‘It’s a boudoir,’ she stammered. ‘It’s harem country.’
‘Hey,’ he said, struggling to sound serious, even offended, but he found he was smiling as well. Sofía had indeed gone over the top. She’d made a special trip to Marrakesh, and she’d furnished the cabin like a sheikh’s boudoir. Boudoir? Who knew? Whatever it was that sheikhs had.
The bed was massive, eight feet round, curtained with burgundy drapes and piled with quilts and pillows of purple and gold. The carpet was thick as grass, a muted pink that fitted beautifully with the furnishings of the bed. Sofía had tied in crisp, pure white linen, and matched the whites with silk hangings of sea scenes on the walls. The glass windows were open while the Marquita was in port and the curtains blew softly in the breeze. The room was luxurious, yet totally inviting and utterly, utterly gorgeous.
‘This is where you’d sleep,’ Ramón told Jenny and she turned and stared at him as if he had two heads.
‘Me. The deckie!’
‘There are bunkrooms below,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see why we shouldn’t be comfortable.’
‘This is harem country.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I love it,’ she confessed, eyes huge. ‘What’s not to love? But, as for sleeping in it… The owner doesn’t mind?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you sleep?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t give me the best cabin.’
‘This isn’t the best cabin.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
He smiled and led the way back down the companionway. Opened another door. Ushered her in.
He’d decorated this room. Sofía had added a couple of touches-actually, Sofía had spoken to his plumber so the bathroom was a touch…well, a touch embarrassing-but the rest was his.
It was bigger than the stateroom he’d offered Jenny. The bed here was huge but he didn’t have hangings. It was more masculine, done in muted tones of the colours through the rest of the boat. The sunlit yellows and golds of the salon had been extended here, with only faint touches of the crimson and blues. The carpet here was blue as well, but short and functional.
There were two amazing paintings on the wall. Recognizable paintings. Jenny gasped with shock. ‘Please tell me they’re not real.’
Okay. ‘They’re not real.’ They were. ‘You want to see the bathroom?’ he asked, unable to resist, and he led her through. Then he stood back and grinned as her jaw almost hit the carpet.
While the Marquita was being refitted, he’d had to return to Bangladesh before the plumbing was done, and Sofía had decided to put her oar in here as well. And Sofía’s oar was not known as sparse and clinical. Plus she had this vision of him in sackcloth and ashes in Bangladesh and she was determined to make the rest of his life what she termed ‘comfortable’.
Plus she read romance novels.
He therefore had a massive golden bath in the shape of a Botticelli shell. It stood like a great marble carving in the middle of the room, with carved steps up on either side. Sofía had made concessions to the unsteadiness of bathing at sea by putting what appeared to be vines all around. In reality, they were hand rails but the end result looked like a tableau from the Amazon rainforest. There were gold taps, gold hand rails, splashes of crimson and blue again. There was trompe l’oeil-a massive painting that looked like reality-on the wall, making it appear as if the sea came right inside. She’d even added towels with the monogram of the royal family his grandmother had belonged to.
When he’d returned from Bangladesh he’d come in here and nearly had a stroke. His first reaction had been horror, but Sofía had been beside him, so anxious she was quivering.
‘I so wanted to give you something special,’ she’d said, and Sofía was all the family he had and there was no way he’d hurt her.
He’d hugged her and told her he loved it-and that night he’d even had a bath in the thing. She wasn’t to know he usually used the shower down the way.
‘You…you sleep in here?’ Jenny said, her bottom lip quivering.
‘Not in the bath,’ he said and grinned.
‘But where does the owner sleep?’ she demanded, ignoring his attempt at levity. She was gazing around in stupefaction. ‘There’s not room on his boat for another cabin like this.’
‘I… At need I use the bunkroom.’ And that was a lie, but suddenly he was starting to really, really want to employ this woman. Okay, he was on morally dubious ground, but did it matter if she thought he was a hired hand? He watched as the strain eased from her face and turned to laughter, and he thought surely this woman deserved a chance at a different life. If one small lie could give it to her…
Would it make a difference if she knew the truth? If he told her he was so rich the offer to pay her debts meant nothing to him… How would she react?
With fear. He’d seen her face when he’d offered her the job. There’d been an intuitive fear that he wanted her for more than her sailing and her cooking. How much worse would it be if she knew he could buy and sell her a thousand times over?
‘The owner doesn’t mind?’ she demanded.
He gave up and went along with it. ‘The owner likes his boat to be used and enjoyed.’
‘Wow,’ she breathed and looked again at the bath. ‘Wow!’
‘I use the shower in the shared bathroom,’ he confessed and she chuckled.
‘What a waste.’
‘You’d be welcome to use this.’
‘In your dreams,’ she muttered. ‘This place is Harems-RUs.’
‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘But it’s still a working boat. I promise you, Jenny, there’s not a hint of harem about her.’
‘You swear?’ she demanded and she fixed him with a look that said she was asking for a guarantee. And he knew what that guarantee was.
‘I swear,’ he said softly. ‘I skipper this boat and she’s workmanlike.’
She looked at him for a long, long moment and what she saw finally seemed to satisfy her. She gave a tiny satisfied nod and moved on. ‘You have to get her back to Europe fast?’
‘Three months, at the latest.’ That, at least, was true. His team started work in Bangladesh then and he intended to travel with them. ‘So do you want to come?’
‘You’re still offering?’
‘I am.’ He ushered her back out of the cabin and closed the door. The sight of that bath didn’t make for businesslike discussions on any level.
‘You’re not employing anyone else?’
‘Not if I have you.’
‘You don’t even know if I can sail,’ she said, astounded all over again.
He looked at her appraisingly. The corridor here was narrow and they were too close. He’d like to be able to step back a bit, to see her face. He couldn’t.
She was still nervous, he thought, like a deer caught in headlights. But caught she was. His offer seemed to have touched something in her that longed to respond, and even the sight of that crazy bath hadn’t made her back off. She was just like he was, he thought, raised with a love of the sea. Aching to be out there.
So…she was caught. All he had to do was reel her in.
‘So show me that you can sail,’ he said. ‘Show me now. The wind’s getting up enough to make it interesting. Let’s take her out.’
‘What, tonight?’
‘Tonight. Now. Dare you.’
‘I can’t,’ she said, sounding panicked.
‘Why not?’
She stared up at him as if he were a species she’d never seen.
‘You just go. Whenever you feel like it.’
‘The only thing holding us back is a couple of lines tied to bollards on the wharf,’ he said and then, as her look of panic deepened, he grinned. ‘But we will bring her back tonight, if that’s what’s worrying you. It’s seven now. We can be back in harbour by midnight.’
‘You seriously expect me to sail with you? Now?’
‘There’s a great moon,’ he said. ‘The night is ours. Why
not?’
So, half an hour later, they were sailing out through the heads, heading for Europe.
Or that was what it felt like to Jenny. Ramón was at the wheel. She’d gone up to the bow to tighten a stay, to see if they could get a bit more tension in the jib. The wind was behind them, the moon was rising from the east, moonlight was shimmering on the water and she was free.
The night was warm enough for her to take off her coat, to put her bare arms out to catch a moonbeam. She could let her hair stream behind her and become a bow-sprite, she thought. An omen of good luck to sailors.
An omen of good luck to Ramón?
She turned and looked back at him. He was a dark shadow in the rear of the boat but she knew he was watching her from behind the wheel. She was being judged?
So what? The boat was as tightly tuned as she could make her. Ramón had asked her to set the sails herself. She’d needed help in this unfamiliar environment but he’d followed her instructions rather than the other way round.
This boat was far bigger than anything she’d sailed on, but she’d spent her life in a sea port, talking to sailors, watching the boats come in. She’d seen yachts like this; she’d watched them and she’d ached to be on one.
She’d brought Matty down to the harbour and she’d promised him his own boat.
‘When you’re big. When you’re strong.’
And suddenly she was blinking back tears. That was stupid. She didn’t cry for Matty any more. It was no use; he was never coming back.
‘Are you okay?’
Had he seen? The moonlight wasn’t that strong. She swiped her fist angrily across her cheeks, ridding herself of the evidence of her distress, and made her way slowly aft. She had a lifeline clipped to her and she had to clip it and unclip it along the way. She was as sure-footed as a cat at sea, but it didn’t hurt to show him she was safety conscious-and, besides, it gave her time to get her face in order.
‘I’m fine,’ she told him as she reached him.
‘Take over the wheel, then,’ he told her. ‘I need to cook dinner.’
Was this a test, too? she wondered. Did she really have sea legs? Cooking below deck on a heavy swell was something no one with a weak stomach could do.
‘I’ll do it.’ She could.
‘You really don’t get seasick?’
‘I really don’t get seasick.’
‘A woman in a million,’ he murmured and then he grinned. ‘But no, it’s not fair to ask you to cook. This is your night at sea and, after the day you’ve had, you deserve it. Take the wheel. Have you eaten?’
‘Hours ago.’
‘There’s steak to spare.’ He smiled at her and wham, there it was again, his smile that had her heart saying, Beware, Beware, Beware.
‘I really am fine,’ she said and sat and reached for the wheel and when her hand brushed his-she could swear it was accidental-the Beware grew so loud it was a positive roar.
But, seemingly unaware of any roaring on deck, he left her and dropped down into the galley. In minutes the smell of steak wafted up. Nothing else. Just steak.
Not my choice for a lovely night at sea, she thought, but she wasn’t complaining. The rolling swell was coming in from the east. She nosed the boat into the swell and the boat steadied on course.
She was the most beautiful boat.
Could she really be crew? She was starting to feel as if, when Ramón had made the offer, she should have signed a contract on the spot. Then, as he emerged from the galley bearing two plates and smiling, she knew why she hadn’t. That smile gave her so many misgivings.
‘I cooked some for you, too,’ he said, looking dubiously down at his plates. ‘If you really aren’t seasick…’
‘I have to eat something to prove it?’
‘It’s a true test of grit,’ he said. ‘You eat my cooking, then I know you have a cast iron stomach.’ He sat down beside her and handed her a plate.
She looked down at it. Supermarket steak, she thought, and not a good cut.
She poked it with a fork and it didn’t give.
‘You have to be polite,’ he said. ‘Otherwise my feelings will be hurt.’
‘Get ready for your feelings to be hurt.’
‘Taste it at least.’
She released the wheel, fought the steak for a bit and then said, ‘Can we put her on automatic pilot? This is going to take some work.’
‘Hey, I’m your host,’ he said, sounding offended.
‘And I’m a cook. How long did you fry this?’
‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes, maybe? I needed to check the charts to remind myself of the lights for harbour re-entry.’
‘So your steak cooked away on its own while you concentrated on other things.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’d tell you,’ she said darkly, stabbing at her steak and finally managing to saw off a piece. Manfully chewing and then swallowing. ‘Only you’re right; you’re my host.’
‘I’d like to be your employer. Will you be cook on the Marquita?’
Whoa. So much for concentrating on steak. This, then, was when she had to commit. To craziness or not.
To life-or not.
‘You mean…you really were serious with your offer?’
‘I’m always serious. It was a serious offer. It is a serious offer.’
‘You’d only have to pay me a year’s salary. I could maybe organise something…’ But she knew she couldn’t, and he knew it, too. His response was immediate.
‘The offer is to settle your debts and sail away with you, debt free. That or nothing.’
‘That sounds like something out of a romance novel. Hero on white charger, rescuing heroine from villain. I’m no wimpy heroine.’
He grinned. ‘You sound just like my Aunt Sofía. She reads them, too. But no, I never said you were wimpy. I never thought you were wimpy.’
‘I’d repay…’
‘No,’ he said strongly and took her plate away from her and set it down. He took her hands then, strong hands gripping hers so she felt the strength of him, the sureness and the authority. Authority? This was a man used to getting his own way, she thought, suddenly breathless, and once more came the fleeting thought, I should run.
There was nowhere to run. If she said yes there’d be nowhere to run for a year.
‘You will not repay,’ he growled. ‘A deal’s a deal, Jenny. You will be my crew. You will be my cook. I’ll ask nothing more.’
This was serious. Too serious. She didn’t want to think about the implications behind those words.
And maybe she didn’t want that promise. I’ll ask nothing more…
He’d said her debt was insignificant. Maybe it was to him. To her it was an insurmountable burden. She had her pride, but maybe it was time to swallow it, stand aside and let him play hero.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound meek.
‘Jenny?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m captain,’ he said. ‘But I will not tolerate subordination.’
‘Subordination?’
‘It’s my English,’ he apologised, sounding suddenly very Spanish. ‘As in captains say to their crew, “I will not tolerate insubordination!” just before they give them a hundred lashes and toss them in the brink.’
‘What’s the brink?’
‘I have no idea,’ he confessed. ‘I’m sure the Marquita doesn’t have one, which is what I’m telling you. Whereas most captains won’t tolerate insubordination, I am the opposite. If you’d like to argue all the way around the Horn, it’s fine by me.’
‘You want me to argue?’ She was too close to him, she thought, and he was still holding her hands. The sensation was worrying.
Worryingly good, though. Not worryingly bad. Arguing with this guy all the way round the Horn…
‘Yes. I will also expect muffins,’ he said and she almost groaned.
‘Really?’
‘Take it or leave it,’ he said. ‘Muffins and ins
ubordination. Yes or no?’
She stared up at him in the moonlight. He stared straight back at her and she felt her heart do this strange surge, as if her fuel-lines had just been doubled.
What am I getting into, she demanded of herself, but suddenly she didn’t care. The night was warm, the boat was lovely and this man was holding her hands, looking down at her in the moonlight and his hands were imparting strength and sureness and promise.
Promise? What was he promising? She was being fanciful.
But she had to be careful, she told herself fiercely. She must.
It was too late.
‘Yes,’ she said before she could change her mind-and she was committed.
She was heading to the other side of the world with a man she’d met less than a day ago.
Was she out of her mind?
What had he done? What was he getting himself into?
He’d be spending three months at sea with a woman called Jenny.
Jenny what? Jenny who? He knew nothing about her other than she sailed and she cooked.
He spent more time on background checks for the deckies he employed. He always ran a fast check on the kids he employed, to ensure there weren’t skeletons in the closet that would come bursting out the minute he was out of sight of land.
And he didn’t employ them for a year. The deal was always that they’d work for him until the next port and then make a mutual decision as to whether they wanted to go on.
He’d employed Jenny for a year.
He wasn’t going to be on the boat for a year. Had he thought that through? No, so he’d better think it through now.
Be honest? Should he say, Jenny, I made the offer because I felt sorry for you, and there was no way you’d have accepted my offer of a loan if you knew I’m only offering three months’ work?
He wasn’t going to say that, because it wasn’t true. He’d made the offer for far more complicated reasons than sympathy, and that was what was messing with his head now.
In three months he’d be in Bangladesh.
Did he need to go to Bangladesh?
In truth, he didn’t need to go anywhere. His family inheritance had been massive, he’d invested it with care and if he wished he could spend the rest of his life in idle luxury.
Cinderella: Hired by the Prince Page 4
