Dark Pirate

by Devine, Angela

  And that was a relief, an incredible relief. She felt like a child who had been badly frightened by a Hallowe'en mask and was now old enough to realise that it was nothing but a harmless illusion.

  'Poor Martin,' she said with a touch of mockery.

  'I knew you'd understand, Rosie,' he said. 'You always were a good sort. The trouble with Delia is she's been spoilt rotten and she just doesn't realise she's got to make an effort to please a man. She thinks she can just walk in and change my whole life. Well, I don't suppose this tiff's anything serious and I certainly don't want the marriage plans to fall through. Her old man's one of the biggest resort developers in Queensland. All the same, she's going to have to pull her socks up if she wants to get me back...'

  Rose sat back and closed her eyes for a moment, letting Martin ramble on while her own thoughts were far away. She found his grumbling so absurd that it was almost soothing. How different he was from Greg! Greg was even wealthier and more successful, but he had never let wealth distort his view of the world the way Martin had done. Whatever his faults, nobody could accuse Greg of being pompous and self-satisfied. Infuriating, yes.

  Secretive, certainly. But not blinded by money. The first time she had met him she had believed he was a fisherman, and that wasn't only because of his clothing. It was because he still had the raw vitality and power of a man who

  had to wrestle his living from the hostile forces of nature. You could put Greg down in a jungle with nothing but his bare hands and he would survive. When it came down to it, he was still a savage at heart. Lean, hungry, untamed and full of primitive passion and vitality—just the way Rose wanted him to be. And with a rising sense of excitement she realised something else: Greg was her man and she was going to fight for him if necessary, even against that glamorous Danish girl. Martin's words came to her, far off and blurred as if they were being broadcast through fog.

  '... new premises... outskirts of London... huge European market. Now, to start with you'll be in charge of a staff of about twelve, but later--'

  'No,' said Rose clearly, emerging from her trance.

  'Eh? What do you mean, "no"?' Martin's flushed face made him look as aggressive as a turkey.

  'I won't be in charge of a staff of twelve, because I'm not taking the job,'

  replied Rose apologetically.

  'What? You've brought me all the way down here and you've got the hide to tell me you're not taking the job? Why not? Aren't I offering you enough money?'

  'It's not that.'

  'I know what it is! You're jealous of Delia.'

  Rose contemplated explaining and then sighed and shook her head. Martin would never in a million years understand why she preferred Greg to him, unless she told him that Greg was richer. And it had nothing to do with that.

  It was because Greg made her laugh and cry and rage and feel alive in every cell of her bo dy...

  'No, I'm not jealous of Delia,' she said with a wry smile. 'Actually, I'm rather sorry for her.'

  'Sorry?' demanded Martin belligerently. 'She's going to marry one of the most successful men in Australia and you're sorry for her? What the hell do you mean by that?'

  'Oh, never mind,' said Rose. 'You wouldn't understand anyway. You and I are light-years away from each other, Martin, and I never realised it until now.'

  Martin looked indignant and baffled. Then his face lit up. 'You can deny it all you like,' he said with the air of a detective solving the final clue to a mystery. 'But I know it's Delia that's upset you, Rose. And I don't blame you for that. As a matter of fact, I'm still fond of you too. Bloody fond of you.'

  His hand closed over hers. 'What do you say we get back together and give it another go?'

  Rose stared at him incredulously. 'Martin, are you asking me to marry you?'

  she demanded.

  'Marry?' A stricken look crossed his face and his large red hand retreated hastily across the tablecloth to the safety of his beer mug. 'Look, love, marriage wasn't quite what I had in mind--'

  Rose dropped her eyes and choked back a hysterical urge to giggle. 'Nothing else will do for me, Martin,' she said sadly. 'So I'm afraid it's all over between us.'

  For a disappointed lover, Martin made a remarkably swift recovery.

  'Hell, Rose, I'm sorry,' he muttered. Then his face brightened. 'But I can see your point. Look, what about the job, then? Won't you give it another go?

  You're a damn good programmer and I'd hate to lose you.'

  'Thanks, Martin,' said Rose with a touch of irony. 'It's nice to know how much you value me, but I don't want the job, either.'

  'But there's all that work you've done on the inventory system! The program you sent us was great, but from what you said you've got heaps more data on sales projections too. Can't I even get access to that?'

  'You're welcome to it,' said Rose coolly. 'Come back with me now and I'll copy it all on to disk for you. Then you needn't feel that you've had a wasted trip down here and we can say goodbye with no hard feelings.'

  'All right, that's very decent of you,' agreed Martin with obvious relief.

  They called for the bill, which Martin paid and then walked back to the car park by the bridge where Rose had left her car. All her computer equipment was at Greg's cottage, so she drove straight there.

  'Nice view you have here,' commented Martin as they pulled up in the driveway. 'Er—your mother's not home today, is she? She never did take to me much, somehow.'

  With a twinge of amusement, Rose realised that Martin thought this was her own cottage, but it hardly seemed worthwhile explaining the truth. 'No, she's away on a shopping trip in Plymouth,' she said. 'Now come inside and I'll get the disks for you.'

  Twenty minutes later, Rose shut down the computer and handed a box of floppy disks to Martin. 'There you are,' she said. 'I hope you'll find them useful.'

  As Martin set the disks down on the table, she realised with a twinge of alarm that he was looking not at the box but at her. A sudden gleam came into his eye and he caught his breath. Then he made a lunge at her and hugged her so hard that her ribs almost cracked.

  'Come on, Rosie,' he urged. 'Change your mind and come to London with me. We'll stay at the Ritz and I'll take you to bed in the most luxurious suite they've got. Afterwards we'll paint the town red. You'll enjoy it.'

  There was a cold rush of air at the living-room door and an even colder voice rang out through the room. Greg's voice.

  'Like hell she will.'

  He advanced a couple of paces into the room and stood with his feet planted wide apart and his hands resting on his hips. Every line in his body radiated aggression. His black eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes were narrowed and glittering, his mouth was set in a hard line and his whipcord muscles were tensed for action. He was dressed in faded jeans, scuffed fisherman's boots and a coarse woollen jersey with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful tanned forearms. And the expression on his face was frankly murderous.

  'Who the hell is this bloke, Rose?' demanded Martin, stepping back a pace.

  'I... He... the cottage,' she stammered disjointedly. It was hard to believe that she had once won an award for public speaking.

  Greg came to her rescue. 'I own this house and I live here with Rose,' he announced with a fine disregard for truth. 'So let me tell you, she doesn't want your job, or your slimy invitation to the Ritz.'

  Martin turned to her with a stunned expression. 'Is this true?'

  Rose opened her mouth twice and closed it again. Trying to explain Greg's elastic idea of the truth was too much for her. All the same, what he was telling Martin about her intentions was basically correct. 'Yes,' she said weakly.

  'Well, you don't have to stay with him!' snorted Martin. His face turned a shade redder and his eyes travelled disdainfully round the room with its antique furniture and faded rugs. 'He can't be much of a man if this clapped-out old dump is the best he can offer you. I'll give you a luxury apartment in Mayfair, Rose.'

  Greg advanced t
hreateningly on the burly Australian. 'You'll get out of here, or I'll knock your head off,' he said in a voice soft with menace.

  Martin squared his shoulders and punched one fist into the other as he scrutinised Greg from under lowered brows. Then, after a moment, he smiled uneasily, wiped the palms of his hands on his thighs and retreated prudently across the room. 'I don't want to upset Rose, or I'd take you up on

  that, you Cornish ratbag,' he blustered. 'But in any case, I don't approve of violence. Rose, can you give me a lift back to town?'

  'No, she can't,' said Greg grimly.

  Martin looked momentarily disconcerted. 'Well, can you call me a taxi, then?'

  'There's no phone,' murmured Rose.

  'No phone?' echoed Martin as if he had just been told the house had no roof.

  'You can walk across the cliff path to Polperro and a taxi from there,' rapped Greg.

  'But it's bloody raining!' objected Martin in an outraged voice.

  Greg strode into the hall and returned with an old umbrella which had survived from his early fishing days. 'Take this,' he ordered. 'Catch.'

  Sulkily Martin fielded the object and opened it out, revealing two broken ribs that made it hang like an injured bat. 'I don't believe this,' he groaned.

  'Rose, what about my box of disks?'

  'I'm sure Greg won't mind if you take than,' said Rose mildly.

  Martin edged past Greg as if he were a sleeping lion, grabbed the box of disks and headed for the door. But as he reached it he turned and looked back at Rose. 'Are you sure this is really what you want?' he asked.

  Rose cast a swift sideways glance at Greg, who put his arm around her and dragged her possessively against him. This blatant show of masculine strength infuriated her, but at the same time she could not suppress a primitive thrill of pride and excitement at his ruthlessness. Her voice was halfway between laughter and rage as she replied. 'Yes, Martin, I'm sure.'

  Martin rolled his eyes heavenwards. 'Women!' he muttered. 'I'd rather face a trade union picket line any day.'

  Releasing his hold on Rose, Greg escorted the Australian out of the room in murderous silence. Rose darted into the hall just in time to see Greg slamming the conservatory door after the other man and actually locking it for once. He came stalking back with the restless, menacing tread of an angry panther. His dark eyes were narrowed and his usually lazy smile was replaced by a fierce scowl.

  'Poor Martin,' murmured Rose. 'Did you have to behave like such a brute?'

  'Yes,' said Greg through his teeth. 'It's useless to expect a man to be civilised when he's in love.'

  Rose felt as shocked as if the ground had just moved under her feet.

  'W-what did you say?' she breathed.

  'You heard me! I love you, Rose. For heaven's sake, you must know that by now.'

  'Must I?' she demanded unsteadily. 'When you've never said a word to suggest that you really cared about me, when you won't even tell me what's going on between you and Ingrid?'

  Greg swore under his breath. 'Nothing is going on between me and Ingrid.

  There never has been, there never will be and if I'd had my way you and I would have been lovers weeks ago. I would have had you in my arms, in my bed, possessing you utterly. But you insisted that you only wanted friendship from me and I was afraid of ruining things between us if I said too much. I went too fast for you once already, Rose. This time I couldn't risk frightening you away. I had to wait and give you time before I could tell you how much I needed you. Sometimes I could hardly sleep at night for wanting you. I used to lie awake and burn for you.'

  Rose's legs felt suddenly too weak to hold her. Shock and joy and relief flooded through her and for an instant she had to clutch the back of a chair to steady herself. It was true, then. He did love her, and that meant that Ingrid's intricately woven stories were nothing but wild invention... She could scarcely take it in.

  'Do you mean this?' she asked hoarsely.

  'Of course I mean it,' snarled Greg. 'And then, when I was being so patient, to find that smarmy bastard was coming down here to worm his way back into your good books just made me see red! I couldn't work all week for thinking how much I'd like to choke him and then to come home today and find him touching you and asking you to go off with him.. .he's lucky I didn't break his neck! When I think what might have happened if I hadn't arrived when I did--'

  'Why did you arrive just then?' interrupted Rose. 'You don't usually come home till Friday evening.'

  Greg scowled at her. 'Do you really think I could stay at work, knowing you were meeting him? I've been home since this morning but I couldn't settle to anything, especially once lunchtime came and I knew you were with him, so I went down and helped Charlie Polglaze sand his boat. It's amazing how much aggression you can take out on a battered old hull. I was coming back to get cleaned up and visit you when I walked in on you and lover boy.' The contempt in his voice was so scathing that Rose had to bite back a smile.

  'You've got a piece of wood-shaving in your hair,' she murmured, reaching up to remove the feathery pink curl of wood.

  'Don't tempt me, woman,' growled Greg, trapping her in an iron embrace and drawing her against him. 'It's not wise to put your arms around a man's neck unless you want something like this to happen.'

  'This' was a long, bruising kiss that sent molten fire pulsing through her veins. She swallowed twice and then lifted trembling, parted lips for more.

  'Oh, Greg,' she breathed, clinging to him weakly.

  His face was buried in her hair, his voice muffled by its fragrant thickness.

  'Rose, you weren't really planning to go off with that oaf, were you?'

  'Of course not, Greg. How could I, when I'm in love with you?'

  She heard his sharp intake of breath, then he hauled her against him, driving his pelvis into hers so that she felt the crude, raw power of his male arousal.

  'Say that again Rose,' he rasped. 'Say it again. And And again.' The words came out in a

  staccato rhythm and at each repetition his body thrust violently against hers.

  Dizzying waves of arousal throbbed through her and she let herself sway against him, standing on tiptoe to plant small, nuzzling kisses along his jawline and the sensitive skin near his ear.

  'I'm in love with you, Greg,' she repeated.

  'You little witch,' hissed Greg. 'I'm going to have you and have you and have you until you beg for mercy.'

  His urgent, demanding hands caught at her breasts, but his touch was so skilful that she gave a low moan of pleasure as he unbuttoned her blouse and continued his exploration of her body. As deftly as if he already knew every intimate detail of her response, he began to rub his fingers around her nipples in tingling, feather- light circles until the sensitive peaks hardened and a shudder went through her entire body.

  'Well,' he murmured, his warm breath tickling her ear. 'What have you got to say to that, my love?'

  'Yes,' she gasped, arching her back and thrusting herself against his caressing hands. 'Yes, yes, yes, please, Greg.'

  With a muffled groan he released his hold on her breasts, flung an arm around her waist and marched her up the stairs as urgently as if they were abandoning a sinking ship. When they reached the landing, he paused for another long, devouring kiss, then wrenched open the door of Rose's room.

  'Oh, God, I want you,' he muttered.

  The rain was still drumming a steady tattoo on the roof and Rose could hear the distant roar of the sea crashing on the rocks far below, but the room was

  warm from the radiator under the window. She hesitated for an instant, paralysed by a sudden sense of shyness as her eyes darted over the huge, carved mahogany bed covered with an old-fashioned cream and 1

  'Don't be afraid, my love,' murmured Greg, bending to whisper in her ear.

  'We've got all the time in the world. Time for you to catch fire and want me as badly as I want you.' He kissed her softly, letting his warm, moist tongue probe the inner surface of her ear so
that she quivered under his touch.

  'I already do,' she breathed. And, reaching for him, she thrust her hands up under the prickly wool of his jumper and felt the warm, hard, muscular planes of his torso.

  'Oh, yes, yes,' he urged, seizing her hand and guiding it down below the waistband of his jeans. 'Touch me, Rose, fondle me. Let me go off my head with excitement.'

  As feverishly as if they were the last man and woman on earth, they began hauling off each other's clothes, pausing to kiss and gasp and mutter disjointed endearments. But before long Greg had flung back the covers and they were lying in the middle of the vast bed together. Rose gasped at the touch of the cotton sheets on her skin.

  'Oh, it's cold,' she protested.

  'I'll soon warm you up,' promised Greg, drawing the feather duvet over their heads like a tent and seizing her. She closed her eyes and gave a long sigh of contentment at the pressure of his powerful, warm, muscular body crushing her so satisfactorily beneath him. An aching, primitive thrill of contentment filled her at the way they complemented each other. He was hard and masculine and demanding where she was soft and feminine and yielding, but it was exactly as it should be. She wanted it no other way. When his powerful hands began to move over her body, seizing and stroking her flesh, she sighed and arched herself against him.

  'Getting warmer?' he asked in his deep Cornish burr.

  'Yes,' she admitted, 'but I can't see you.'

  He flung back the quilt, revealing his head and shoulders, and laughed down at her, his dark eyes glittering and his face alight with smouldering desire.

  'Time enough for you to see me later,' he growled softly. 'Just for now I think it would be better if you feel me. Close your eyes, Rose, and he back and let me explore you.'