Marina frowned. ‘The first one?’
‘They do one eye at a time, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to see.’
Her sister’s mocking tone caused heat to rise in Marina’s cheeks. ‘Oh, that makes sense. How is he?’
‘Fine. We thought he was becoming feeble and losing his balance, but it turned out to be his eyes. The specialist said he’ll be eighty per cent better afterwards.’
Marina smiled. ‘I’m so glad it turned out to be something routine. What about the diabetes?’
‘Really stable. We only have a problem when I go out and he has to fix himself something to eat. He sneaks food he’s not supposed to eat. God knows what he’d be like if I wasn’t here.’
Marina closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Not once did Michelle fail to remind her that their father probably wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for her. On occasion Marina was tempted to retaliate, to point out that without her support they wouldn’t have been able to stay in the family home.
But she could never bring herself to say it. The put-downs were Michelle’s way of feeling better about herself.
‘I’m in Italy at the moment, but keep that to yourself. I’m keeping it quiet. I should be back in Australia sometime next week. You can get me on this number if you need anything.’
‘Italy.’ A pause. ‘That’d be nice.’
Marina gritted her teeth at her sister’s pointed remark. The strange thing was Michelle didn’t want to work, didn’t want to leave Boston or the family home she’d grown up in. She was exactly where she wanted to be and yet she resented Marina’s life; she couldn’t bring herself to be happy for her, though she’d never swap places, even if it were possible.
Marina looked around the stateroom, pleased Michelle couldn’t see her luxurious surrounds. ‘Do you need me to transfer the money into your account? I can do it from here.’
‘Okay.’
Marina picked up a fancy black and gold pen with Orion embossed on the side. ‘Can you give me the amount?’
She was writing down the figure and mentally tallying her bank balance when a picture of Dean appeared on the screen behind the CNN anchorwoman.
Marina stared, stunned.
‘Michelle, I’ll ring you back.’ Heart hammering, she disconnected the call and turned up the volume.
‘We cross to the America’s Cup where match races are due to begin off the coast of San Francisco in nine days. As we reported yesterday, Dean Logan, skipper of the Australian racing team, the current defender of the America’s Cup, has withdrawn from the competition. Details remain sketchy, but our reporter in San Fran once again confirms Mr Logan will not be joining his crew in California as scheduled, but will continue with his plans to return to Australia where it is reported his company is in serious trouble. Just repeating the news out of San Francisco—Dean Logan, the skipper of Australian racing yacht, Eclipse, a man who many believe to be the best sailing strategist in the world, is out of the America’s Cup.’
Marina sat on the edge of her seat and recalled Rask’s words from yesterday. Mr Logan’s having an emergency skype meeting with his America’s Cup crew.
So that’s why he’d sent Rask to collect her from the ship.
The female reporter was crossing live to where a press conference was wrapping up. A young man with curly red hair was holding a CNN microphone and trying to file his report from among the media mayhem.
‘Danny, this is a huge blow, not only for fans of the sport, but for the America’s Cup challenge in general.’
‘It sure is, Jessica, a huge blow. As most people in the yachting world are aware, Dean Logan’s energies are now concentrated on his design business, creating and building luxury motor yachts. As far as sailing goes, he limits himself to the America’s Cup and the difficult Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. Of course, he’s considered a hero in Australia for his brave actions during that race some years ago.’
The reporter paused, waiting for the anchorwoman’s next question.
‘I’m told he brings excitement to the race, Danny?’
‘Absolutely. He’s regarded as a god of the racing world, fearless on the water and a brilliant tactician. And we mustn’t forget, he designed the Eclipse. No-one knows this yacht better than him. And in another interesting development, Jessica, on the back of this news, money has been pouring into the online betting agencies. The upshot of it all—Australia cannot successfully defend the America’s Cup without Logan at the helm.’
The anchorwoman moved onto the next story and Marina switched off the TV. She scrambled onto the bed, grabbed her laptop and hooked into the Orion’s wi-fi. Balancing the device in her lap, she took a bite of her croissant and typed ‘Dean Logan’ into her browser. Immediately the screen filled with articles and images of Dean going back to when he was a teenager.
Marina scrolled down, reading the heading links until she came to one which contained content similar to what the reporter had said.
‘Dean Logan—Ill-fated Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, Boxing Day.’
Marina clicked on the link.
‘A sailor’s farewell was recited today at a memorial service for victims of the ill-fated Sydney to Hobart yacht race. Family members, friends, skippers and crews turned out in force to remember those who lost their lives when a severe storm engulfed the race resulting in the biggest-ever maritime rescue in Australian waters.
Present was eighteen-year-old Dean Logan, crew member on board “Huntsman” who risked his life to pull five crewmen to safety after a freak wave washed them overboard. Also present were …’
Marina took another bite of the croissant and continued scrolling through the articles of particular interest. Most held race results and photographs of a triumphant crew either waving or pumping the air as they crossed the finish line ahead of the others.
And then her heart tripped in her chest as a photograph almost jumped off the screen. It accompanied an article posted a few hours ago, though the photograph was over a year old. It showed Dean, clean-shaven, handsome, his white tuxedo a perfect contrast to his dark hair and olive skin. He looked debonair, formal, like some of the men who attended her concerts in Europe. The camera had caught him smiling into the eyes of his blonde female companion.
Marina stared at the happy couple, a gnawing emptiness in the pit of her stomach, and not because she’d barely nibbled at the croissant. Tearing her eyes away from the photograph, she read the article.
‘In news that has rocked the sporting world, yacht designer to the stars, Dean Logan, has withdrawn from this year’s America’s Cup campaign. Tom Bradley will step into the role of helmsman of the purpose-built Logan Eclipse. Rumours abound as to the reason for Logan’s sudden withdrawal. Certain sources report his company, Logan Luxury Craft, is in serious financial trouble, while others report a possible reconciliation with Julia Montgomery to be the reason. The Wonder from Down Under has been sailing solo since he split from the jewellery heiress (pictured opposite with Logan) a year ago, ending their eight-month relationship.’
Marina flushed. What had she been thinking, flirting with Dean over the phone and kissing him at Taormina? Of course he would date heiresses, someone on his level.
She shut down the computer, tore off another piece of croissant and forced herself to eat it. How foolish she’d been, mooning about the place, thinking how he’d held her last night, how attentive he’d been. The plain truth was, he’d locked her in the saloon and cast off with her on board. She wouldn’t be bouncing around on the ocean half dead from seasickness if it wasn’t for him.
Pirate!
As always, when she was nervous, upset or tending towards juvenile, she looked around for her instrument. Practise always settled her. It was cathartic, all-consuming, requiring 100 per cent concentration and leaving room for nothing else.
Elena once said she took refuge in it.
Marina gazed at her left hand, at the slight bruise where Dean had grabbed her yesterday. She knew he felt terrib
le about it, but it was superficial, nothing compared to the overuse and overstrain of the muscles in her neck, shoulder, arm, wrist and hand.
Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes as the enormity of what she was trying to overcome resurfaced for the first time in days.
The musician’s nightmare—her nightmare.
The decreased function of nerves and the resulting loss of muscle strength terrified her beyond words.
This is what she did.
It was who she was.
She blinked away the tears, steeled herself against the heartache, and like every other day for the last three months began the series of simple exercises specifically designed to warm up her body and bring it back into balance.
She heard the specialist’s voice in her head. There is no cure forRSI. There is only prevention, self-care and body maintenance.
When she finished, she took a deep breath and undid the metal clips on her case.
Then, with great care, she took out her bow and her violin.
Chapter Eighteen
Dean looked up as the haunting strains of the violin rose from the deck below. Across the table, Rask put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Dean set aside Mooney’s printouts, the ones he intended showing Marina later this morning. ‘It’s Vivaldi.’
‘Who?’
Dean strained his ears to listen. ‘Vivaldi. My mother used to play the CD all the time. I’d forgotten.’
Dean stood, transported back in time until he was standing in the kitchen of his childhood home, watching his mother prepare dinner. His father had been gone for months, and it was just the two of them, chatting about sport and school and maybe taking the cruiser out on the weekend.
She’d died that weekend.
On that boat.
He tore himself away from the memories. ‘It’s a good sign. She must be feeling better, comfortable enough to play.’
Rask picked up his cutlery and sliced off a piece of sausage. ‘She’s good.’
‘Good?’ Drawn by the music, Dean moved towards the door. Or maybe it was Marina drawing him downstairs, or a combination of both. ‘She’s magnificent.’
Rask froze, his fork halfway between his plate and his mouth. ‘You’re a fan of classical music now?’
‘Maybe I’m a late bloomer.’
Rask snorted. ‘I prefer Icelandic music.’
‘I know.’
‘Hard to beat songs about sailors and trolls.’
‘I’m going below. We’re hours ahead of the cruise ship.’
While Rask went back to his breakfast, Dean made his way towards the master stateroom. Angela Logan had loved that violin concerto. How could he have forgotten something like that about his mother?
The music grew louder, and he wondered how much practise Marina could safely do without aggravating her condition. He’d sailed with blokes who’d developed RSI, mainly from working the coffee grinders. In the end, they’d lost the strength in their shoulder muscles and been forced to take on lighter jobs.
Some had abandoned sailing altogether.
Dean hesitated outside Marina’s door. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to possess such a gift, and be in danger of losing it. Some parallels could be drawn between her situation and his, but no matter how much damage was done to his company, no matter how hard he was knocked down—in the end, he was still able to design and build another yacht. But if Marina couldn’t play—that would be a tragedy of a whole different kind.
He rapped lightly on the door with one knuckle then was immediately overcome by doubts.
Shit!
What was he going to say?
That he felt a connection to his dead mother when he heard Vivaldi?
The rhythm changed.
The music didn’t stop.
Dean closed his eyes and let the notes drift over him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, and his mother came towards him, holding a plate laden with food. She set it down in front of him and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
He smiled up at her.
When he opened his eyes, his hand was on the doorknob.
Was it wrong for him to interrupt, ask if he could come in and listen, watch?
She was used to performing in front of an audience, but this was her private practise time.
And it was amazing.
Before he knew it, Dean was turning the handle. The door was unlocked and opened easily. He paused, waiting for her to stop, but again the music continued. He pushed the door wider and stood on the threshold, looking in. She was sitting in one of the chairs that went with the small glass-topped dining table, back straight, chin cupped in the rest, face half-turned towards the window.
Dean watched, transfixed.
Her hair hung almost to her waist, her long, colourful skirt brushing the floor. Her left hand was a blur on the strings, her right manoeuvring the bow in quick staccato bursts. Then the rhythm changed, and her body began to sway as she guided the bow across the strings in wide, sweeping strokes.
She played from memory, eyes closed, cheeks wet, lost in another world.
Dean swallowed and stepped back.
He was an intruder here, uninvited. He had no right to invade her privacy because her music transported him to a place he hadn’t gone to in many years.
This was her space, her time, her world—a world so different to his that sometimes she didn’t seem real.
Like in the gondola.
And like now, when she was beyond his reach.
Doing his best not to make a sound, Dean pulled the door closed behind him.
Chapter Nineteen
Marina lowered the violin into her lap and wiped her cheeks with her fingertips. She loved that concerto. It never failed to bring back memories of her commencement recital, her father clapping enthusiastically, his proud face shining from among the audience when she’d taken her bow.
Of one thing she was certain—no-one would ever be as proud of her as her father.
She sighed and packed away her violin, trying not to dwell on how devastated he’d be when he learned of her RSI.
It was one more reason to keep the news quiet for as long as possible.
Winding her hair into a loose knot, she secured it with a Murano glass clip she’d bought in Venice and debated whether to make a flying visit to Boston when all this was over. She missed her Dad, but cataract removal hardly warranted her spending money on a long-haul flight when she might need to go later. She couldn’t bear to break the news to him over Skype, then hang up and leave him and Michelle to cope alone. Or have them find out via the media.
No, when the time came, she would have to do it in person.
Pushing aside her troubling thoughts, she checked her watch. Hopefully Dean would be awake by now.
She found him in the saloon, a luxurious cross between living room, study and bar. He was sitting on the circular lounge where she’d sat yesterday. He was drinking coffee and looking through some papers.
‘Morning.’
He looked up at the sound of her voice, swept aside the papers and stood up. ‘Hello. You’re looking better this morning.’
His eyes did that three-point skim thing—face, legs, face—like he wanted to really look but didn’t want to offend.
‘It would be hard to look worse than last night.’ Heat rose in Marina’s cheeks as she thought of all he’d done for her. ‘Thank you for everything. I’ve never wanted to be in an ICU unit so much.’
He smiled, a brilliant flash of white that always made her heart skip. ‘I think the words were “let me die”.’
‘About the other thing, asking you to …’
‘Stay?’ He waved a dismissive hand as if it were an everyday occurrence. ‘Seasickness is the absolute worst. Don’t worry about it. Any hangover from the sedative?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t remember much.’
Liar! You can’t stop thinking about the way he held you in the bathroom,
the words of comfort he murmured in your ear.
He winked. ‘I won’t tell you what we got up to then.’
She smiled, unsure if he was flirting, or trying to put her at ease after an embarrassing incident.
And then, there was the matter of the jewellery heiress.
‘Ah, Ms Wentworth.’ Rask walked into the room. ‘Thank you for serenading us through breakfast.’
‘Oh, my pleasure. I can’t afford to get rusty. And please, call me Marina.’
Rask’s eyes widened, like it was the last thing he’d expected her to say. He glanced at Dean as if to gauge his reaction. ‘Er, very well, Hektor it is, or Rask. I answer to both. Anything this morning from our mutual friend?’
Marina shook her head. ‘I’ve been checking my phone every fifteen minutes.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Dean asked, watching their exchange with interest.
‘Yes, earlier.’
‘Good.’ He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his relaxed stance reminding her of the way he’d looked when she first laid eyes on him in Venice. ‘Well, I guess we should bring Marina up to date.’
‘We have good news and bad,’ Rask said, as Dean went over to the bar and topped up his coffee from the silver pot. ‘The flash drive contained the new designs. That’s the good news. However, our friend attached new passwords to each file. The cybercrime squad and the best codebreakers in the business are presently trying to crack those passwords.’
Marina breathed a sigh of relief. ‘There’s a good chance of that happening, right?’
Dean nodded. ‘Absolutely. And we have you to thank for that. Now it’s time for us to help you.’
‘Our role is to support the police.’ Rask’s pointed remark was directed more at Dean than her. ‘Rather than taking matters into our own hands.’
Dean raised his eyebrows above his coffee cup. ‘You know I love working with the police, Hektor.’
Marina looked from one to the other, bewildered by the subtext in the conversation. Did Dean have a problem with the police?
Well, she didn’t, and the more she thought about Victor, the angrier she got. He’d gone into her bedroom, hacked into her computer, and for all she knew rifled through her personal things. It was enough to make her skin crawl and her blood boil.
A Dangerous Arrangement Page 12
