Dark Pirate

by Devine, Angela

  Fay sighed. 'I suppose so,' she murmured without conviction. Then her face brightened. 'Of course, it will stop you brooding over Martin.'

  'I'm not brooding over Martin!'

  'And Greg has made a great success of his business, that's another thing to consider. Any woman who marries him could be sure of an extremely comfortable life.'

  'Mum! I wouldn't marry someone just to have a comfortable life.'

  'No, dear, no. But it does help.'

  'Look, Mum, I'm not planning to get married today anyway. Greg and I are just friends. Do you understand? Friends! There is nothing more between us.'

  I wish that were true, thought Rose moodily as they flashed through lush green countryside an hour later. If only my heart didn't beat faster every time I looked at Greg, life could be much simpler. But he doesn't look as if he's suffering too much! Greg caught her gaze, smiled blandly at her and began to whistle softly under his breath as he turned his attention back to the road. Watching him closely, Rose found it hard to believe that such passionate emotions had ever ignited between them. Had he really held her half naked in his arms and murmured hoarse words of endearment to her? It seemed impossible! But if he had, if the whole tempestuous drama they had been through together was solid fact and not a wild flight of her imagination, then how could Greg put it behind him so easily? How could he accept a lukewarm friendship in place of passion without even a flicker of regret? The only possible explanation was that he hadn't cared much in the beginning. While Rose had experienced feelings that had stirred her to the depths of her soul, Greg had obviously just been playing an amusing little game with her. Or had he? She mustn't be too hasty in judging. Perhaps when she saw him at work, surrounded by people who knew a different facet of him, she would have a better understanding of his enigmatic character...

  When they reached Plymouth, Greg drove to an imposing two-storey villa, set on a hillside with a swooping view of the harbour. Rose's eyes widened as a pair of huge wrought-iron gates swung open at the touch of a button and the Rolls glided up a gravel driveway between neatly manicured hedges.

  'Come in and have a cup of coffee,' invited Greg, parking the car in a sweeping turning circle in front of the main entrance. 'I have to pick up a few files in any case, so we may as well freshen up before we go to the shipyard.'

  He opened the front door and ushered Rose into an entrance hall that took her breath away. The house was relatively modern, dating perhaps to the nineteen-fifties, and the architect and decorator had made maximum possible use of light and water. In front of Rose was a vast atrium, soaring to the full height of the house and lit by a glass roof. The walls on either side were faced with a peach-coloured marble and down one of them a massive artificial waterfall rippled behind a sheet of frosted glass. Invitingly deep cream leather sofas were scattered around in groups, flanked by green palms. The whole effect was one of dramatic visual splendour, counterpointed by a practical regard for comfort.

  'I-it's beautiful,' stammered Rose.

  'Thank you. I got the idea from a house I own near our Hong Kong branch.'

  'Hong Kong? You have a branch in Hong Kong?'

  'Yes,' agreed Greg, tossing his jacket carelessly on one of the sofas. 'I have branches in every continent except Antarctica now and I can't bear hotels, so I always make sure that I have my own house to stay in while I'm abroad.'

  Rose was still digesting that fact when a grey-haired woman in a floral pinafore emerged into the entrance hall and gave a faint, reproachful sigh.'Oh, Mr Trelawney, and with a guest, too! I'm sorry, sir, I've just mopped the kitchen and the downstairs bathrooms. You should have told me you were coming.'

  'Don't worry, Agnes, we won't walk on your wet floors. We'll go into the conservatory and perhaps you could bring us some coffee there in a moment. By the way, this is Miss Rose Ashley. Agnes Parker, my housekeeper.'

  The greetings over, Greg led Rose to a magnificent conservatory overlooking the harbour. 'I'm sorry about that,' he said. 'You'd better not risk breaking your neck in the downstairs bathrooms, so you can use the one off my bedroom.'

  He led her upstairs to a luxurious suite of rooms, papered in gold and white embossed wallpaper with thick carpets, French Empire furniture and a vast carved bed. Opening a door, he revealed a bathroom lined with topaz-coloured marble and gleaming with mirrors and gold fittings.

  'Help yourself to anything you need,' he instructed. 'And just come down when you're ready.'

  Rose was so enchanted by this extravaganza of a bathroom that she lingered to explore the top of the washstand and discovered twin speakers and an array of switches concealed in the mahogany surrounds. Curiously she touched one of the switches. Ballet music sprang into the air. And another switch. Reggae. She reached for the volume control and gasped as a splinter of mahogany suddenly drove deep under her nail.

  'Ow, ow, ow! Why couldn't I leave things alone?'

  Pulling open the mirrored bathroom cabinet, she searched frantically for tweezers. There were three sliding doors and, while the first two opened easily, the third one jammed. As Rose tugged it free, a prescription form and a slip of paper fluttered on to the washstand, then she found what she was looking for. Thirty painful seconds, a squeeze of antiseptic cream and one Band- Aid later and the disaster was over. She began to tidy up. The Band-Aid wrapper went into the bin, the cream and tweezers into the cabinet, the prescription form had only to be wiped dry.. .without any conscious will on her part, the words leapt into her brain: 'Miss Ingrid Jensen. Microgynon.'

  What on earth was a pharmaceutical prescription with a woman's name on it doing in Greg's bathroom? Well, it was none of Rose's business. She picked up the slip of paper which had fallen with it and began to put it back in the prescription cover. As she did so, she could not help seeing the words printed at the top. There was an address of a Plymouth doctor's surgery and a list of advice, beginning, 'If this is your first experience of taking birth-control pills, you may find that...'

  Rose caught her breath and looked hastily away, feeling suddenly so sick and shaken that she had to hold on to the top of the washstand. Oh, no! She

  hadn't meant to pry, it had been purely an accident... but what on earth was a prescription for the Pill doing in Greg's bathroom? And who was Ingrid—surely not just 'Nobody important... a girl who works for me' as Greg had told Rose? Hugh Thomas had accused Greg of taking advantage of her, but Greg had denied it. Well, he would, wouldn't he? thought Rose with a sudden spurt of anger. He'd tell any he that suited him to get him out of trouble. But it would be hard to find a lie that would cover this. Hard to think of any explanation except the obvious one. That Greg was either having an affair with this girl right now, or had been doing so until recently. Rose looked at the date on the prescription. It was barely three months old, repeats would still be valid... A low groan escaped her. Poor girl! Had she been deceived by Greg just as thoroughly as Rose had? And what was the best thing to do now? Should she put the form back and act as if nothing had happened? After all, she felt like a snoop for discovering it, even though it had been an accident. And yet she couldn't just go on as if nothing had happened. Or should she tackle him? Demand an explanation? But what right did she have to do that? After all, she wasn't Greg's wife, or even his steady girlfriend. Just his...friend. And at the moment she felt friendly enough to sentence him to a firing squad. He's not worth worrying about if he's so fickle and deceitful, she told herself sternly. But then why did she feel this corrosive jealousy, this gnawing, irrational pain at the thought that he might even now be sleeping with another woman?

  Reason told her that she should put the form back, should stay out of something that didn't concern her. It was an embarrassing situation and would be made no better if she meddled in it. Yet some impulse too powerful to resist drew her fingers back to that rectangle of white paper.

  Holding it gingerly as if it were radioactive, she slipped it into the pocket of her jacket. What do you think you're going to do with it? she asked h
erself in exasperation. You've never been the interfering type. You should stay out of this. But good sense no longer had the power to sway her. I don't care! she thought defiantly. Sensible or not, I'm going to ask Greg about this.

  She came hurrying impetuously down the marble staircase and almost collided with Greg, who was halfway up. The sight of him made her come to a halt, her breast heaving and her eyes stormy. How could he look so normal, so calm and mocking and relaxed, when his behaviour was causing her such heartache?

  'What's wrong?' he asked. 'You look upset. You haven't hurt yourself, have you?' His gaze went to the sticking plaster on her finger.

  'Oh, that,' she said unsteadily. 'I got a splinter under my fingernail upstairs.'

  His face was full of concern. 'Was it serious?'

  'No.' She paused, drawing in breath, trying to frame the words, I found this upstairs. Can you explain what it was doing there? But her nerve failed her.

  Instead of voicing her doubts and suspicions, she stood scanning Greg's face with an anguished, searching gaze.

  'Well, that's good,' he murmured with a puzzled frown. 'Why don't you come down and have some coffee, then?'

  He turned to lead the way and Rose found her voice.

  'Greg!' she blurted out. 'Who's Ingrid Jensen really?'

  He stopped as if he had just been struck by a knife between the shoulder blades and his grip on the marble balustrade stiffened. Then he turned with elaborate casualness and gave Rose a faint, careless smile that set alarm bells clamouring in her brain.

  'A spoilt brat who's been sent over from Denmark to learn about administering shipyards.' He turned away again as if he had told her everything she needed to know. Rose's voice rang out, sharp and desperate, calling him back.

  'Yes, but what's she like, Greg? And what sort of dealings do you have with her?'

  'What's she like?' repeated Greg with a stormy expression on his face.

  'Words fail me when it comes to describing Ingrid. She's nineteen and wants her own way in everything. At first I found her extremely appealing but now I avoid her like the plague. She's very rich, very beautiful, very tiresome.

  The kind of woman who could easily drive a man insane.'

  'Oh,' said Rose in a small voice. 'But did you.. .was she.. .Greg, have you been having an affair with her?'

  There was no mistaking the blaze of annoyance in Greg's dark eyes. An annoyance that was followed immediately by a shuttered, defensive look as if he were preparing to withstand a siege. 'No,' he muttered, but he would not meet her gaze. 'And I'll thank you not to ask me any further questions about the matter. Now, come and drink your coffee and then we'll leave.'

  Rose would have been impressed by the shipyard with its massive dry-docks where huge commercial vessels were under construction if she hadn't been in such a state of turmoil. As it was, she couldn't take in a quarter of what she was being shown. Like a laboratory rat on a treadmill, she kept running over and over the same ground. Greg had lied to her about his occupation, so wasn't it likely that he was lying about his dealings with Ingrid too? Rose shouldn't even want him for a friend, much less a lover. He was despicable, wasn't he? So why did she keep craving his company as urgently as if he were some kind of addictive drug? Why did she still feel this treacherous yearning to stay with him, to ignore her doubts? What she really ought to do was storm away from this place in protest. Instead, with an increasingly heavy heart, she allowed Greg to guide her around the shipyard and, at one o'clock, to take her off for lunch in the boardroom. This was a serene retreat featuring eggshell-blue walls hung with Chinese paintings complemented by a magnificent black lacquered dining-table and matching chairs. Not that the meal could be called a success. They sat glowering at each other and exchanging little more than common civilities as they worked their way through spicy crumbed shrimps with a green salad and white wine. They had just embarked on lemon water ices when there was an assertive knock at the boardroom door.

  'Come in!' called Greg.

  A tall, striking blonde girl with flawless features, a deep tan and a curvaceous figure emphasised by a skintight black dress undulated into the room and gazed soulfully at the pair of them. Greg's face took on a haunted expression. 'What do you want, Ingrid?' he demanded sharply.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE girl stared back at Greg with a stricken expression in her limpid blue eyes. For an instant she looked rather like a scolded child with her full lower lip stuck out and her forehead wrinkled as if she was about to cry. Yet there was nothing childlike about either her figure or her clothing. She was a good six inches taller than Rose and her dress had obviously come from one of the top couturiers of Europe. Made of clinging crepe de Chine, it was cut with deceptive simplicity to show off her high bust, tiny waist and long, shapely legs. She wore a minimum of jewellery—gold and pearl earrings, a gold necklace and gold watch—and her straight hair fell in a shiny flaxen curtain around her shoulders. She was ten thousand times more glamorous than Rose would ever be and yet there was something terribly vulnerable in her manner.

  'What do you want, Ingrid?' repeated Greg.

  Ingrid pouted a little at his tone, but continued to gaze wistfully at him. 'I just came in to tell you that an important fax has arrived from Copenhagen.

  The Helga Pedersen has been delivered safely and sea trials will begin next week.'

  'That's good news,' said Greg more mildly. 'But it was hardly necessary to interrupt our lunch to tell me, Ingrid. Off you go, now. Miss Ashley and I are busy.'

  'Oh, are you a client?' asked Ingrid eagerly, turning to Rose. Something in her manner had an odd pathos, as if she hoped desperately that Rose would turn out to be only a customer and therefore not a threat to her.

  'No, I--' began Rose.

  'Miss Ashley is my friend, Ingrid,' said Greg firmly. 'My very close friend.

  She has been staying at my cottage in Polperro and I hope she'll soon spend some time here in Plymouth with me.'

  Ingrid's response was startling. The cornflower-blue eyes immediately flooded with tears, the pouting lips opened and closed twice, then she flashed Rose a burning look, gave a muffled gasp and ran from the room.

  'Why on earth did you tell her that?' demanded Rose in exasperation, rising to her feet.

  'Women!' exclaimed Greg, rolling his eyes despairingly.

  Ringing down her napkin, Rose hurried in pursuit of the younger girl. An odd maelstrom of emotions was seething through her as she strode down the corridor. Bewilderment, indignation, compassion and just a pinch of curiosity. Fortunately the noise Ingrid was emitting made the hunt an easy one. In a very short time Rose ran her to earth in a tea-room overlooking the shipyard. Curled up in a chair, with her face buried in her hands, the Danish girl was sobbing with the wholehearted abandon of a child having a tantrum.

  As Rose entered the room she sat up with a jerk, uncovering her face to reveal red, swollen eyes and quivering lips. Taking in the situation, Rose crossed to the sink, tore off a strip of kitchen paper from the dispenser and handed it to the girl.

  'What's wrong?' she asked sympathetically as Ingrid dabbed at her eyes and nose.

  'E-everything.'

  'Oh, come on!' urged Rose, swallowing a smile. 'It can't be that bad.'

  'It is! It is! I'm so much in love with Greg and now you're trying to take him away from me.'

  That unsettled Rose. Perhaps Ingrid had genuine grounds for putting on an emotional display. All the same, Rose recalled Greg's exasperated denial of any wrongdoing earlier in the day and tried to keep her voice calm and soothing as she replied. 'How can anyone take Greg away from you if he's not really yours?'

  'But he was! He was! We were living together.. .he loved me, he told me he did.'

  A pain like a knife blade went through Rose's entire body at this outburst.

  Somehow there was a nightmare realism about Ingrid's assertions. Almost against her will, Rose's hand travelled to her pocket and drew out the prescription form.

 
'Did you leave this at Greg's house?' she asked.

  Ingrid accepted the paper with a puzzled look and scrutinised it swiftly.

  Then a blaze of excitement suddenly lit her eyes. 'Yes, yes! This proves what I was telling you. I lived with Greg when I first came here from Denmark. We fell in love and started sleeping together. But then a few months ago we had a big quarrel and he made me leave and live somewhere else. He was so cruel that I wanted to die.'

  'Don't be ridiculous,' protested Rose. 'You're a very silly girl to talk like that, and if you were sleeping with Greg it was very unwise of you. You're far too young to know your own mind yet about things like that. You should be getting on with learning your job and enjoying yourself.'

  Ingrid snorted. 'You sound just like Greg,' she cried with a flash of temper.

  'He was always preaching at me too.'

  'And yet you say he had an affair with you?' demanded Rose shrewdly.

  Ingrid flushed. 'Yes!' she insisted. 'I suppose he thought it was all right because everyone was expecting us to get married.'

  'What do you mean?' demanded Rose. 'Why did everyone expect you to get married?'

  Ingrid shrugged, as if the matter were common knowledge. 'That's why I came here. Daddy said it was to learn about the shipping business—he owns a big shipping company in Copenhagen, and he and Greg are old friends, you see—but I knew he was hoping Greg and I would marry. And it was

  what I hoped, too, after I met Greg for the first time. He's so handsome, isn't he? I fell in love with him the moment I first saw him.'

  Rose groaned inwardly. This was getting worse and worse. While Ingrid was obviously foolish and impulsive, her account of events seemed all too likely. Greg was certainly charismatic enough to ton any young girl's head, and Ingrid herself was so beautiful that it was hardly surprising if he had found her equally irresistible. What had his exact words been when he had described her earlier today? The kind of woman who could easily drive a man insane? At the time Rose had thought he was disparaging Ingrid, but now she was not so sure. Wasn't it exactly the kind of thing a man might say about the woman he loved? But surely Greg wouldn't lead a young, impressionable girl like Ingrid astray even if he did love her? Especially if he loved her! Wouldn't he insist that they had time apart so that she could be sure she knew her own mind before they made such a huge decision?