially the immature students who attend univer­sity functions, seem to suffer a severe bout of in­feriority complex. Yet basically,' she sighed, 'you're a very feminine lady who ought never to go short of an escort. I'm no psychologist,' she nodded sagely, 'but I like people and take an interest in them, which is why I'm daring to stick out my neck and offer you some advice—if ever you feel like shouting then shout; if you want to scream then scream, and if ever a feller should take your fancy for heaven's sake let him know it!'

  She peeped warily across her coffee cup, expecting a withering glance, but the sight of her friend's ab­stracted expression gave rise to a suspicion that she had been wasting her breath.

  'Catriona!'

  'What…? Oh, I do beg your pardon,' Catriona jerked. 'I'm sorry, I'm afraid my thoughts were far away. Would you mind repeating your question?'

  But even while Janelle was expelling an exasper­ated sigh a message was relayed over the tannoy.

  'Attention, please! Will Miss Catriona Dunross contact Professor Sandwick's office immediately—repeat im­mediately!'

  The moment she stepped inside the Professor's study Catriona was struck by his expression of great satisfaction.

  'Sit down, my dear.' He waved her towards a chair. 'I have good news. I believe I've managed to achieve a solution to your problem!'

  'You have…?' In spite of his obvious high spirits she sounded doubtful, unconvinced.

  'Almost certainly,' he beamed, looking perversely pleased, considering the objections he had raised immediately he had read her letter of resignation earlier that morning, 'I've just finished speaking on the telephone to my old friend, Sir Donald Brierly, Chairman of Lion Oil Incorporated. I managed to reach him at his London office and promptly demanded an enquiry into why my personal assist­ant, a secretary proficient in every aspect of office procedure, utterly trustworthy, completely reliable, and with references second to none, should have had her application for employment with his company so arbitrarily and unfairly dismissed. Naturally, I had to outline your domestic circumstances, my dear,' he looked only slightly apologetic, 'otherwise he would have begun wondering why I seemed anxious to be rid of such a paragon, but once the position had been explained he was most cooperative. As I know to my cost, maintaining cordial relations between his oil men and local residents is an obsession with him, so much so that he's apt to become boring whenever he launches upon the subject. Consequently, it was not difficult to guide the con­versation in our—or rather, your—favour, the upshot being that Sir Donald declared himself well satisfied with my personal recommendation and, dismissing the need for any enquiry or even for con­sultation with his Shetland-based personnel, has stated firmly and categorically that, if you should still be interested, the position of secretary to the Director of Operations is yours!'

  Catriona blinked, undecided whether to stamp her foot with vexation or throw her arms around the out-of-touch, slightly pompous Professor whose elevated status kept him immune from petty jeal­ousies seething beneath the surface of office equa­nimity that needed only a hint of patronage, a whiff of favouritism, to rear its ugly head.

  'Well, Catriona, what do you say, are you willing to accept the position?'

  In spite of lurking misgivings, a mind swirling with trepidation and doubt, she knew that she could not afford to allow such a timely opportunity to slip out of her grasp.

  'More than willing, Professor,' she gulped. 'Eager, grateful, hardly able to believe my luck!'

  'Good.' He allowed himself the luxury of a self-congratulatory grin. 'Then I suggest that you begin preparing to leave at the end of the week. When you arrive at the terminal in Shetland you're to report to the Director of Operations, a gentleman by the name of Leon Casson.'

  She was wandering, bemused, towards the door when he halted her in her tracks.

  'Oh, by the way, Sir Donald hinted that this man Casson might turn out to be a little… er… unco­operative. If he should give you any trouble, Catriona, stand your ground, insist upon being granted all the rights laid down in your contract of employment—and don't hesitate to remind him that your appointment has been personally approved by the Chairman of the Board!'

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT was a rare, bright day with, for once, no shroud of mist hanging around the islands. Brilliant sunshine had turned the choppy North Sea a lighter shade of grey, and as Catriona stared out of the window the silhouette of the helicopter reflected upon the water reminded her of a grotesque sea monster forging steadily beneath the waves.

  'We're almost ready to land, Miss Dunross, I hope you had an enjoyable flight?'

  Catriona looked up to see a young, smartly-uniformed stewardess smiling down at her.

  'Surprisingly enjoyable, thank you. I arrived at the heliport prepared to endure a bumpy, noisy ride sitting next to the pilot inside a miniature craft far removed from this luxurious forty-four-seater. Certainly I didn't anticipate enjoying the attention of two very pleasant stewardesses.'

  The girl looked pleased. 'The men who work on our oil patch deserve the very best, Miss Dunross, the work they undertake is fast, tough and extremely demanding. Come to think of it,' she smiled, 'that's also a fair description of their attitude towards re­creation! As you're entitled to use company transport you must obviously be a new recruit to our on-shore base,' she continued, displaying friendly curiosity. 'Starting out on a new job is a difficult time and you must be anxious to create a good impression. Naturally, my job brings me into contact with all oil company personnel, so if you'd care to tell me the name of your immediate superior I might be able to help by putting you wise to any personal quirks or idiosyncrasies.'

  Catriona hesitated. The girl had shre
wdly con­cluded that she was about to join the staff of oil field secretaries, and though she had no wish to discuss the nature of her work neither did she want to snub the girl's friendly overture. Opting for diplomacy, she murmured,

  'I've been employed to take over the post of pri­vate secretary to Leon Casson, the Director of Operations.'

  'You're going to work with Leo the Lion?'

  Catriona's spirits zoomed to zero when the girl dropped into the adjacent seat projecting an attitude that was a mixture of shock, pity and downright awe. But at the sight of her frown the stewardess attemp­ted a quick recovery.

  'Don't let the designation put you off. The title, coined by some of his more irreverent employees, probably alludes more to the fact that he's in charge of Oilfield Lion than to any personal characteristics. The boss pilots his own helicopter, but on the few occasions he has flown with us I've found him ex­tremely charming,' she blushed, somehow managing to convey to Catriona an image of a tawny-eyed, predatory male preening with chauvinist conceit.

  She dismissed the thought from her mind and cleared her throat, annoyed with herself for feeling nervous.

  'I've been told that there are a great number of overseas personnel employed by the oil company?' She paused delicately, calculating that her query would immediately become associated in the girl's mind with the subject of their current conversation.

  'Leon Casson came originally from the States— Texas, I believe—but according to girls working at base he's travelled the world for so many years, working on oilfields as far distant as the Persian Gulf, Mexico and even Alaska, he's lost all allegiance to any one country and is considered to be more a citi­zen of the world,' the starry-eyed stewardess did not disappoint her.

  'Would I be right in assuming that he's remained a bachelor?' Catriona probed, anxious to collate as much background information as possible before meeting the man who she instinctively sensed was about to present problems.

  'You are indeed,' the girl laughed aloud. 'In spite of the many girls who've fancied their chance as a lion-tamer he has guarded his liberty well and continues roaming free, creating havoc among the females inhabiting his particular patch of jungle.'

  Catriona had to admire the efficiency of a com­pany which, when she alighted from the helicopter, proved itself to be equally well informed about the arrival of its newest recruit as it was about VIPs. A car was waiting to drive her the short distance be­tween the heliport and a huge complex of accommo­dation and administration buildings; storage tanks; processing plant; docks, garages, workshops and dozens of unidentifiable buildings that formed the pulse of Lion Oil Incorporated, the on-shore base from which determined treasure-seekers directed the search for fluid gold.

  'I have the number of the chalet you've been allo­cated in the village, miss,' the laconic, gum-chewing driver tossed across his shoulder, 'but the boss seems eager to make your acquaintance. Usually, new re­cruits are given time to unpack their bags before being summoned into his presence, but my instruc­tions are to drive you straight from the airport to his office, so, rather than risk having my guts used for garters, that's exactly what I aim to do!'

  'I shan't be living in the village,' she corrected, 'my home is less than half an hour's drive from here, so I intend commuting daily.'

  'Oh, so you're a local?' His eyebrows, reflected in the driving mirror, elevated with surprise. 'In that case there's no fear of you being lonely—a large per­centage of our work force is made up of local in­habitants. Also many of the staff who came here when the terminal first opened have had houses built and brought their families over to settle in Shetland permanently. Personally, I'm content to live in the village, the chalets are clean and comfortable, the food is first class, and there are sufficient bars, concert rooms, restaurants and recreation halls to cater for all tastes. The entertainment is especially good. Do you like jazz, miss?' Without waiting to hear her reply, he continued on a note of great anticipation. 'One of the country's top jazz bands has been booked to play in the concert hall this weekend. Even if you don't live on the site, as one of the work force you're entitled to attend.'

  'Thank you for letting me know,' Catriona re­sponded, made slightly breathless by the discovery that the barren acreage of land shunned as expend­able even by tenacious, hard-working islanders had been transformed by superbly efficient, high-powered organisation into a bustling hive of activity. 'As yet, I'm uncertain about my plans for the week­end, but if it's at all possible I'd like to go to the concert. Where can I get a ticket?'

  The driver's chewing jaws dropped open with sur­prise. Then he began to chuckle. 'Bless you, miss, you won't find tickets on sale here, all entertainment is free—and no seats can be reserved, not even for management. All you need do when you arrive at the concert hall is pile inside with the rest of the crowd and claim the first available seat!'

  Their arrival outside of the main office building put an end to the conversation. Hesitating on the threshold of the surprisingly smart, modern building just long enough to smooth the creases from her skirt, Catriona drew in a deep, steadying breath and marched inside.

  'Good morning, can I help you?'

  A young, chic, incredibly voluptuous receptionist looked up as she approached the desk.

  'If you'd be so kind,' Catriona gulped, made un­comfortably aware that to fashion-conscious eyes her neat, willow green jumper suit might appear slightly dated. 'I was instructed to report immediately I arrived to the Director of Operations.'

  'The boss is carrying out a tour of the base at the moment, Miss…?'

  'Dunross—Catriona Dunross. I'm to be the Director's new secretary.'

  The girl's pencil-stroked eyebrows shot skyward. 'Then if you wouldn't mind waiting in his office, Miss Dunross, the boss won't keep you long, he's due to arrive back any minute now.'

  She walked from behind the reception area and began leading the way towards a row of teak-grained doors each bearing a nameplate. As Catriona followed obediently in her wake, her sensible brogues making soundless contact with a width of mirror-polished floor, her sense of inferiority was not improved by the sight of shapely legs encased in sheer black nylon and ankles beautified by the slenderising effect of strappy sandals perched upon high, finely tapering heels. 'Can I get you a cup of coffee?' the film star look-alike enquired, waiting until Catriona had settled into a leather armchair positioned strate­gically in front of a huge desk strewn with corre­spondence, discarded envelopes, manuals, maps, and a spread-out blueprint that appeared to show the layout of the base camp and adjoining oil terminal.

  'No, thank you, I had some on the flight over,' she refused, striving to appear composed, her ner­vousness increasing as the ordeal loomed nearer. Immediately the door had closed behind the young receptionist she began fumbling inside her handbag for the owl-rimmed, amber-tinted spectacles pur­chased as a ploy to add a touch of maturity to youthful features, a shield of authority behind which she had hidden naivety and basic shyness from some of the more worldly university students. She was adjusting the frames above the bridge of her nose when the door was flung open with force, causing a hurricane draught that rustled the papers on top of the desk and lifted the flimsy blueprint so that it floated, then began drifting downwards to the carpet. Instinctively, Catriona darted sideways to save it and collided with a violent bump against a solid obstacle that had appeared without warning, leaving her no time to check her propulsion. The moment her head connected with an iron-muscled chest, the moment her ears caught the sound of a breathed curse and her shoulders were captured in a bruising grip, she sensed that she had managed to upset the equilibrium of the oil king with the notoriously inflammable temper.

  'Who the devil are you?'

  Shock waves trembled through her limbs when, after being set down upon her heels with a thump that jarred every bone in her body, she came face to face not with the expensively suited, cigar-smoking executive she had expected but with a lean, rugged action-man type, all angles, sporting a ch
ecked workshirt, neckerchief, denims with decorative stit­ching almost obscured by faded oil stains, and a yellow protective helmet emblazoned with an emblem of a lion rampant centred directly above a line of dark frowning eyebrows. She backed away, blanching from vibes of sheer animal virility exuding from the man who appeared capable of disposing of any unwelcome recruit as easily as he would demolish a plate-size breakfast steak.

  'I'm Catriona Dunross…' she stammered in total confusion, then, scrabbling for the cloak of cool pos­session that formed the major part of her armoury, she tilted her chin and continued with dignity. 'If you're Leon Casson, Director of Operations, then I'm your new secretary.'

  'The devil you are!'

  Dismissing her claim with infuriating contempt, he wheeled behind the desk to coil long fluid limbs into a chair.

  'You don't look old enough to have left junior school, much less attained the giddy status of private secretary.'

  'I can't help my looks,' she retorted, stiff with resentment.

  'That's a debatable point,' he glittered, waving her back to her seat. In spite of herself she shivered when, with a smile playing around his lips and one booted foot hooked across a knee, he swivelled side­ways in his chair to examine her thoroughly. Prickles of embarrassment chased up and down her spine as gold-flecked eyes stripped her piece by piece until she felt naked. Sweat damped her palms as she willed her expression to remain calm, fought hard to de­prive him of the satisfaction of guessing that a child­hood and schooldays spent entirely in the company of her own sex, and consequent years devoted entirely to academic study, had rendered her a stranger to male aggression, defenceless against the brutal audacity of a man who, either from choice or because of the haunts he had frequented, appeared to have become accustomed to viewing females as brainless dolls eager to flaunt their attractions, who invited male attention with looks that were bold, even brazen. 'It appears to me,' he annoyed her by drawling when finally he had concluded his assess­ment, 'that you could put much more effort into capitalising on your assets. But at least,' he grinned, 'you haven't cultivated a moustache which, had you been destined to remain here, I would certainly have found offensive.'