But she saw-that he was sure of his position now. In fact, he was in the act of making himself right at home in her bedroom. He had put down the drink he'd been carrying on her bedside table and now sat himself down on the chair that had been previously occupied by her bathrobe.
'And where would that be?'
'In...' Oh, hell, where had she put that slip of paper that the purser had given her? She was generally so neat that she kept everything she owned in its right and proper place. Unfortunately, for the life of her, she couldn't now remember where she had put that damned slip of paper.
'In your bag?' he said caustically, taking a sip of Scotch.
'No.' She would have remembered that, remembered opening the clasp and sticking the paper in. She frantically scoured her memory, knowing full well that she, Samantha Lorimer, lawyer and Phi Beta Kappa, was coming across like the world's scattiest female.
'Your suitcase,' he said with a show of barely disguised impatience.
'No...' And then it all came back to her with a rush of relief. 'It's in the pocket of my skirt.'
'Very good,' he said as if she were a small and wayward child, and Samantha couldn't help wincing. 'Miss... what is your name anyway?'
'Lorimer. Samantha Lorimer.'
'All right, Miss Lorimer, why don't you get your room number assignment out of the pocket of your skirt and we'll examine it to see where you made your mistake.'
God, but she hated patronising men! 'The steward brought me to this room, Mr Sinclair,' she pointed out in precise tones.
'All right—where the steward made his mistake.' There was a long silence while he took another sip of his Scotch and then, looking at her again, he said, 'Well?'
'I can hardly,' said Samantha, 'get out of bed with you sitting there.'
'Oh?' he asked infuriatingly.
'I am not dressed, Mr Sinclair.'
'I have already noted, Miss Lorimer, that you wear a Bali bra with underwires and a front hook.'
Samantha couldn't help it—she blushed, deeply and profoundly, and she hated blushing. She was thirty years old and far too mature to be caught with an adolescent stain of pink on her cheeks. Her embarrassment caused her tone of voice to be sharper than it might have been otherwise. 'You're very observant, Mr Sinclair.'
He nodded, accepting the words as a compliment rather than the sarcasm they were meant to be. 'I've been told that before.'
By this time, Samantha's embarrassment and irritation had turned into fury. 'I'm really not interested in your past achievements,' she said through clenched teeth. 'Would you please get out of this room while I dress?'
Damn him, but he was grinning now. 'As long as you don't dawdle.'
Samantha's jaw felt as if it had set into permanent clenched rigidity. 'I never dawdle,' she said, drawing herself up with hauteur and losing the protective shield of her sheet in the process.
Joshua Baxter Sinclair leaned over, plucked the sheet up with his fingers, neatly twisted its hem into a little knot and deftly inserted it in the front of her bra. 'Style number 1620,' he said. 'Size 34B.'
Samantha's voice deserted her, emerging out of her throat as an incoherent, gargling sound, so it wasn't until the door was shut behind him that she managed to get the words out.
'34C, you bastard!' she yelled.
The door swung open and Josh stuck his head in. 'Sorry,' he said with a grin, then shut the door again.
It took Samantha ten minutes to get dressed, brush her teeth and reassemble the bits and pieces of her shredded dignity. In all her intimate dealings with men, which admittedly had not been great in number or long in duration, she had never found herself in the position she'd been in with Joshua Sinclair. And, while its intimacy was only accidental, nevertheless, she couldn't remember a time when she'd felt so vulnerable, so exposed or so humiliated. Samantha was used to being in control. Now she had discovered that someone else could have the upper hand and refuse to yield it no matter how cool and aloof she became. Not only was this a new experience, but she also didn't like it. Not at all.
Well, thank heavens the ship was large enough so that, when the room problem did sort itself out, she would be able to avoid the obnoxious Mr Sinclair without any difficulty. She would make sure that they had different dinner seatings to begin with and, since the boat had duplicates of almost everything—bars, lounges, swimming pools, games areas—she wouldn't feel at all put out if she had to leave because he was already in it. Furthermore, if they happened to bump into one another on a staircase or in a narrow corridor—well, she'd just give him a cold smile and walk on with her head up high to show him that she didn't give a damn that he'd happened to come upon her sleeping and half-naked.
Samantha couldn't help squirming whenever that thought came to her. It wasn't as if she were a teenager or a hysterical virgin, but still there was something so... so awful about having a strange man watching her when she was unconscious, with his eyes able to roam wherever they wished and rest on whatever pleased them. And, of course, she knew exactly what had taken Joshua Sinclair's interest, didn't she? Underwires, indeed! And, for a second, just before she went out into the sitting room where he was no doubt enjoying another drink -and the memory of what he'd just put her through, Samantha was consumed with curiosity about a man who knew so much about women's underwear that he recognised brand names and styles. But then she thrust the curiosity away. What did she care anyway?
By the time she entered the sitting room, she had regained her composure, got her unruly curls into submission and looked as cool as a cucumber in a slender white shift and matching white sandals. She found Josh lying down on the couch, his eyes closed, his arms crossed over his still-open shirt. It was her turn to watch him and she took a perverse pleasure in the act, noting the nick beneath his jaw where he'd cut himself shaving and the threads of silver in the dark hair waving over his temples. He was, by anyone's standards, an exceedingly handsome man, but Samantha was determined to find imperfections in that good-looking face.
'Finished looking?' asked Josh, without opening his eyes.
She gritted her teeth. 'I wasn't.'
'You deny it?'
'Absolutely. You don't interest me in the least.'
His eyes flicked open. 'I'd call this a classic case of incompatibility, wouldn't you? We wouldn't have a chance of making it as room-mates.'
'We aren't going to be room-mates,' Samantha retorted, then waved her slip of paper in the air. 'I have room 1510, too, so the purser obviously made a mistake. I'm sure he'll find some way of fixing it.'
'No doubt.'
But Josh made no effort to get up from the couch. He simply yawned a bit and then closed his eyes again. Samantha stood there for one uncertain minute, then marched up to the couch.
'Well?' she demanded. 'Are we going or not?'
He didn't even have the decency to open his eyes. 'Going where?'
She would have liked to stamp her foot, but she'd given up that habit when she was five years old. 'To the purser's office, of course.'
Josh signed, opened his eyes, reluctantly pulled himself upright and ran his hands through his thick dark hair. 'My dear Miss Lorimer,' he said, 'please sit down.'
'I...' But Samantha could see that it wouldn't be of any use to protest, so she unwillingly sat down on the chair beside the couch.
He was appraising her now, his dark eyes amused. 'You match the decor—white and blue.'
'I'm not here to talk about...'
'All right,' he said wearily, 'we're going to have to solve the problem of the room, but we'd be crazy to think we could do it now. There's too much confusion, what with the passengers getting on and all the stewards working double time to get everyone sorted out. I suggest waiting an hour or so until things quiet down.'
Samantha didn't want to agree with him, but the argument made sense. She could hear doors slamming outside their room and could imagine the narrow corridors jammed with baggage and passengers and scurrying crew.
'... and besides,' Josh we
nt on, 'this is my holiday and I'm damned if I'm going to rush around. Everything will sort itself out eventually.'
Well, she was on vacation, too, and she didn't intend to spend even one minute of it with Joshua Sinclair. She stood up. 'Fine,' she said. 'I'll meet you in the purser's office in an hour.'
Josh eyed her, his glance resting on the curve her breasts made under the light cotton shift. 'Can't stand my company?' he asked with amusement.
She drew herself up. 'Frankly, no.'
'Well,' he said with another yawn as he went back to a prone position on the couch, 'we didn't really start off on the right foot.'
That, Samantha thought as she walked towards the door, was the understatement of the year. Talk about disastrous! Margaret, of course, would have acted in a totally different manner when confronted with a man in what was supposed to be her bedroom. She would have batted her eyelashes, given him a winsome glance and convinced him that there was nothing he wanted more than to find her in his bed. Then the two of them would have ended up in it together.
'You blew it,' Samantha could imagine her grandmother saying. 'Here's a man with looks so good that he should be declared illegal and he doesn't give a damn if he never sees you again.'
'He's obnoxious and insufferable!'
'Tsk-tsk, you've only known him for five minutes. Isn't that jumping to conclusions? And weren't you pretty obnoxious, too?'
Well, she had been and probably still was, but she wasn't going to back down on this one, she thought as she grabbed the knob of the door. She didn't like Joshua Sinclair, no matter how attractive he was. She wouldn't like him if he were the last man on earth. She wouldn't give a damn about him if she were the only woman and he were...
'The door won't open,' she said.
'What?'
'The door is stuck,' she said, rattling the knob in frustration.
His voice was lazy. 'Have you unhooked the chain latch?'
If she were a cat, she would have scratched out his eyes, but since she wasn't, Samantha had to fall back on sarcasm. 'No, I left the hook on. It's always easier to open doors with the hook on.'
'Try turning the bolt.'
Her voice raised a decibel. 'I am trying to turn it. It only goes half-way.'
'Don't get huffy,' he said blandly. 'Just give the door a good tug.'
She gave the door a good tug; in fact, she pulled with all her might, but it wouldn't budge. 'I told you,' she said, 'it's stuck.'
Josh gave a theatrical groan as he stood up. 'Why is it,' he asked, 'that women suffer from the delusion that they're equal to men?'
'Not equal,' she said coldly as he came up beside her. 'Superior.'
'Oh?' he said, raising an eyebrow.
'We may not be stronger, but we're smarter.'
Josh gave the door a tug. 'That's questionable.'
Samantha noted with satisfaction that the door didn't budge at all. 'We're more intuitive, more understanding about people, more sensitive.'
He pulled again. 'You think men are insensitive?'
The door remained shut. 'Yes.'
Another pull, harder this time, making the muscles in his forearms bulge. 'Is this based on personal experience or just an outside judgment?'
She was beginning to love that door. 'Both,' she said smugly.
'Well,' said Josh, standing back from the door and eyeing it from top to bottom, 'I think we're locked in.'
Samantha's smugness evaporated. She didn't want to be locked into a stateroom with Joshua Sinclair. She wanted out. 'What do you mean—locked in?'
'There's something wrong with the bolt, I suspect. We'll have to wait for the purser to let us out.'
She was starting to feel frantic. 'Can't we call him?'
'Sure,' he gestured towards the phone, 'if you can reach him.'
By the time he was back at the couch, Samantha had already discovered that the purser's line was busy. By the time Josh had plumped up the cushion and discarded his shirt altogether, she'd figured out that there was little chance that the line would not be busy. And, by the time he had settled himself into a position of comfort with his ankles crossed and his eyes closed, Samantha had realised that there wasn't a chance in hell that she was going to get through to the purser for a good long time.
For a brief second, she considered the possibility of standing at the door and banging on it with her fists and screaming at the top of her lungs, but that did seem a bit excessive when you considered the fact that she was locked into a luxurious stateroom with a bed, a bathroom, a fully equipped drinks cabinet and a generously packed fruit basket. On the other hand, she was enclosed in a small space, against her will, with a strange man whose sexual inclinations just might be dangerous. Who knew what he was capable of? Samantha leaned her head against the traitorous door and let her imagination run riot. She had an instant and vivid vision of Josh forcefully taking her in his arms, locking her against that broad bare chest, his dark head bending as his mouth descended to take hers. She imagined his hand, the one that had brushed so lightly against her breasts, unzipping the long zipper that ran down the back of her dress, his warm fingers running down the length of her sensitive spine. She imagined...
Good God, what was she doing! Samantha straightened up, blinked and wondered what was the matter with her. Was she going out of her mind? Was she losing her grasp of reality? It was too ridiculous. She disliked Josh intensely, didn't she? And she wasn't some adolescent girl who spent her time indulging in silly fantasies. She was a woman of thirty, an accredited lawyer, a sensible and logical person who didn't let her imagination run away from her.
'Well,' she said, taking a deep breath and turning around, 'so here we are.'
But there was no answer from the body lying prone on the couch, merely a breathing so calm and so deep that Samantha realised her would-be rapist was sound asleep, completely and maddeningly indifferent to her presence.
CHAPTER THREE
Twenty minutes later, Samantha and Josh were in the act of being freed by an apologetic steward. It was a long and infuriating twenty minutes from Samantha's point of view—since she had nothing to do but read, wander between the sitting room and the bedroom, stare out of the porthole or gaze at a sleeping Josh. But, no matter what she did, she found she was drawn to the sitting room. By the time she did get through to the purser's office she had quite memorised the bone and musculature of Josh's torso. She knew how the skin curved over the bulge of his shoulder muscles, how it indented to a pulsing hollow in his throat, how it stretched across the width of his chest, its colour bronzed and smooth beneath the mat of curly dark hair.
Finally, in sheer desperation, she shut herself away in the bedroom. Not that that did much good, since every few minutes she'd have to go into the sitting room and try to call the purser, at which point she would find, once again, that she was staring at Josh.
So it was with great relief that she finally did get through to the purser's office and, while she didn't actually reach the purser, she did catch one steward who was quite horrified to hear that not only was she locked into her stateroom, but that she was also sharing it with a stranger. Josh awoke during this conversation, looking as fresh as a daisy, stretched luxuriously and announced that he was going to take a shower. So he wasn't around for the anxious minutes while the steward discovered that he couldn't open the door either and rushed off to find the crew's handyman. He only showed up later when the door was being removed from its hinges, arriving in the sitting room wearing only a brief white towel wrapped around his hips, his hair damp and curling on his forehead.
'Just in time for dinner,' he said.
Samantha glanced at him and then quickly looked away. She refused, absolutely refused, to contemplate the long, lean and muscular legs of a man who obviously kept himself extremely fit.
'I guess so,' she said glumly.
'Are you in the first seating for dinner, too?'
She picked up her room assignment from the table and glanced at it. 'Yes,' she said
. 'Six o'clock to seven—table four.'
Josh gave her a sarcastic grin. 'Too bad—I'm at table six.'
'Hmm,' she said, her eyes on the door, watching as it shook slightly on its hinges.
'Why, Miss Lorimer,' he said idly, walking over and making himself comfortable on the couch, 'I do believe our enforced intimacy is getting to you.'
He was far too close to her for comfort, although there was nowhere Samantha could go in that small room to get away from him. He was so close that she could smell the pleasing scent of his cologne, and if she turned around, those legs would practically be touching her own. The thought of it not only made her head swim slightly, but it also made her angry. She despised her own weakness and was furious with Josh for making her feel that way.
'Look,' she said, turning to face him, 'let's get this straight, all right? I came on this vacation to get away from problems and stress and aggravation. And I like my privacy. My idea of a holiday does not include being shut in with a stranger that I don't know and the little that I do know I don't ...' She paused, stopping the rush of angry words, not wanting to say the words hovering at the tip of her tongue.
'Don't like?' Josh asked casually, and it was obvious that he really didn't care what Samantha thought of him.
'Yes,' she said, lifting her chin. 'So they can't get me out of here fast enough.'
'You know, Miss ... you don't mind if I call you Samantha, do you? ... You know, Samantha, you've really got to learn to relax and roll with the punches. You're too uptight.'
Great—now they were going to make value judgments on her personality. 'I am,' she said, making a valiant effort to match her mood to her words, 'even and calm-tempered.'
He laughed; one could even say that he roared with laughter, throwing his head back and letting the sounds rise to the ceiling. Samantha glared at him and then turned haughtily away. She hated him; the word 'dislike' didn't begin to describe how she felt about him. In fact, she had never quite felt about anyone the way she now felt about Joshua Sinclair. Certainly no one had ever inspired a feeling so deep and so passionate that she was actually trembling inside with fury and rage.
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