Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  Nevertheless, it had been painful to see them fade away, one after the other, after being exposed by him to the social equivalent of an Arctic winter.

  The gossip columns had enjoyed a field-day with her, their comments becoming increasingly snide as one relationship after another had withered and died. Chellie had loathed finding herself portrayed as some heartless rich bitch who chewed men up and spat them out, treating love and marriage as a game for her ego.

  Ramon had been so different—or was that just what she’d persuaded herself to believe? He was certainly unlike the suits who hung round her, trying to curry favour with her father and failing.

  And he’d braved the full force of Sir Clive’s icy disapproval to be with her, which had earned him mega-points in her regard at an early stage in their acquaintance.

  She’d never dreamed, of course, that she was simply being carefully and ruthlessly targeted.

  He’d talked to her, too, in that deep, softly accented voice that seemed to caress her like dark velvet. Shown her for the first time the possibility of another kind of life outside her father’s aegis.

  He’d spoken to her of rainforests, and rivers as wide as oceans. Of remote estancias where herds of cattle grazed on thousands of acres. Of the house that he’d inherited as his father’s only son and the fruit and coffee plantations that surrounded it.

  And, of course, of the wife he needed to live beside him there. The girl who, miraculously, seemed to be her.

  He’d wooed her so delicately, offering her what she’d believed was adoring respect, keeping her newly awakened senses in ferment. She was his angel on a pedestal, to be worshipped always.

  He’d sold her a dream, Chellie thought with self-derision, and she’d bought into it completely. She hadn’t even thought to ask who was running those vast plantations while he was away. All she could see was herself, riding beside Ramon through an endless sun-drenched landscape. She’d been lost in the glamour of it all.

  The question of money had never really been addressed, of course. Ramon was well dressed, had a flat in the right part of town, was seen in the best places and drove a fast car. Naïvely she’d supposed that that, and all his talk of family estates, added up to solvency. And that her own financial standing was immaterial to him.

  Boy, was that the mistake of the century, she thought, grimacing inwardly. A little plain speaking on both sides would have saved a multitude of troubles.

  And her father’s stony opposition had simply fuelled her resolve—her certainty that Ramon, and the life he described so lyrically, was all she would ever want.

  And when Sir Clive, working himself into one of his furious rages, had forbidden her to marry Ramon, or even to see him again, the decision to run away with him had almost been made for her.

  Perhaps if it hadn’t been for his totally unreasonable blanket condemnation of every other man but Jeffrey, she might, in turn, have dealt more rationally with his opposition. Might even have listened to the dossier he’d no doubt had prepared on Ramon and taken his warnings seriously.

  Instead, she’d closed her eyes and ears to his outbursts. Ignored his threat to cut her out of his life and render her penniless if she disobeyed him.

  Maybe she’d even thought that if he saw her happily married and living a useful, contented life—if there were grandchildren to soften his heart—he would relent and admit he’d been wrong.

  In fact, it was supposed to be roses all the way, Chellie thought. But how wrong could anyone be? She sighed faintly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His question sounded abrupt, but the arm around her tightened fractionally.

  ‘Fine.’ Chellie forced a smile to reinforce the fib. Remembering how completely Ramon had fooled her had been a painful procedure, but valuable in its way. There was nothing she could do to redeem the past, but the future was a very different matter.

  During her time at Mama Rita’s she’d found it almost impossible to think beyond one bitter day at a time. Now she had to make serious plans about her life. And, naturally, those did not and could not feature the man walking at her side.

  I’ll always be grateful to him, she told herself restively. But gratitude is all there can ever be. I don’t intend to make an abject fool of myself a second time, however attractive he may be.

  She saw with surprise that they’d reached the marina already, and tensed as she looked around her.

  Ramon had brought her here, she thought. They’d had dinner at the Casino, then Ramon had played blackjack and lost. She’d ascribed his subsequent moodiness to his bad luck, but she realised now he had been planning his escape—working out how to ditch her and vanish.

  Having first given the condemned woman a hearty meal, she thought wryly.

  And his scheme had been entirely successful.

  She wondered if he’d ever given her a second thought since—concerned himself even marginally with how she might be surviving, alone and penniless, in an alien, dangerous environment. But she doubted it. He probably hoped that she’d simply disappear for good too. And she nearly had.

  Her fate had been sealed from the moment he’d discovered that if she married against her father’s wishes her trust fund would only become available on her thirty-fifth birthday.

  She’d seen the shock on his face when she told him—the total disbelief masking what she now realised had been anger.

  But he’d had every right to be angry, she thought with irony. He’d spent a lot of time and effort pursuing a rich heiress only to find, when he caught her, that she didn’t have a bean.

  That her father had used his money to control her life, refusing to allow her to train for anything which would have allowed her to earn her own living and conceding her only a small allowance.

  Pin money, she thought. Isn’t that the old-fashioned term? It sounds sufficiently derogatory. Because the only career I was being groomed for was ‘rich man’s wife’.

  And there were plenty of potential bridegrooms right here in the marina’s basin, she realised, with a wry twist of her mouth. There were a lot of glamorous yachts moored there, with some serious partying going on too.

  Her ears were assailed by a non-stop barrage of laughter, talk and the chinking of glasses from the floodlit decks. She was dazzled by designer wear and jewellery.

  A couple of months ago, if she’d been in Santo Martino, she’d probably have been a guest on one of these boats, working on her tan by day and parading her own wardrobe each evening.

  She suddenly wondered what would happen if she walked up one of the gangways and introduced herself. I’m Clive Greer’s daughter, and I need help.

  For a moment the temptation to pull free of her companion’s confining arm and make the attempt was almost overwhelming. Almost, but not quite.

  My bloody passport, she groaned inwardly. Without it I’m going nowhere, even if they were prepared to lend me a hand. And looking like this, with my hair like a badly mown lawn, would anyone believe me?

  She’d already noted and resented some of the disdainful looks being aimed in their direction.

  ‘Come on, songbird. No time for cocktails tonight.’ There was a note of amusement in his voice as he urged her forward.

  So now he’s a mind-reader, she thought crossly.

  ‘People are staring at us,’ she muttered.

  ‘Not for much longer,’ he returned. ‘We’ll soon be out of here.’

  She bit her lip. ‘You haven’t seen the Jeep?’

  ‘Relax,’ he advised lazily. ‘If we’re getting the beady eye, can you imagine the effect that Manuel and Rico would have on this select gathering? They’d suffer the death of a thousand ice-picks before they’d gone twenty yards.’ He paused. ‘And there’s La Belle Rêve at last.’

  Chellie’s eyes widened incredulously. The motor yacht was twice as large as she’d imagined, its sleek lines comparing favourably with any of the other boats in the basin.

  She said faintly, ‘That’s what you’re taking to St Hilaire?
’

  ‘You don’t think I’m capable?’ He sounded amused.

  ‘Far from it.’ She offered him a swift, glittering smile. ‘I suspect you’re capable of anything.’

  An olive-skinned man with thick curly dark hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a denim waistcoat, was waiting at the top of the gangplank. He watched them come aboard, then looked at her companion, his brows raised, smiling a little.

  ‘Mon ami, I was becoming anxious about you, but now I fully understand the reason for your delay.’

  He stepped forward, took Chellie’s hand, and made a slight bow over it. ‘Mademoiselle, I am Laurent Massim. Enchanté. May I know your name?’

  Chellie’s hesitation was fractional, but it was noticed by the man beside her.

  He said with faint amusement, ‘According to her passport, she’s Michelle Greer, and she’s the new ship’s cook.’

  Chellie bit her lip. Hiding her identity had never been an option, of course, but fortunately he didn’t seem to have made any inconvenient connections. But then who would expect the daughter of a major industrialist to be working in a strip club in South America?

  Well, she thought, long may he remain in ignorance.

  She faced him, chin up. ‘And you?’ she queried. ‘Do you also have a name, or is it a deadly secret?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m Ash Brennan.’

  For a moment Chellie thought she detected an odd note in his voice, almost like a challenge. But maybe he was simply responding to her in kind.

  He turned to Laurent. ‘If we’re cleared for departure, I suggest we get going.’ He glanced at Chellie. ‘And it might be better if you went below before someone realises we’re carrying an extra passenger.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The adrenalin that had carried her on that long trek along the quayside had evaporated, leaving her drained and apprehensive.

  She negotiated the companionway with care, clinging to the rail because her legs were shaking under her.

  She found herself in a large saloon, luxuriously furnished with slate-blue leather seating, expensive rugs on the wooden floor. At one end was a fully stocked bar, and beyond it the galley, streamlined and gleaming like the interior of a spaceship. Chellie regarded it with foreboding.

  While she was looking around, Ash joined her.

  ‘We’ll be underway very soon.’ He studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you all right? You don’t get seasick, do you?’

  She summoned a pallid smile. ‘Not as far as I know. And certainly not while I’m still in harbour.’

  ‘The weather report is good,’ he said. ‘It should be plain sailing to St Hilaire.’

  Plain sailing? Chellie controlled the bubble of hysteria threatening to well up inside her. How could it possibly be any such thing?

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t really believe this is happening,’ she said huskily. ‘At any moment I’m going to wake up and find I’m back in cockroach alley.’

  He said quietly, ‘It’s over, Michelle. Don’t you know what this boat is called? La Belle Rêve—the beautiful dream. So there’ll be no more nightmares.’

  She didn’t look at him. ‘I—I’ll try and remember that.’

  ‘You’re out on your feet,’ he added curtly. ‘I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep.’

  She’d half expected to find herself in some tiny cupboard with a bunk, so the spacious stateroom took her breath away. A queen-sized bed, with storage underneath, had been built against one wall, with windows above it. Another wall held fitted cupboards, and there was even her own shower room, compact but beautifully fitted.

  She said uncertainly, ‘You’re sure about this? The owner won’t mind?’

  Ash shrugged. ‘Why should he care? As long as I bring the Dream to St Hilaire in one piece.’

  He opened the door of one of the cupboards. ‘The owner’s daughter uses this stateroom when she’s aboard. She’s left a few of her clothes. Shorts, swimwear—that kind of thing. Feel free to borrow anything you need.’

  Chellie gasped. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that.’

  ‘She’s a terrific girl,’ he returned. ‘She’d want to help, I promise.’ He looked her over critically. ‘And you’re pretty much the same size. Besides, you can’t manage with just what you’re wearing.’

  Chellie looked down at the floor. ‘I seem to be beholden to a growing number of people,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Worry about that in the morning,’ he returned indifferently. He paused. ‘There’ll be coffee and sandwiches later, if you’re interested.’

  ‘I don’t think I can eat a thing.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you in peace.’ He gave her a brief, hard smile and turned away. ‘Goodnight.’

  As the door closed behind him Chellie sat down limply on the edge of the bed. Her heart was beating fast, and she found it hard to collect her thoughts.

  Ash Brennan, she said silently. So I know his name at last. But that’s all I know. The rest of him is still an enigma. And I mustn’t forget that.

  However, it seemed that he’d meant what he said. She was just another member of the crew. So maybe her suspicion that she’d merely exchanged one trap for another was completely unfair.

  But she couldn’t deny that she was in his power, she thought, pressing her fingertips to her aching forehead. Or that she had no real control over how he exercised that power.

  His attitude towards her on the way here had been brisk and businesslike, yet she couldn’t forget the way he’d watched her in the club when she was singing—or the glittering, unashamed flare of desire in his eyes when she’d danced for him.

  But even then he seemed to be wanting me against his will, she acknowledged with bewilderment. And isn’t that exactly how I feel myself?

  But she was too tired to think straight. Sighing, she rose and went over to the cupboard, examining the clothing that hung on its rail—smart cotton pants and tops, crisp shorts and shirts, and slips of dresses with floating skirts and shoestring straps, most of them with designer labels. She handled them appreciatively, realising that she and their absent owner were the same size.

  In the top drawer she found bikinis and pareus. The second held undies, and nightwear filled the third.

  Kneeling, Chellie took out one of the nightdresses, letting the filmy white material drift through her fingers like gossamer. It was enchantingly pretty and unequivocally transparent—d the others were equally revealing.

  So this was what the owner’s daughter wore during the long, moonlit Caribbean nights, she thought, her mouth twisting a little. But did she wear them for herself alone?

  A terrific girl. That was what Ash Brennan had said. And there’d been warmth in his voice—maybe even a hint of tenderness. He must know her very well, perhaps intimately, to make this offer on her behalf. To be so sure she wouldn’t mind.

  She looked back at the wide bed, wondering if they had ever lain there together, and, if so, why she should care? Especially when she would part from him on St Hilaire, never to meet again.

  At the same time she suddenly heard the soft throb of the engine, and realised the boat was moving.

  She got to her feet, still holding the nightdress against her.

  She said aloud, ‘We’re on our way. And I’m committed now, whether I wish it or not. There’s no turning back.’

  And found herself shivering at the stark finality of her own words.

  Chapter Four

  HALF an hour later, Ash came down the passageway and paused outside the stateroom door. He knocked lightly, and waited, but there was no reply, and after a moment he opened the door and went quietly in.

  He trod silently over to the bed and stood looking down at its occupant, his brows drawn together in a frown. The bedside lamp was still on, so she must have fallen asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

  She was lying motionless, her breathing soft and regular. Her cheek was cradled on her hand, and the strap of one of Julie’s excuses for a nightgown had
slipped down from her shoulder, giving her an air of curious vulnerability. Something glistened on her face and, as he bent closer to extinguish the lamp he realised that it was a solitary tear.

  His hand lifted, obeying an involuntary impulse to wipe it away, but he managed to control it just in time.

  He needed to get a grip, he adjured himself. Next thing he’d be hitching up that errant strap and smoothing those absurd spikes of black hair. Tucking her in for the night, for God’s sake. And there was no room for that because, as they said, this was business—not personal.

  He switched off the lamp and straightened, leaving just the moonlight flooding through the undrawn curtains.

  Chellie stirred suddenly in her sleep, murmuring something, and Ash backed hastily away from the bed, feeling his foot catch against an object on the floor as he did so.

  He glanced down and saw that it was her bag, and that the black dress she’d worn at the club was spilling out of it.

  He paused, jolted by the sudden memory of how pale her skin had looked against it, and the smooth, supple movement of her body as she danced for him.

  Remembered too that there’d been a moment when he’d let himself forget why he was there. When he’d longed, with an intensity of emotion that had twisted his guts into knots, to see her take it off. When every drop of blood had sung in his veins in anticipation of seeing her naked.

  God, he thought with bitter self-derision, just like some adolescent, peeking at top-shelf magazines.

  She wasn’t the first girl he’d watched take off her clothes, for heaven’s sake, but she was certainly the first not to go through with it, he thought, his mouth curling cynically.

  And he wasn’t the first man she’d stripped for either. He needed to remember that too.

  It was no big deal for her, he told himself. It couldn’t be, after the way she’d lived her life, so why, suddenly, the maidenly shrinking? Unless she’d balked at being paid to do it.