Passionate Protectors?

by Anne Mather

  Her smile was wry. ‘I’m sorry too.’ She swirled a spoon in the soup, watching tiny bubbles begin to form. She said, ‘But with Ash there’s more to it than that—isn’t there?’

  He spread his hands. ‘In life there are always—complications.’

  She gave a wintry smile. ‘And I’m one of those complications?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think I have already said too much.’ He became businesslike. ‘The pastries require five more minutes. There is salad in the refrigerator, also vinaigrette dressing in a small jar. Ash suggested that we eat on deck.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, over-brightly. ‘But I’ll have my meal here. Less—complicated, you understand.’

  Laurent gave her a quizzical look as he prepared to depart. ‘I think that I begin to,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps it may be better for you to—stay out of the sun, cherie.’ And he went off, whistling under his breath.

  Lunch was not as difficult as she’d feared, after all. Ash barely looked at her as he thanked her with cool politeness for the tray of food she set in front of them. Nor did he query her failure to join them.

  Perhaps he was glad not to have to face her, Chellie thought as she ate her solitary meal.

  Once it was all finished, and cleared away, Chellie went to her stateroom and took a long cool shower, changing back into the clothes she’d worn earlier.

  No more chasing a tan, she told herself. In future it would be safer to cover up.

  Now she needed something to occupy her—something that would stop her thinking again, because there was no guarantee that she could keep her thoughts under sufficient control for her own peace of mind.

  She’d noticed there were cleaning materials in a locker near the crews’ quarters, and she decided to turn her attention to the saloon.

  If her father were here now, he wouldn’t believe his eyes, she thought, applying polish to a table surface and rubbing vigorously, but for the first time in her life, she actually felt useful.

  The scent of the casserole was beginning to permeate through from the galley, and she sniffed with real appreciation as she worked.

  The events of the past twenty-four hours notwithstanding, she was beginning to see the attraction of life on board. Maybe she could seriously learn to cook and become part of the crew on another boat—preferably in a different ocean on the other side of the world.

  Although she could well imagine her father’s reaction to the news that she’d opted to become a sea-going skivvy. His cold displeasure.

  She paused, wiping a few beads of perspiration from her forehead, aware of a faint shiver of uneasiness, as if she’d conjured up his actual presence.

  Which was ridiculous, she told herself, resuming her vigorous rubbing, because Sir Clive was hundreds of miles away and the Caribbean was the last place he’d look for her. If, of course, he bothered to look at all, she conceded wryly.

  Her elopement with Ramon would have made him very angry. So angry, probably, that he’d written off his unsatisfactory daughter with the same icy finality he’d show a bad debt. A line drawn and no further reference made.

  My God, she thought. How many times have I seen him do it? So why should he treat me any differently?

  Besides, Ramon had covered their tracks with extreme care. She could remember how impressed she’d been with his caution, the deliberate false trails that he’d laid. His insistence that they should not be followed. And how she’d naïvely interpreted it as his genuine wish to shield her from her father’s wrath by putting themselves beyond his reach and winning their freedom.

  Nice plan, she acknowledged ruefully. Yet its only achievement had been to enmesh her in a different kind of slavery.

  And one that, in her heart, she had no real wish to escape.

  It was an acknowledgement that struck her with all the force of a hammer-blow.

  Chellie straightened slowly, feeling pain stir inside her with icy and corroding bitterness as she suddenly found herself reliving those all too short moments in Ash’s arms. As she tasted once more the drugging sweetness of his kiss on her lips.

  And stopped there, gasping, shaking her head in a despairing attempt to bring herself back to reality.

  She said aloud, ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Michelle. Wake up and smell the coffee. Start repeating ten times a day, “There is no future with Ash Brennan” until you learn some sense at last.’

  And tried to ignore the tiny warning voice in her brain which whispered that it might already be much too late. That she could be lost for ever.

  Chapter Six

  ASH, of course, must never know how she felt.

  That was what she kept repeating to herself, over and over again, as this seemingly endless day drew towards its close.

  He must never be allowed to suspect, even for a moment, the riot of emotional confusion churning inside her.

  I’d rather be back at Mama Rita’s than have him guess how I’m feeling right now, she thought, wincing, as she went down to her stateroom to change for dinner.

  She needed somehow to practise his own brand of cool indifference if she was to survive the remainder of this short voyage with her pride undamaged.

  And when they reached St Hilaire she had to walk away without looking back. Grateful, but casual. Drawing a line under the whole affair.

  No regrets, she thought, swallowing past a sudden tightness in her throat, and no recriminations—no matter how difficult that might be.

  Because, although she might be able to keep her pride intact, she could not make any similar guarantees about her heart.

  She groaned inwardly. Oh, God, she thought wretchedly, what am I doing to myself?

  First Ramon—and now this—this disaster.

  Did she never learn? she demanded of herself with savage intensity. Was she really planning to be a loser all her life, sighing for a whole series of Mr Wrongs?

  And wasn’t she making far too much of it all anyway? After all, as Ash had said himself, nothing had really happened. He’d made his play, been turned down, and shrugged it off.

  Which indicated fairly bruisingly the relative unimportance of the encounter in his scheme of things, she thought unhappily. As far as he was concerned the point of no return had by no means been reached. Whereas as soon as his mouth had touched hers she’d gone up in flames—ready to give him anything he asked for.

  And it was small consolation to tell herself that, in fact, she’d been the first one to draw back. Because it should never have been allowed to happen at all. And belated second thoughts didn’t change a thing.

  For God’s sake, she castigated herself, I hardly know him. It may seem an eternity, but the truth is that he walked into my life less than forty-eight hours ago. And that is no basis for any kind of relationship—and certainly not a one-night stand. I’m worth more than that.

  Besides, it went across every principle she had ever possessed. She’d believed that she was being seriously courted by Ramon, yet she’d held out against him for weeks on end, telling herself it would make their eventual union on their wedding night doubly precious.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, running her fingers regretfully through the short, feathery spikes of black hair.

  She seemed to have become a stranger to herself in all kinds of ways, she thought, sighing. But then for the last few weeks of her life survival had been the name of the game. She could afford nothing else.

  And that was the situation she’d be forced to battle with for the foreseeable future.

  Meanwhile, there was tonight to get through. And it was even more important not to lurk out of the way in the saloon or her own stateroom, as if she was too scared to face him. That would be instant self-betrayal.

  She needed to be smiling and totally insouciant—as if she didn’t have a care in the world and those few devastating moments in his arms had been shrugged aside as trivial. That was the way to play it—the only way.

  She’d taken something quiet and unobtrusive from the wardr
obe, but now she thought, To hell with it, selecting instead with a certain defiance an ankle-length wraparound skirt, with crimson tropical flowers on a creamy background, topped by a square-necked, short-sleeved blouse in the same vibrant colour as the flowers.

  Go out in style, she told herself, smoothing the silky fabric over her slim hips and crushing down the wayward thought that maybe Ash might also be left with something to regret.

  Because the words ‘if only’ would feature rarely, if ever, in his vocabulary, and she knew it. And she’d be an even bigger fool if she hoped for anything else.

  So—I’m a fool, she thought, and sighed soundlessly.

  The casserole was delicious, served with a mound of fluffy rice and some tiny green beans which Laurent had shown her how to turn lightly in butter.

  ‘Amazing,’ Ash commented when he put down his fork. He gave her a brief smile across the table, which she’d set with small candles in pretty glass shades. ‘You seem to have widened your repertoire since this morning.’

  Chellie murmured something, then concentrated her attention on the remaining grains of rice on her own plate.

  In spite of all her good resolutions, she was still finding Ash a disturbing dinner companion. He too had apparently decided to make an effort for their last night at sea, and was wearing well-cut dark pants with an open-necked white shirt that set off his tan. His blond hair was still darkened by damp from the shower, and she was tinglingly aware of the faint muskiness of some expensive cologne lingering on his skin.

  He and Laurent had been involved in some low-voiced, forceful conversation when she’d first entered the wheelhouse, trying to hide her feeling of self-consciousness. He’d paused instantly, his brows lifting sharply, his attention completely arrested as he looked at her.

  It had been only momentary. A breath later and he’d turned back to Laurent. But for those few seconds Chellie knew that he’d been looking at her. Seeing no one but her. And she’d seen the sudden flare in his eyes.

  Now, she drew a steadying breath and made herself meet his gaze again across the table.

  ‘I can’t claim the credit,’ she denied stiltedly. ‘I was coached by an expert.’ She turned to the man beside her. ‘Thank you, Laurent.’

  He shrugged in self-deprecation. ‘I had an apt pupil.’ He paused. ‘I have been saying to Ash that he should make you a permanent member of the crew.’

  There was a silence, then from somewhere Chellie managed to produce a laugh that sounded genuinely amused.

  ‘I don’t think that would appeal to either of us,’ she said cheerfully.

  ‘Besides, I have a life to get on with.’ She looked back at Ash. ‘And apropos of that—may I have my passport back, please?’

  ‘Right now?’ He drank some of the red wine in his glass, leaning back in his chair. ‘Why—are you planning to swim for it?’

  ‘Not unless I have to.’ Be cool, be casual. Keep the joke going. ‘But I’m going to need it as soon as we get to the island, as proof of identity for the local consul.’

  ‘Then there’s no great hurry.’ He was watching her from under lowered lids. ‘Because tomorrow is Saturday and the office will be shut until Monday.’

  ‘Shut?’ Chellie could not conceal her dismay. ‘Oh, no, not again, surely?’ Being at Mama Rita’s had made her lose all track of time, it seemed. ‘But what if there’s an emergency?’

  Ash shrugged. ‘We tend not to have them.’ He paused. ‘And I don’t think your problems would be considered in that light anyway,’ he added flatly.

  She stiffened. ‘You mean it’s all right for me to be stranded as long as the consul gets his round of golf?’

  ‘Set of tennis, I think,’ he corrected blandly. ‘And don’t worry—you won’t be sleeping on the beach.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Says who?’

  His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘Well, the local police, for a start. They take a dim view of vagrancy.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Then would it be possible for me to remain on the boat—just until Monday morning?’ She hated having to ask him for another favour—detested the faint note of entreaty she detected in her own voice.

  Ash shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the owner wouldn’t permit that.’

  Swallowing, Chellie made herself turn to Laurent. ‘I don’t suppose…?’

  He spread his hands regretfully. ‘My house is not large, cherie. And my wife, although the delight of my heart, is convinced all other women find me irresistible. I think your presence would make her—uneasy. You see the problem?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling resolutely. ‘Of course. In that case I’d better head for the local Mama Rita’s. I suppose there is one?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Ash lit a cheroot. ‘But isn’t that a pretty drastic course to take, anyway?’

  ‘Desperate situations,’ she said, ‘call for desperate measures.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said slowly, ‘there are a number of perfectly respectable places to stay on St Hilaire.’

  ‘I’m sure there are,’ she said. ‘Places where they prefer their bills to be paid.’

  ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘So why don’t you let me stake you to a room while you’re on St Hilaire?’

  Chellie’s hands clenched together unseen in her lap. She said evenly, ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  ‘No?’ A slow smile curved his mouth. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  He was daring her to accuse him of wanting to share the room with her, she thought furiously. But she wasn’t going to fall into that trap—particularly with Laurent as an interested audience.

  Her mouth tightened, but she managed to keep her voice even. ‘Because you’ve done quite enough to help already. It’s time I started shouldering my own responsibilities.’

  ‘Well, no-one would argue with that.’ Ash shrugged a casual shoulder.

  ‘But maybe you should wait until the odds aren’t so heavily stacked against you.’

  He made himself sound like the voice of sweet reason, Chellie realised, the gall and wormwood of thwarted rebellion stirring inside her. And as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth…

  ‘Come on, songbird.’ His smile widened, suggesting that he’d accurately discerned her inner struggles and was amused by them. ‘Let me lend a hand one last time. You can always pay me back.’

  She swallowed. ‘Please treat that as an absolute. Although I’m not sure when it will be possible,’ candour forced her to add.

  Ash tapped the ash from his cheroot.

  ‘You could always pay me something on account tonight,’ he suggested softly. ‘After all, you know what I really want.’

  Chellie found herself going rigid, then caught the wicked glint in his eyes and relaxed again.

  She said lightly, ‘Why not? After all, I didn’t really cook the dinner, so I owe you already.’ She paused. ‘Any special requests?’ she added, sending him a challenging look.

  ‘Oh, Laurent’s the musician round here.’ Ash turned to him. ‘Why don’t you get your guitar, mon vieux? Michelle is going to sing to us.’

  Laurent’s brows lifted. ‘Vraiment? Then I should be honoured.’

  Left alone with Ash, Chellie found tension seeping back as reason and desire fought a secret battle inside her.

  She looked out at the moonlight streaming across the water. She said with a touch of uncertainty, ‘It’s—beautiful tonight.’

  ‘Yes.’ She realised that he was looking straight at her, not following the direction of her gaze at all. ‘Very lovely.’ His blue gaze rested meditatively on her parted lips, then moved downward to the swell of her breasts under the brief top and lingered, as if he was indulging a cherished memory.

  In spite of herself, she felt her skin warm under his scrutiny. She could also remember, all too well, the arousing play of his fingers on her naked flesh, and how she’d longed to feel the caress of his lips against her heated nipples.

  She thought achingly, Don’t—don’t do this to
me—please…

  She had to break the spell somehow. She began to reach for the used dishes. ‘I—I ought to clear the table.’

  ‘Laurent and I will do it,’ he said, adding laconically, ‘Save your strength for later.’

  ‘Later?’ She could have bitten her tongue. The query had been far too sharp—too pointed. It had sounded nervous. But then why shouldn’t it—after the way he’d just been looking at her?

  ‘For your singing,’ he said. ‘I understand it takes a lot of breath control?’

  ‘Oh,’ Chellie said, feeling foolish. ‘Well—yes.’

  He drew on the cheroot, watching her reflectively, his eyes shadowed by the sweep of his lashes—unreadable. ‘That colour really suits you,’ he said eventually. ‘But I’m sure you know that already.’

  ‘My first and last dinner on the boat,’ she said, speaking a little too quickly. ‘I thought I should dress up a little.’ She hesitated. ‘It’s lucky that—these things—her clothes—fit me.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘Very lucky.’

  There was another silence. Ash reached across and stubbed out the remains of the cheroot.

  She said, ‘I—I didn’t know that you smoked.’

  ‘Why should you?’ he said. ‘I do it very rarely—mainly when I’m under pressure. But I’m well aware it’s a bad habit which I shall have to break quite soon.’

  She bit her lip. ‘And—do you feel—pressured now?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I have an expensive boat to take to St Hilaire.’ He paused. ‘Among other considerations.’

  This time, Chellie thought, she was not taking the bait.

  She was thankful to hear Laurent returning. As well as his guitar, he’d brought a tray with coffee and brandies.

  ‘We should drink,’ he announced, ‘to our smooth passage so far, and our safe haven tomorrow.’

  Smooth? Chellie thought bitterly, as she obediently echoed the toast. I feel as if I’ve been tossed from one storm to another. And it’s not over yet. I still have to get away from St Hilaire, which is becoming less of a sanctuary by the minute.