Dark Pirate

by Devine, Angela

  'I can't believe Greg invited you to stay in his house and then immediately seduced you!' Rose burst out.

  Ingrid gave a watery giggle. 'Not immediately,' she agreed. 'We lived together for a long time—oh, months and months—before it happened. But all the time he could see I was in love with him and after a while he fell in love with me too and then... and then we started making love and everything was wonderful. Greg worshipped me.'

  Rose felt a sudden spasm of doubt. Greg worshipping someone? It didn't sound likely. 'So what went wrong, if he thought you were so wonderful?'

  she asked rather curtly.

  Ingrid's tears began to flow again in a blinding downpour. 'He got tired of me and made me leave. I suppose it was because he met you and had an affair with you.'

  'Ingrid, don't you dare say that!' protested Rose. 'Greg and I are not having an affair.'

  Ingrid looked up at her joyfully. 'You're not? Oh, promise me you're telling the truth.'

  'Of course I'm telling the truth.'

  'Then you won't go to bed with him, will you? If you're not already doing it, you won't start, will you? Oh, please, Rose, promise me you won't. If you'll just leave him alone, I know he'll come back to me sooner or later and marry me. I know he will.'

  Rose gave the younger woman a troubled look. 'Ingrid, if what you're telling me is true, you'd be much better off without Greg. He can't possibly love you if he's treated you so callously.'

  'He does!' retorted Ingrid defiantly, her blue eyes flashing. Then suddenly her expression changed. Instead of looking like an angry little girl, she looked like a weary, worldly wise shipping magnate. 'And anyway, even if he doesn't love me, that doesn't count in families like ours. It's very good business sense for Greg to marry me, my father said so. I'm an only child and all my family's assets will come into Greg's hands one day. That's very important to a man like him, who cares so much about success.'

  'I don't think Greg cares about success,' protested Rose. 'If he ever does marry, it will be because he loves the woman he's marrying and for no other reason.'

  'No, it won't!' said Ingrid stubbornly. 'I've known him longer than you. He only cares about building up his shipyard to make it the best in the world.

  He'll do anything for that.'

  Rose opened her mouth to disagree and was struck by a sudden, unpleasant memory of Greg on the cliffs at Talland. What had he said to her that day? 'I think on the whole I'd prefer a straight-out marriage of convenience to all the drama women seem to thrive on. A marriage where you cemented business alliances by taking a bride with no wild expectations of living happily ever after.' She caught her breath in horror. Was Ingrid right? Could Greg really be so calculating, so hard-headed, so bent on pursuing his own financial advantage?

  'He's not like that!' Rose insisted desperately. 'He wouldn't marry a woman he didn't love.'

  'You're only saying that because you want him yourself!' Ingrid cried. 'But you're wasting your time. Even if he does go to bed with you, it won't make you happy. He'd only be having a last fling before he married me.'

  Tears sparkled again in the younger woman's eyes and Rose, although more hurt and disturbed than she cared to admit, put out her hand in a protective gesture. Suddenly there was a footfall in the corridor and the sound of a deep masculine voice. Greg's voice.

  'Ingrid? Rose?'

  Ingrid clutched Rose's arm and spoke in an imploring stage whisper. 'Don't tell him what I said to you; he'd be furious-if he knew I'd told you all our secrets.'

  Greg's face was like thunder when he entered the tearoom and he showed very little sympathy for Ingrid's tears.

  'I've told you before and I'll tell you again—I don't want to see any more of those prima donna performances!' he snapped. 'If you can't behave more sensibly, I'll pack you off home to your father. Now go and wash your face.'

  Ingrid's eyes were still brimming reproachfully as she trailed out of the room.

  'Did you have to be so unkind?' demanded Rose as the sniffs diminished down the corridor.

  'It only makes her worse when I'm nice to her,' growled Greg. 'And now I suppose she's filled your head with some cock-and-bull story in which I feature as Bluebeard?'

  Rose's brows met in a perplexed frown. She had a shrewd suspicion that most of Ingrid's story was moonshine. And yet...

  'It did sound a bit far-fetched,' she said slowly. 'But all the same... what did happen between you, Greg?'

  'I don't intend to discuss it,' retorted Greg through his teeth. 'The whole affair was a ridiculous fiasco and the less that's known about it by outsiders, the better. The only thing I'll say is this. I don't believe I did anything to be ashamed of.'

  'I see.' Rose kept her voice deliberately neutral, but she could not entirely suppress the uneasiness that stirred inside her. Would Greg consider an affair with a girl Ingrid's age something to be ashamed of or not? And was he really thinking of marrying her just to gain control of her assets?

  'Do you? I wonder,' murmured Greg half to himself. Then he crossed the room and tilted Rose's chin so that his blazing brown eyes gazed intently down at her. 'Well, it really comes down to this, doesn't it? Do you trust me enough to continue our friendship? Or do you believe whatever Ingrid has told you?'

  A tremor passed through Rose's body as much because of his nearness and the touch of his fingers as because of the question he was asking her. And yet the question was vitally important. Did she really believe that Greg had been heartless enough to seduce and abandon a nineteen-year-old?

  Or to marry one purely for money? If that was true, then Rose certainly didn't want to be his next target for conquest. But was he really capable of being so selfish and unscrupulous? The evidence against it seemed quite damning and yet...

  'No, I don't believe her!' Rose burst out. 'I won't believe it. I know you're scheming and deceitful and smooth-talking with more twists than a Cornish back alley, but I don't think you're downright rotten.'

  'Thanks,' said Greg drily.

  Rose gave an exasperated sigh. 'I'm defending you,' she pointed out.

  'I know,' agreed Greg. 'Heaven help me if you ever decide to attack me!'

  His dark eyes were glinting with amusement and for a moment Rose decided to return his gaze with dignity. Then her lips twitched and she gave a reluctant gasp of laughter.

  'You're abominable, Greg!'

  'Too abominable to have dinner with? I can promise you a really good meal, if you'll help me with my computer problems. I have a new computer-aided design program with a totally inadequate manual.'

  They spent the remainder of the afternoon at the shipyard, where Rose became so absorbed in the CAD computer program that she forgot all about Ingrid's problems. Then afterwards they had pre-dinner drinks at Greg's home, followed by a stroll around the part of the city which had survived the bombing of World War Two. They visited the Barbican and the spot where the Mayflower had set sail and the statue of Sir Francis Drake on the Hoe.

  Although it was getting late, pale green twilight still illuminated the sky, making the city look like a stage backdrop with its yachts bobbing peacefully at anchor and its rows of terraced houses high on the ridge tops.

  'I love the long summer evenings in Britain!' exclaimed Rose. 'There's nothing like this in the tropics back home. The sun just sinks into the sea like a cannonball at six o'clock, summer or winter.'

  'There are magnificent sights there too,' pointed out Greg. 'The Great Barrier Reef, tropical rainforests, palm trees, gleaming white beaches...'

  'Mm, that's all true,' admitted Rose. 'But somehow there's no real sense of tradition in Australia and I didn't know how much I missed that until I came here. I find England's old buildings and customs so fascinating that I don't think I'll ever want to leave.'

  'You really think you'll settle here, then?'

  It was such a loaded question that Rose stiffened and caught her breath. She must not read too much into this. It might be merely friendly curiosity on Greg's part, rather than
any urgent personal wish to keep her here. And there were so many variables in her own life too. If Martin marries Delia, if I can

  manage to earn a living in England, if this friendship with Greg doesn't lead to disaster...

  'Who knows?' she replied with a shrug, trying to keep her tone light.

  'Well, seeing you're so keen on Merrie Olde Englande, I think I'll take you somewhere where they specialise in hearty British food,' said Greg equally lightly.

  Rose exclaimed in delight over the low ceilings with their crooked oak beams, the panelled walls and crooked windows of the old tavern where Greg took her for dinner. After a long and pleasant agony of indecision, she decided on steak and kidney pudding, while Greg to her amazement ordered the Star-gazy pie, 'With fish heads, please.' When the food arrived, the waitress gazed questioningly at them.

  'Star-gazy pie?' she asked.

  "That's for the lady,' said Greg swiftly.

  'But I ordered--' began Rose.

  'Oh, no, my love, you must be mistaken,' insisted Greg with a glint in his eye. 'I'm sure the Star-gazy pie was yours. And you really wouldn't want to make a scene about it in a public restaurant, would you? I'll have the steak and kidney pudding, thanks.'

  For a moment Rose contemplated rebellion, but the thought of foisting a plate of fish heads on an unwilling Greg was too horrific to bear. She sat fuming in silence, torn between rage and amusement, until the waitress had retreated.

  'Is this your idea of revenge?' she hissed.

  'Ooh, aah, you'm right there, m'dear,' replied Greg in a Cornish accent so thick that she could barely understand it. 'Eat hearty, now. It b'aint right to let a nice Star-gazy pie get cold.'

  'You brute,' breathed Rose, suppressing a twinge of admiration at the way he had paid her back.

  Yet Greg wasn't completely callous. He didn't touch the steak and kidney pudding and, after she had eaten the first fish head, he took pity on her and swapped plates. Rose began to enjoy herself and, as the evening wore on, she felt as if she were waltzing dizzily around a ballroom about six inches above the floor. Part of that effect might have been due to the glass of white wine she had with dinner or the hot, delicious punch at the jazz club afterwards, but most of it was due entirely to the intoxicating presence of Greg. He was the most extraordinary, baffling man she had ever met in her life, full of unexpected surprises. In some ways he was still a simple Cornish fisherman, in others an astute businessman with a sophistication that surprised her. Yet one thing she was sure of: wherever he went, Polperro or Plymouth or, for that matter, Panama or Puerto Rico, Greg would be totally in command of every situation. And he would always retain that vibrant, animal magnetism that both intrigued and frightened her. All the same, in spite of the magnetic attraction she felt towards Greg, Rose was still conscious of a barrier between them. She might not believe everything Ingrid had told her, but the Danish girl's outburst had set up a potent echo inside her head. Try as she might to banish them, the words kept whispering away... 'We fell in love and started sleeping together ... sleeping together ...

  sleeping together ...' Would she ever be able to trust Greg again?

  It was after midnight when they returned to Pisky Bay and when they stepped out of the car, by common consent they stood in silence for a moment. The whole place looked magical, with moonlight spilt in a milky path across the dark, rippling seas. A light breeze was stirring the elm trees, and a subdued scent of flowers rose from the garden. As Greg led her to the front door where the porch light shed a friendly pool of golden radiance, Rose felt her muscles tense and her heart beat faster with expectancy. Every nerve in her body yearned for him and it was all she could do not to move into his arms and raise her lips to his. Yet when Greg hauled her into his arms and nuzzled her hair, her whole body stiffened. She didn't believe Ingrid, but she wasn't going to take any chances...

  'Don't, Greg,' she ordered, tearing free of his grip. 'I told you, I only wanted to be friends with you.'

  'Friends!' hissed Greg savagely, striking the column of the porch with his clenched fist. 'All right, damn it! I suppose that's better than nothing. But can I see you next weekend?'

  It was more than she could do to refuse. She stood watching him from under half-closed eyelids, her pulses racing and her breath coming unevenly. 'Yes,'

  she gasped.

  Then, turning away, she hurried inside.

  * * *

  It soon became the established pattern for Greg and Rose to spend their weekends together. With the help of a little advertising in the local tourist offices, the newly renovated cottage was doing a brisk trade in bed and breakfast, but this very prosperity brought some problems with it. Often the small house at Pisky Bay was so full of the clatter and conversation of paying guests and the ringing of telephones that Rose found it hard to concentrate on her computer programming. What was more, she found herself missing the privacy that she had been used to in Queensland.

  Although she was very fond of her mother, she had been living in her own flat for the last five years and found her habits of independence died hard.

  When she mentioned her problem casually to Greg, his solution was immediate.

  'Come back and stay at my cottage during the week,' he suggested. "There'll be no one here to disturb you, not even the telephone, and you can pop over easily enough in the daytime to help your mother when she's busy, especially if you buy a small car.'

  Rose protested feebly, but eventually allowed herself to be persuaded. It was heaven to spend some quiet time alone at last and her computer programming progressed much faster. Before very long she completed the computer program she had been writing for Inglis's, sent it off to the company in Brisbane and was soon rewarded by a fat cheque and a letter of appreciation from Martin. The cheque pleased her. In spite of the current business at the cottage, she was well aware that bookings would soon drop

  off once the high summer period was over, and she was determined to keep up the payments on the bank loan without any help from Greg.

  The letter from Martin affected her differently. At first she could not even bring herself to open it, and when she did she felt a mature of relief and disappointment at its contents. It was simply a friendly, even flattering screed, extolling her virtues as an employee and saying how much Martin appreciated her work. There was no hint of any kind that their former love-affair had ever happened. Well, that was fine with Rose. If Martin was going to marry somebody else, there was obviously no point in his waxing lyrical over how much he had once loved her. But then why not stay completely businesslike? Why send her a long, handwritten letter full of company gossip and lots of private jokes as if they were still the best of friends? It didn't make sense and it annoyed Rose. Particularly since there were veiled references in it to the possibility of a new branch being opened in Britain shortly and more programming work to follow. All the same, whether for business reasons or for the kind of wishy-washy sentimentality that she despised, Rose kept the letter.

  At the end of the first week of using Greg's cottage again, she held an anxious inner debate with herself about what she should do. Should she leave before he arrived, so as not to intrude on his privacy? But that seemed rather unfriendly, although she did not want to encroach on their newly patched-up friendship. In the end, she decided she would stay long enough to share a cup of coffee or a quick drink with Greg and then go home. But somehow Greg adroitly carried her off for a meal in a pub at Looe before she really knew what was going on, and that became the pattern of their weekends from that time onwards. Rose found the whole experience as nerve-racking as walking around the rim of a live volcano. Try as she might to keep a cool, restrained friendship going between the two of them, Greg had other ideas, and she often found herself dragged into a torrid embrace.

  To make matters worse, he had deliberately set out to charm her mother with gifts of flowers and chocolates so that Fay had defiantly declared her belief that Joan was wrong about him. In fact,

  Rose's mother e
ven seemed to do all she could to throw them together, taking on most of the bed-and-breakfast work herself.

  This left Rose and Greg free to spend long, sunny, glorious days sailing, horse-riding and exploring the beaches and rock pools where Greg had played as a child. Sometimes they made excursions further afield with the car to St Michael's Mount and Lanhydrock and across the border into Devon to Buckland Abbey and Castle Drogo. They picnicked on Dartmoor, canoed on the River Tamar, went to open-air concerts and local markets and had a wonderful time. And each weekend Rose's uneasiness grew a little worse, because she knew that sooner or later it would all have to come to an end. It was madness to go on seeing Greg so frequently with nothing resolved between them, especially when she still found his physical magnetism as raw and compelling as ever. And that wasn't even the worst problem. The worst problem was that she was dangerously close to falling head over heels in love with him, which would be a crazy thing to do, especially as there was no sign that he felt anything more than a violent sexual attraction to her. And there was still the enigma of his relationship with Ingrid... No, the only sensible thing Rose could do was to leave Cornwall at the end of the summer and look for a job elsewhere.

  Then one day at the end of summer they had a conversation that brought matters to a head. All through July and August the weather had been glorious, hot, sunny and perfect. But now for the first time there was a sudden change. One Saturday afternoon grey clouds blew in from the east and rain began to explode against the glass windows of the conservatory like a hail of bullets. Greg, who had been lounging back in one of the leather couches, tossed aside his newspaper and rose to his feet with a pleased smile on his face.