Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  But she would not ask her father for assistance under any circumstances. For one thing it would put her under a crushing psychological disadvantage to present herself to him as a loser, although she didn’t doubt that was how he thought of her anyway.

  But I don’t need my nose rubbed in it, she told herself.

  And now that she’d managed to win herself a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, she was determined not to relinquish it, however hard the going might become. And no job, no home and no prospects was about as hard as it could get.

  By the time she faced her father again she had to hold some kind of winning hand.

  Somehow I have to be in a position to dictate my own terms, she thought with resolution.

  What she did need, however, in the short term, was her passport. She’d assumed that once they were safely out of Santo Martino Ash would simply hand it over, yet it hadn’t been mentioned since she came on board, and this made her uneasy.

  It might just have slipped his mind, of course, but somehow she did not think so. There didn’t seem to be much the matter with his mental processes.

  In fact, she had the distinct impression that he was invariably several steps ahead of her, and maybe it was time she redressed the balance a little.

  After all, she argued, her passport was a valuable piece of her personal property. Certainly the local consul would want to see it as proof of her identity, so she had every right to retrieve it without further reference to anyone.

  And how hard could that be? La Belle Rêve was pretty sumptuous, but it was just a boat with all the limitations that implied. And there could only be so many hiding places.

  The obvious place to look, of course, was in Ash’s sleeping quarters, she realised, chewing her lip. And there couldn’t be too many cabins to search before she found the right one.

  She left her magazine open beside the sun cream on her lounger, to indicate to all interested parties that her absence was only temporary, and, slipping her shirt over her bikini, went below, sauntering casually while she was in the view of the pilot house, then moving in swift and silent caution on bare feet once she was out of sight.

  Now, she told herself, it was just a question of opening doors. She discovered the crew quarters first, but only one of the bunks was being used there and that, to judge from the clothing and personal items scattered around, belonged to Laurent.

  Next she tried the stateroom next to her own, her pulses flickering oddly at the idea that Ash might be sleeping just on the other side of a thin wooden partition, but the neat twin berths were clearly unoccupied.

  Which meant that he must be using the master suite in the stern.

  Establishing himself as the man in charge in every possible way, Chellie thought caustically. I should have realised—and gone there first.

  She opened the door and looked in. It had been furnished to impress, there was little doubt of that. The wide bed, piled with pillows, occupied the centre of the room like an ivory satin island, and the fitted wardrobes and dressing chests had been made from some expensive pale wood. Her feet sank into the thick carpet as she made her way across the stateroom.

  The khaki pants he’d been wearing yesterday were lying across the laundry bin in the luxurious shower room, but a swift search soon revealed that their pockets had been emptied.

  She swore softly, and turned her attention to the night tables that flanked the bed, but all she found were a few coins, a clean handkerchief, and a paperback copy of the new John Grisham.

  And one other item that stopped her in her tracks: a framed photograph of a girl—blonde, slim and pretty in vest top and shorts—smiling with total confidence into the camera.

  Chellie picked it up and studied it, aware that her heartbeat had altered. That it was now thrumming slowly and painfully against her ribcage.

  The owner’s daughter? she wondered. Or someone completely different? The current top of a long and varied list?

  And right there beside the bed, where it would undoubtedly be the last thing he saw at night and the first in the morning.

  She replaced it, swallowing past the sudden ache in her throat.

  Well, what had she expected? she asked in self-derision. He was A list attractive and seriously footloose. Not at all the type to lead a celibate life. She’d known that from the first moment.

  Maybe she was just surprised that he cared enough to keep such a personal memento. He must really consider himself spoken for, she thought. Which explained a good deal.

  Suddenly she didn’t want to continue the search any longer. She needed quite seriously to get out of the room and close the door firmly behind her—in more ways than one, she thought, biting her lip.

  She had to think, and for that she needed solitude—and privacy.

  She’d just reached her own stateroom, had her fingers on the doorhandle, when Ash said, ‘So here you are.’

  She swung round, gasping. She’d been so lost in thought that she’d been quite oblivious to his approach.

  She thought, A moment earlier and he’d have caught me. I need to keep my wits about me.

  She managed to keep her voice reasonably level. ‘You—startled me.’

  ‘Evidently.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘I must learn to cough discreetly.’ He studied her, frowning a little. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for a little peace,’ she returned, lifting her chin in challenge. ‘I wasn’t aware I required your permission.’

  His mouth tightened. ‘You don’t. I was simply—concerned. I thought maybe you’d had too much sun.’ He studied her. ‘You look—flushed.’

  Perhaps I do, she thought, but that has nothing to do with the heat of the day.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not aware of it,’ she said, deliberately casual, trying to ignore the fact that they were facing each other in a confined space. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Actually, some lunch would be good.’ He paused. ‘Nothing too onerous. Just some soup and a few sandwiches, perhaps.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring when it’s ready.’

  He gave her another searching look. ‘Are you really all right?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Never better.’ She flashed him a meaningless smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to my duties.’

  Ash propped a shoulder against the wall, effectively blocking her retreat. ‘I’m beginning to realise how those old Roman slavedrivers must have felt,’ he remarked.

  ‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ Chellie said crisply. ‘I’m sure any stirrings of compunction will soon wear off. At least by the time we get to St Hilaire, anyway.’ She paused. ‘When will that be, exactly?’

  ‘Exactitude isn’t a particular virtue in the Caribbean,’ he said. ‘But we’re aiming for tomorrow afternoon.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘So my opportunities to crack the whip are therefore numbered.’

  ‘My,’ she said. ‘Things are getting better all the time.’

  He said courteously, ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He studied her for a moment, brows lifted. ‘Do I take it you’re not enjoying the voyage?’

  ‘Was enjoyment the intention?’ Her laugh was brief and deliberately artificial. ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  He said slowly, ‘It’s also escaped your notice, apparently, that I’ve been fighting quite hard not to make a bad situation worse.’

  ‘How could you possibly manage that?’ She sent him a mutinous glance.

  He said quietly, ‘Like this.’ And pulled her forward into his arms. His hands slid round her body under the loose shirt, pinning her against him, making her wholly aware that they were both almost naked. Forcing her to recognise that he was unashamedly aroused.

  She had raised her hands instinctively to push him away. Instead her palms encountered the naked muscularity of his chest and lingered there of their own volition, savouring the smooth heat of his skin and the harsh thud of his heartbeat.

  Ash bent his head, the blue eyes glinting down at her like sun
-drenched azure, and Chellie’s lips parted in a gasp of shock. She tried to say something—to find words of protest—of denial, even—but then his mouth closed on hers, warm and totally possessive, and the chance was lost—if it had ever truly existed.

  His lips were moving on hers, softly but with purpose, sending messages of deliberate sensual demand to her reeling brain. He was teasing her tongue with his, coaxing her to respond. To grant him the total access to her surprised mouth that he was seeking.

  Her head fell back and her lashes drifted down, preparing her for this initial surrender. Presaging what might follow.

  She found she was lifting her arms and winding them round his neck, pressing even closer to him, so that her breasts in their fragile covering grazed the wall of his chest.

  His kiss deepened instantly, passionately, and she tasted hunger on his mouth. Recognised it because she shared it. And because she needed so desperately for it to be assuaged.

  Ash pushed the shirt from her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. His hands were stroking her skin, tracing the vulnerable line of her backbone, brushing the sensitive nerve-endings, making her sigh and quiver in mounting excitement.

  She felt him unsnap the clip that held her bikini top and slide down the straps. The flimsy cups fell away, releasing her bare breasts to the caress of his fingers.

  His touch was gentle, but very sure, circling her hardening nipples, encouraging them to some peak of sweet intensity she had never known before or even dreamed was possible. Making her glory in this new intimacy.

  Her legs were shaking under her and she leaned back, seeking the support of the stateroom door.

  The note of her breathing had changed, and her pulses were going crazy. She could feel the fiery strength of his erection against her thighs, and knew that neither of them could wait much longer.

  All she had to do was open the door behind her, she realised with a swift intake of breath—and the bed would be there waiting for them.

  And this time, her frantic body told her, consummation would be very different.

  This time.

  Suddenly, unwillingly, she was back in that first hotel room, spreadeagled across the awful bed and its creaking mattress, with Ramon on top of her, his face contorted as he drove for his own satisfaction. Ramon—hurting her and not caring. Ramon—using her without love.

  Just as Ash would do—if she allowed it.

  She heard herself make a small hoarse sound of negation. Found that she was pushing at Ash with new-found strength, struggling to free herself, the image of the photograph on his night table forcing its way into her reluctant memory. Reminding her that they were still virtual strangers and that he had a life about which she knew nothing.

  At the same time, to him she was nothing more than a body he had briefly coveted in Mama Rita’s club, but not enjoyed. Or not then, at least.

  She could see now that he’d simply been—biding his time. Waiting for the moment when she would simply fall into his hand.

  Well, she owed him, and she knew it, but she could not repay the debt with sex. He would take her with more finesse than Ramon, she had no doubt of that, but his purpose would be the same—to satisfy a transient desire. And she would not allow herself to be used like that again, only to be discarded when he chose to walk away.

  Ramon had ignored her reluctance, and her protests. He’d imposed himself on her with almost casual brutality.

  Ash, however, released her at once, staring down at her, his brows snapping together. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She stared down at the boards under her feet. ‘I—I can’t.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I—I just remembered something. Someone.’

  Her words seemed to fall into a long and terrible silence. When at last she ventured to look up at him, she saw his face cold as a stone mask.

  ‘Ash,’ she said. And again, ‘Ash—I’m sorry.’

  She wanted to explain to him, but thoughts were churning in her head and she couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t be sorry.’ The words were curt and clipped. His smile glittered without warmth. ‘I also have things I need to remember.’

  He paused. ‘I suppose I should thank you for reminding me. But I don’t feel particularly grateful right now. So let’s agree we’ve both been saved from a really bad mistake and leave it there.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘After all, nothing really happened.’

  From some far distance she heard herself say huskily, ‘Didn’t it?’

  ‘It was a kiss, songbird.’ His voice was quiet, but it bit. ‘And you’ve been kissed before, and far more than that, so don’t treat me to any virginal vapours. Just forget it ever took place. As I shall.’

  He stood aside, pushing sweat-dampened hair back from his forehead. ‘And now, please don’t let me keep you from your real duties any longer.’

  She had to reach down to retrieve her shirt and bikini top. When she straightened, her face was burning. She hoped without much conviction that he would think it was down to the exertion of bending, rather than the confusion of embarrassment and frustration that was consuming her entire body.

  She put on the shirt, dragging its edges together to conceal her exposed skin as she eased her way past him.

  Once clear, she risked a swift glance over her shoulder to see if he was still there—if he was watching her go with any kind of regret. But he’d disappeared, presumably to his cabin, and she realised she could make her escape in relative peace.

  She went quickly up the companionway, only to find when she reached the galley that she was panting as if she’d just taken part in a marathon.

  Her first action was to fumble her way back into her bikini top and fasten the shirt over it. She was only sorry the buttons didn’t reach to her throat.

  The rasp of the cloth against her awakened flesh was a torment she could do without.

  She ran cold water from the tap over the tumultuous pulses in her wrists, and splashed cool droplets on to her face in an attempt to calm her hectic flush.

  He’d said forget it, she thought with a kind of desperation, but how could she? Especially when all she wanted was to hide away somewhere in a dark corner where she would never have to set eyes on him again.

  But there was small chance of that in the confines of La Belle Rêve. And in practical terms she was going to have to face him pretty soon, anyway, because she had lunch to prepare and serve.

  Oh, God, she groaned inwardly, scanning the cupboards for tinned soup. How much worse can it all get?

  It made her squirm to remember how easily she’d melted into his embrace, as if it had been invented for her alone, when what she should really have done was fight him off at once.

  In fact, she should never have allowed the situation to develop in the first place, she thought gloomily. She should have remembered why she was there and kept her dealings with him on a strictly businesslike basis.

  Even when he mentioned St Hilaire you never asked him for your passport, although it was the perfect opportunity, she castigated herself bitterly. Even if you’d made him mad, at least it would have kept him at arm’s length.

  She heard footsteps crossing the saloon and tensed. Had Ash noticed that she’d been in his cabin? she thought frantically. Had she moved something, or left a drawer open? And what excuse could she offer if he accused her of prying?

  Except I don’t need an excuse, she told herself swiftly. He has my property. I want it back. End of story.

  But when she turned, prepared to give battle, she saw with relief that it was Laurent.

  ‘May I offer any help?’

  ‘I think I can manage.’ She grimaced. ‘Even I ought to be able to open a can of soup.’

  ‘Are you sure? You seem a little flushed—out of sorts.’

  She shrugged a shoulder. ‘Too much sun,’ she said lightly. ‘I’m still not used to it.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, his eyes considering her shrewdly. ‘That might account for it.’ He paused.
‘I took some savoury pastries from the freezer earlier. Would you like me to heat them?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Chellie said gratefully.

  She poured the creamy vegetable soup into a pan, and began to warm it gently while Laurent busied himself at the oven.

  She said, ‘I just hope we get to St Hilaire before I poison everyone.’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘That is not fair. You should not put yourself down in such a way, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘My other friends call me Chellie.’

  His brows lifted, ‘You flatter me—Chellie. Merci du compliment.’

  ‘So, tell me something about St Hilaire?’ She kept her voice bright, interested. ‘I gather it’s not very big?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But my home is there, so I think it very beautiful.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘And I have a son and a daughter.’

  Chellie remembered there had been family photos in his cabin, but could not say so, of course. She said, ‘They must miss you—when you’re away like this.’

  He shrugged. ‘It does not happen so often.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Then this isn’t how you earn your living—sailing other people’s boats?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘On St Hilaire I manage a banana plantation. And I have a boat of my own,’ he added with a touch of dryness. ‘I like to fish.’

  Chellie hesitated, fighting with herself and losing. She said, trying to sound casual, ‘And Ash—does he live on the island too?’

  ‘There—and in other places.’ He paused, giving a slight shrug. ‘Unlike myself, he is a single man. So—he enjoys his freedom.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he does.’ But for how much longer? she asked herself, remembering the photograph beside his bed.

  She concentrated her attention fiercely on the soup. After a moment or two, she said, ‘Laurent—will you tell me something?’

  ‘If I can.’ He sounded faintly wary.

  She drew a breath. ‘Is Ash sorry that he rescued me? That he brought me out of that awful place?’

  Laurent hesitated. ‘I think, cherie, he regrets there was ever a necessity to do so.’