'Well, Josh, how goes it?'
He turned to face Bud Drexel, who stood in the doorway. They were partners in business and close friends. Josh had known Bud since college days. They'd gone their separate ways after graduation. Josh had got a degree in business administration and had worked in banking for five years. Bud had gone to work for his father, a man who already had his finger in numerous business and real estate deals in the city. When Bud Drexel Senior had died, Bud had expanded his one-man operation to three and then asked Josh to join in. It had been a profitable merger for all of them.
'Not bad,' he said. 'Could be worse.' There was no particular use in elaborating further on his day. Bud knew precisely what Josh was up to and vice versa. Business arrangements for the week were always discussed at a partnership meeting that was held every Monday morning at eight-thirty sharp.
Bud sat down on the leather couch, and its frame creaked beneath his weight.
'Carol,' he said idly, 'tells me that we haven't seen you in weeks.'
Josh gave him a curious glance and sat back down in the chair behind his wide mahogany desk. During the working day, the partners of Drexel, Ross, Beame and Sinclair Associates talked about business, the stock and bond market, the latest football scores and politics. They didn't discuss their private or social lives. By unspoken agreement, such topics were discussed after work over cocktails or by telephoning a partner's home.
'No,' he agreed, 'it's been a while.'
'Hell, Josh,' protested Bud, 'it isn't like you need a formal invitation, is it? You're welcome at our place anytime.'
'I know that,' Josh said with a smile. Carol, Bud and their two children had been his home away from home whenever he felt the need for a relaxed domesticity and a warm family setting.
'So? When will you grace our house with your presence?'
'Any time.'
'Saturday?'
'Sure.'
'For dinner?'
'No problem.'
'You want to bring anyone?' Bud asked nonchalantly.
Josh shook his head. 'Nope. I'm a lone wolf now.'
'I see.'
There was a short and tactful silence as Bud forbore from mentioning the last lady who had occupied Josh's leisure time and intimate moments. She had been notable for her beauty, her style of dressing, her high spirits and her social connections. But she'd possessed, as far as Bud was concerned, an alarming lack of loyalty.
Bud shifted uncomfortably in his seat and changed the subject. 'Hey,' he said, 'Drexel, Ross and Beame have a surprise for you.'
'A surprise?'
'Did you look through your personal file?'
'Well, I glanced through it,' said Josh, then added jokingly, 'I wondered if my resignation notice was in there.'
'Nope. You're still on the payroll.'
Josh took the file out of his Out basket and stared at it. 'What am I supposed to find in here?'
Bud grinned and stared up at the ceiling. 'We noticed something in that file.'
'What?'
'That you haven't taken a vacation since last year.'
'I went skiing last winter.'
'That was for the Thanksgiving weekend,' Bud retorted. 'I'm talking about a month-long, let-it-all-hang-out, relax-in-the-sun holiday. You know, wine, women, song.'
'Bud, you know 1...' Josh paused, and a certain grimness settled in around his mouth.
'I know that ever since you broke up with Nadja, you've been working too hard. I find you here in the morning when I come and you're here at night when I leave. I've even heard from the janitor that you're here at the weekends. I understood it at first, but it's enough, Josh. You're going to drive yourself right into a heart attack!'
'You don't understand...'
'The hell I don't!' Bud sat forward, his round face earnest and concerned. 'She played with you, that's what she did. She had her fun fooling around and then she took off for greener pastures. Look, she was beautiful enough to drive any man around the bend.
I'll grant you that, but she isn't worth a second's thought—she never was.'
Josh tried to get a word in edgeways, but Bud was going full steam ahead.
'Carol saw it coming, she really did. "Bud," she'd say, "that woman's going to hurt Josh. She wants more than he'll ever be able to give her." She came from too much money and she wanted more—that's the way I saw it. She thought she was a damned princess and you were a commoner.'
Bud took a breath and Josh said quickly, 'It's over, Bud. I accepted that months ago.' And he had, but what he hadn't been able to overcome was the residue of bitterness that was left.
'Well then,' said Bud, his face lighting up, there's no reason why you won't use the tickets in the file, is there?'
'What tickets?'
'The ones for the trip to Greece and the cruise around the Greek Islands.'
Josh opened the file again, flipped through the papers and found the tickets. 'Welcome to the Princess Marguerita—Your Floating Resort.' He held up the envelope and stared at Bud. 'What the hell is this?'
'I told you—it's a vacation. We've booked you up for two weeks; we figured that you'd find something to do for the other two.'
'You did this? And John? And Peter?'
'You don't think that three guys who can put together a multi-million-dollar deal involving three countries and five currencies can't manage one short holiday?'
'This is very kind of you, but...'
'But what?'
'But I've got so much work...'
The hell with the work. We'll fill in for you.'
'And I couldn't...' Josh's voice trailed off, How could he say that nothing in life excited him any more, that he had got so damned cynical about happiness that he never expected to find it again?
Bud leaned forward, his voice quiet but insistent. 'Go, Josh. You need the rest. You're going to work yourself into a nervous breakdown. We all know it— we've been watching you.'
Josh took a deep breath and glanced at the tickets. He was tired, he admitted that, more tired than he'd ever been in his life. He was weary from hours of work, from a lonely apartment and a bitter heart. He hated the idea of travelling by himself, but he was touched by the effort his partners had made. Who was he to take away from them the pleasures of generosity?
'Okay,' he said. 'You win.'
Bud grinned from ear to ear. 'Great!' And he leaned forward and pressed the buzzer on Josh's desk.
There was a sudden flurry in his doorway as John Beame and Peter Ross appeared. They were carrying champagne and four champagne goblets. Josh stared at them as the bottle was uncorked and each glass was filled with bubbly. 'Isn't this going a little too far?' he asked.
No one listened to him.
'To Josh's holiday,' said Peter. 'May he sunburn all to hell.'
'To his cruise,' John said. 'May he come back an expert on Greece.'
'To his time off,' said Bud. 'May he meet a lovely and willing lady.'
Josh couldn't help grinning. 'Listen, you sadists, you know who you meet on these cruises? Lonely, middle-aged women. I've heard all about them. All they want to do is find a man.'
'I'll drink to that,' Peter said, and they all lifted their glasses.
CHAPTER TWO
It was hard not to feel like royalty, Samantha thought with an inward sigh, as the steward in his crisp white uniform led her down to the C deck of the Princess Marguerita and smartly opened the door to her stateroom. From the time that she'd arrived on the boat she'd been treated with smiles, friendliness and courtesy. The purser had welcomed her like an old friend; the steward had assured her that she had one of the nicest staterooms on the boat. Everything had been so organised and efficient that she was already starting to feel slightly better after what had turned out to be a hair-raising, turbulent flight to Athens, a gruelling wait through Greek Customs and an unnerving taxi ride to the docks.
After tipping the steward and seeing him out of the door, she sighed thankfully, kicked off her shoes and sank i
nto one of the chairs. Margaret's propensity for going first-class, she decided, suited her to a T. The carpet under her stockinged toes was a plush pale blue, the chair was a darker blue velvet and, on the white lacquered table beside her, was a vase of fresh flowers and an attractive fruit basket wrapped in cellophane.
Across from her, hanging on the wall, was a mirror, and as she stared into it, Samantha also had to concede that Margaret's energy, money and insistence on value had wrought another miracle. Even without a night's sleep, an over-exposure to Athens' tropical temperature and a smashing headache, Samantha still looked as if she'd come out of a bandbox. Not that it hadn't taken effort. For a month before the cruise, she had given her body and soul over to an assortment of specialists—exercise instructors, hairdressers, diet consultants, cosmetic specialists and sales clerks. She'd had facials, pedicures, body massages and manicures. She'd been weighed, measured, pummelled, talked at and organised. She'd managed to lose twelve pounds, find an entirely new wardrobe and, surprise of surprises, be fitted with the latest in contact lenses, the kind that she could wear comfortably night and day for two or three weeks at a time without taking them out.
The result was a new Samantha that the old one was still trying to get used to. Her hair had been cut so that it formed a dark cap around her head and then waved so that it curled defiantly despite wind or rain or humidity. She'd learned to apply cosmetics that emphasised the high cheekbones in her now slender face, tilted her eyes into thick dark lashes and outlined the softness of her lips. And she was now dressed in clothes whose bright colours dimmed the memory of her dark, conservative business suits. She had a suitcase full of sundresses with low-cut backs, lightweight slacks and sheer tops.
Margaret had approved of everything, then pursed her lips in calculation and announced that Samantha wasn't quite finished yet. Ignoring all protests, she had called a taxi and dragged Samantha to a lingerie shop, where she had gone through the racks and boxes like some miniature whirlwind. Samantha had watched with alarm as the pile of froth and silk grew on the store's counter. It included bras made of wisps of lace, panties cut so high on the sides that, when she'd tried them on, her thighs had developed vertigo, and a scandalous see-through nightie that left so little to the imagination that she had wondered out loud what its use was.
'It's the last curtain to rise before the play begins, my dear,' Margaret had said dreamily. 'That last tantalising obstacle.'
'You told me you'd cancel that Fantasy Unlimited contract,' Samantha said suspiciously.
'I did, but that's no reason to give up hope.'
'I'm going on a cruise, not an orgy!'
'The two,' Margaret had said tartly, 'are not necessarily diametrically opposed to one another.'
So here she was, at last, in her luxurious and well-appointed stateroom, ready for the great adventure, whatever that would turn out to be. Well, not quite ready. Being a tidy person, Samantha wanted to unpack and put her clothes away. And there was still a shower to take and a nap to enjoy on that lovely gold bedspread that she could see through the open door of her bedroom. She raised her arms and stretched them over her head in a graceful gesture and then, with a contented sigh, got up and headed towards the tiny bathroom.
'Room 1510. Here we are, sir—a double with a sitting room. I hope you'll find it to your taste.'
'I'm sure I will.'
'There's a small bar here behind the panelling.'
'Very nice.'
'Closet space and...'
'That's fine. I'll show myself around.'
'Of course, sir.'
'Thanks very much.'
'Thank you, sir.' And, with a generous tip in hand, the steward scurried away.
Josh sighed, pushed his two leather suitcases to one side, and decided to pour himself a drink first thing. He was supposed to be relaxed and here he was, strung up as tight as a rubber band. Well, he was only one day away from the office and all its headaches. That last deal before he had left had been the straw that broke the camel's back, and he'd been willing to admit, without shame, that if he didn't take a break from meetings and agendas and long-distance phone calls, he'd collapse. He rubbed the back of his neck with a weary hand and then pulled open the panelling, revealing a row of small bottles, several glasses and a small refrigerator which, on inspection, housed a very adequate supply of ice and chilled mixes.
The first sip of Scotch burned its way down, but the second swallow warmed him with that internal amber glow. He sighed again, looked around him and admired the decor of the room, the attractive blues and whites, the comfortable-looking couch, the fruit and cheese basket on the table. He was hungry, he realised. There had been too many hours since he'd eaten that abominable creation the airline called lunch. Josh sat down, tore the cellophane off the fruit basket and picked out a small packet of Gouda. For a few minutes, he sipped at his Scotch, nibbled at his cheese and let the tension drain out of him.
Then he stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, stretched luxuriously and ran a hand across the broad expanse of his chest. It was a man's gesture of contentment, reflecting Josh's sudden realisation that he had a month ahead of him that would be well and truly free from the pressures of clients and partners. No more suits and ties, no more velvet-glove treatments of prickly Arab magnates, no more wrangles with bureaucrats at City Hall whose knowledge of the building code was less than his. From here on out it was jeans and sweats, hours in the warm Greek sun and the freedom to do and say what he pleased.
Another long swallow of Scotch made him feel even more mellow. He glanced around the stateroom and decided to investigate his new home, starting with the bedroom. After all, he thought with a touch of amused cynicism, wasn't that where his partners intended his 'fun' to take place? According to them he was supposed to lure willing and nubile young women into his stateroom and partake of the pleasures of the flesh. Well, he couldn't care less.
He turned the knob and pushed open the door to his bedroom. He was so buried in his thoughts that for a moment he didn't notice what was wrong with the room. Then, when he did, he stared for a few seconds, because he couldn't believe what he did see. Finally, he walked over to the bed and looked down at the woman tying there, in a sleep so deep that not even the sound of him entering the room had caused her to move.
She lay on her back, one bare arm flung up over her head. Dark curls tumbled against the pillow and dark lashes lay in small crescents on a face that was slender and fine-boned. Her lips were pink, slightly parted and curved upwards as if she were enjoying a pleasant dream. The sheet had slipped down to her waist, revealing a delicate gold chain necklace around her neck and firm breasts barely held in by cups of white lace. Through the fabric, her nipples were dusky circles. In the dim, curtained light, her skin was the colour of honey and, for a moment, Josh forgot the past and imagined touching it, reverently, feeling its sleekness and warmth beneath his finger.
Then the woman moved, and he remembered.
'What the hell are you doing here?'
The words, spoken in a deep, masculine growl, made Samantha slowly lift the heaviness that was her eyelids.
The first two things she noticed about the face she was staring into were that it was exceedingly handsome and very angry. The two facts did not eliminate one another. Anger made the dark eyes narrow seductively beneath the dark brows and caused the mouth to twist into a sexy slant. Then she noticed that the face was attached, via the neck of course, to a chest bared by the flaring edges of his white shirt. It was the kind of chest that was covered with a wide triangle of hair that ended in a dark line running down into a belted pair of grey slacks. The attractiveness of that chest enhanced rather than detracted from the face glaring down at her.
What a lovely man, Samantha thought with the lazy thoughts of someone who has just come awake and not quite realised when or where she was. What a lovely, sexy man.
'And I will repeat myself,' said the voice. 'What the hell are you doing here?'
Samantha's eyes
snapped open. She blinked and the room came into sharp focus. Her mistake was suddenly glaringly obvious. What she had thought was a sexy apparition had turned into an irate man with a half-opened shirt and a drink in his hand.
'I beg your pardon?' she struggled to sit up, suddenly recalled her near nudity and, in a panic, pulled the sheet up to her neck so that all that appeared of her was a shocked expression, wide blue eyes and a dishevelled head of dark curls.
'What are you doing in my room?'
'I could,' she said, clearing her throat, 'ask you the same question.'
'You happen to be in my bed.'
'I am not!'
'Look, Miss Whoever-You-Are, this is my stateroom, my bedroom and, without a doubt, my bed. And I have not invited you to share it.'
'Now just a minute,' Samantha said hotly. 'I don't have to ask anyone to share what is legally mine.'
The voice was cold. 'You deny that you're in the wrong room?'
She lifted her chin. 'Absolutely.'
'Just a minute. I'll be right back.'
The stranger turned and left, revealing as he went that he was the possessor of broad shoulders, a straight back, lean hips, long legs and a stride that spoke, Samantha noted dismally, of utter conviction.
While he was gone, she grabbed her white terry-cloth bathrobe from the chair beside the bed, but didn't have enough time to put it on before he was back, waving a slip of paper in the air. She hurriedly pulled the sheet back up to her chin.
'Room 1510,' he said smugly. 'That's what it says here. Joshua Baxter Sinclair, Room 1510.'
Samantha aimed for dignity and her best legal manner. 'And you are, I presume, Mr Sinclair.'
'None other.'
'Well, I have a similar slip of paper, Mr Sinclair.'
'Really?'
'Really,' she said icily.
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