Passionate Protectors? Read online

  Whatever the reason, his instinct had told him with total certainty that it wasn’t going to happen. And that the desire that pierced him would not be satisfied.

  He drew a deep, sharp breath. That, he told himself, had been a moment of weakness that would not be repeated.

  He had to ditch those memories—bury them deeply and permanently. Along with the moment when he’d pretended to kiss her, shielding her with his body, and felt her lips tremble under his.

  She may be anybody’s, he told himself, but she isn’t yours. Don’t lose sight of that ever again.

  He went to the door and left as quietly as he had come.

  Laurent was in the pilot house, humming quietly to himself. He looked round as Ash arrived, carrying a plate stacked with chicken sandwiches and two steaming mugs of coffee.

  ‘She is asleep?’

  ‘Out for the count,’ Ash confirmed briefly, putting the food down.

  ‘La pauvre petite. What an ordeal for her.’

  Ash shrugged. ‘A self-inflicted wound, but unlikely to leave permanent scarring. She’s already showing signs of recovery.’

  ‘You are hard on her, I think.’ Laurent took a sandwich and bit into it appreciatively. ‘Did you have many problems persuading her to go with you?’

  ‘She was just about to be launched on a career as a lap dancer, and worse. Any alternative would have seemed good.’

  ‘And they just let her go?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Ash smiled thinly. ‘There was one hitch, but it was dealt with.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Laurent gave him a wry look. ‘They came after you?’

  ‘Oh, they were on our trail. But sadly it was the wrong one. I left an empty matchbook from the Hotel Margarita on the table for them to find, and they went scorching off to the other side of town to browbeat some unfortunate desk clerk.’

  ‘So all is well.’ Laurent nodded. ‘Victor will be relieved. His faxes are becoming increasingly agitated.’

  ‘Then I’d better put him out of his misery and tell him to keep quiet from now on. As far as the target’s concerned, she’s just getting a lift to St Hilaire. I don’t want anything to arouse her suspicions that there could be more to it than that.’

  Laurent tutted in reproof. ‘Target! Such a cold word to use about such a beautiful girl.’

  Ash’s mouth tightened. ‘I just want it finished with. I need Daddy to hand over the money for his spoiled princess. One last smooth operation before I retire, and no hiccups.’

  ‘The girl—you think she could make difficulties?’

  ‘Tonight she was so terrified she’d have grasped at any straw she was offered,’ Ash said slowly. ‘But tomorrow morning she’s going to wake up rested and no longer scared stiff. And sooner or later she’s going to start thinking, and wondering about things—like how I happened to turn up so conveniently to rescue her. She’s going to ask questions.’

  ‘Then let us hope we reach St Hilaire before you have to provide any of the answers,’ Laurent said cheerfully. ‘Now, go and fax Victor. Reassure him that all has gone according to plan, and tell him to stay off your back.’ He shot Ash a shrewd look. ‘Then you should also get some sleep, mon vieux. Because, if you are right, you could need all your wits about you tomorrow.’

  ‘Later. I’m not tired yet.’ Ash took his coffee over to the leather bench and sat down, watching the silvery water rippling past the bows.

  Although that wasn’t strictly true, he thought. Now that the mission had been accomplished the tension was seeping out of him, leaving him almost boneless with weariness.

  But he wasn’t going to bed yet, he decided grimly. Not while there was a chance that he was going to lie awake in the moonlight, seeing a girl’s dark head on a pillow and the trace of a tear on her cheek. Remembering the fragrance of her skin, and the sweetness of her mouth when he’d held her for that brief time.

  He swore under his breath.

  It’s time you gave up this game, Brennan, he told himself. You’re getting soft in your old age. And that won’t do. Because it’s not over yet, and the stakes are far too high.

  And he sighed soundlessly.

  Chellie opened heavy eyelids, blinking at the sunlight pouring into the stateroom. For a moment she felt totally disorientated, then as recollection slowly returned she sat up, stretching and running her fingers through her hair.

  She was on La Belle Rêve, and Santo Martino with all its horrors was far behind her. And for that she was so thankful.

  But it was the immediate future that had to concern her now. What would happen when they arrived at St Hilaire? Her options seemed few, and all equally unattractive.

  And the last thing she wanted was to find herself stranded and broke all over again in some other remote spot.

  She knelt up on the bed and looked out of the window. There was nothing outside but the vivid unbroken blue of the Caribbean as far as the eye could see.

  She had no idea what time it was. Ramon had helped himself to her platinum watch along with everything else, and at the club day and night had seemed to merge into a blur. But the position of the sun told her that she had been asleep for a long time, and it was probably time she put in an appearance on deck.

  It was so wonderful to have a proper shower again, she discovered gratefully. To feel the sheer bliss of warm water streaming over her hair and body, and to be able to cherish her skin with scented soap and lotions.

  If she only had her own clothes to wear life would be almost perfect. As it was, she had no choice but to borrow once more from the owner’s daughter.

  I’ll use the absolute minimum, she thought. And replace every single item as soon as I get the opportunity.

  Whenever that will be, she added, biting her lip.

  She put on a pair of white cut-offs and a sleeveless jadegreen top, thrusting her feet into her own sandals, then, with a certain reluctance, left the stateroom and climbed up the companionway.

  She felt frankly awkward about confronting her saviour in the unrelenting light of day. However grateful she might feel, there were inherent difficulties in being under an obligation to a man about whom she knew so little. And to whom she’d found herself so instantly and unwillingly attracted.

  Although why she should feel drawn to him she really didn’t know. He might have come to her aid when she was in deep trouble, but he hadn’t shown her any real sympathy or concern.

  In fact, he’d hustled her almost curtly through the streets and on board this boat, as if he was already regretting the impulse which had led to her rescue.

  If impulse was what it had been, she thought, and paused, frowning, at the top of the companionway, aware of a sudden uneasiness.

  ‘So there you are,’ said Ash, appearing from nowhere. He was wearing a pair of elderly navy shorts and the rest of him was tanned skin, she realised with a totally unwelcome flicker of excitement.

  ‘Good morning,’ Chellie returned coolly. Excitement notwithstanding, he could do with a lesson in politeness.

  ‘Only just.’ Unsmilingly he consulted his watch. ‘And breakfast is well overdue.’

  ‘I—lost my watch,’ she said. ‘And I overslept.’

  ‘I’ll give you an alarm clock.’ He paused. ‘You’ll find ham in the fridge. We’ll have it with scrambled eggs, toast and strong coffee. And sooner rather than later, if that’s all right,’ he added pointedly.

  Oh, God, Chellie thought, her heart sinking. She’d forgotten this particular detail.

  She said, ‘Scrambled eggs?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Is there some problem?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Chellie lied in her teeth. She gave him a bright smile. ‘Just checking.’

  ‘There’s a bell in the galley. Ring it when the food’s ready.’

  For whom the bell tolls, Chellie thought glumly as she made her way down to the galley and looked around her. There was an electric oven, with a hob, and—oh, joy—a toaster and a cafetière waiting on the counter beside it. So
far, so good, she thought, opening cupboards and drawers and finding crockery and cutlery. At least that bit would be easy-peasy.

  She knew the theory of scrambled eggs, of course. Butter and milk, she told herself, and a lot of stirring. And, in her experience, someone else to do it.

  She laid one of the tables in the saloon, then spooned coffee into the pot, added boiling water, and carved some uneven slices off a loaf, slotting them with difficulty into the toaster.

  She arranged the ham on plates, and began to beat up the eggs in a basin. The butter was beginning to turn brown in the pan as she added her mixture quickly and began to scrape at it with a fork, watching with dismay as it separated into long leathery strands.

  At the same time a strong smell of scorching signalled that the bread was stuck in the toaster and needed to be poked out with a knife.

  She felt like a wet rag as she finally rang the bell.

  When Ash and Laurent arrived, she saw their brows lift as they inspected the plates she set in front of them. The ham, fortunately, was excellent, but no one lingered over their meal.

  ‘This coffee’s so weak I’m surprised it could crawl out of the pot,’ Ash told her crushingly. ‘You’ve cremated the toast. And as for this…’ He stabbed at the rubbery mixture on his plate. ‘I could use it to mend the tyres on a fourwheel drive. You said you could cook.’

  ‘Or did you just make assumptions because of my gender?’ Chellie shot back, furious at this condemnation of her efforts.

  ‘Don’t start that,’ he advised brusquely. ‘Preparing food is your job as part of the crew. The sole justification for your existence on this boat, as it happens, and gender doesn’t feature in the equation. So make sure dinner is better.’

  My God, did I really ever find him even remotely attractive? Chellie asked herself incredulously as he stalked out of the saloon and back up to the pilot house. It must have been temporary insanity brought on by stress.

  Laurent accorded her a sympathetic smile. ‘I bought some fresh beef in Santo Martino,’ he told her. ‘You can make a stew with it, hein?’

  ‘No,’ Chellie said in a hollow voice. ‘I don’t think I can, actually.’

  Laurent sighed. ‘I think maybe I should help, cherie, before Ash makes you walk the plank.’

  Chellie stared at him. ‘But he said you couldn’t cook either.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe that was to arouse your sympathy, cherie, and make sure you sailed with us.’ His eyes danced. ‘After all, you are a very beautiful girl, and better to look at than the horizon all the time.’

  She bit her lip, putting a self-conscious hand up to her hair. ‘I’m a scarecrow.’

  He patted her on the shoulder. ‘It will grow,’ he said gently.

  He was brisk and competent as he supervised her cutting the meat into cubes and browning it in oil with garlic and onions. She cooked chopped vegetables in the oil too, then placed the whole concoction with red wine and vegetables, herbs and seasoning in a large electric crockpot which he produced from a cupboard.

  ‘C’est tout.’ Laurent switched on the pot and adjusted the setting. ‘Now it cooks slowly until we are ready for it this evening.’ He grinned at her. ‘And you have learned how to feed a hungry man.’

  Most of the hungry men I know feed themselves, Chellie returned silently. Using their platinum cards.

  ‘Any more little jobs our gallant captain would like me to do?’ she asked with spurious sweetness. ‘Like swabbing the decks with my toothbrush?’

  Laurent’s smile faded, and he gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘You might be wiser not to suggest it, mademoiselle.’ He paused. ‘You would prefer, perhaps, to have remained in Santo Martino?’

  There was a silence, and Chellie swallowed. She said in a low voice,

  ‘Did he tell you—where he found me—and why?’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’ Laurent nodded. ‘It was a very bad time for you.’

  ‘And it also makes me an ungrateful bitch,’ she said bitterly.

  He shrugged. ‘Ash is no saint, mademoiselle. But which of us is?’

  ‘I should have told him I couldn’t cook.’ Chellie sighed. ‘But it would have made me sound so stupid—so useless.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought—Everyone cooks, so how hard can it be?’

  He gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘Well, you have discovered the answer to that, ma petite. But there are not many meals before St Hilaire,’ he added encouragingly. ‘Your present ordeal will soon be over.’

  Maybe, Chellie thought when she was alone. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to forget in a hurry. And putting Ash Brennan out of my mind could be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  She felt the sudden pressure of tears, hot and heavy in her throat.

  What’s happening to me? she asked herself passionately. And how can I please make it stop? Because I don’t want this. I don’t need it. And, what’s more to the point, neither does he.

  It was useless telling herself that she was being a pathetic fool. That in reality she knew next to nothing about him. And that after they reached St Hilaire in all probability she would never set eyes on him again.

  It’s all true, she thought sadly. And it makes no difference—no difference at all. It’s too late for that.

  And she felt the knowledge—the sheer hurt of that bleak realisation—harden inside her like a stone.

  She worked steadily, with just a suspicion of gritted teeth, clearing the washing up and tidying the galley, determined that Ash should have nothing else to criticise. But once that was finished she found herself at something of a loss.

  Her position on board was frankly equivocal, she thought, grimacing. Stuck somewhere between non-paying passenger and failed cook. And popular on neither front.

  She wondered if she should spend the day in her stateroom, out of sight and out of mind, with the handful of paperback books and magazines which she’d found in a cupboard in the saloon.

  Except that was the coward’s way out. And she didn’t want Ash to gain the impression that she was deliberately avoiding him, in case he asked himself why.

  So she would go and spend some time on the sundeck—and if he wanted to clap her in irons, good luck to him.

  In her stateroom, she picked the least revealing of the bikinis on offer—plain black with a pretty voile overshirt patterned in black and white—but she still felt thoroughly self-conscious and a little daunted as she emerged into the brilliance of the sunshine.

  As if I’m coming out of hibernation after a long winter, she thought wryly as she climbed to the sundeck. Or out of jail after a reprieve.

  At the club, she’d almost become a creature of the night, spending most of the day asleep in an exhausted attempt to forget her fetid surroundings. Only aware of the weather outside when rain heavy as pebbles began drumming on the roof, or tropical lightning lit up the room like a laser show.

  I’ll never take fresh air and sunshine for granted again, she swore fervently.

  Ash was there before her, sitting at the table, going through a sheaf of paperwork. He acknowledged her presence with a brief nod, but she felt he was simply preoccupied rather than unwelcoming.

  Well, it was a start, she thought. She slipped off her shirt and stretched out on one of the cushioned loungers, closing her eyes, feeling the heat penetrating down to her bones, dispelling the last, lingering chill of fear.

  She realised now that being afraid had become a way of life. That she’d begun waiting from hour to hour for the next blow to fall. And that was insidious, because it withered hope and sapped the will to resist.

  If Ash hadn’t come, she thought, how long before she’d have stopped caring what happened to her? Before she’d yielded listlessly to whatever plans Mama Rita had for her?

  In many ways it had been the same with her father, she realised. What had been the point of fighting him when she always lost? Maybe this was why Ramon had found her such an easy victim. Because rebelling against her fat
her in such a basic way was her only chance of victory in their war of attrition.

  ‘Here.’ Ash’s voice broke curtly into her reverie, and she looked up with a start to see him holding out a large tube of cream to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I—I was miles away.’

  ‘You’ll be miles away in hospital if you’re not careful.’ He uncapped the tube. ‘Sunblock,’ he said. ‘Use plenty.’

  ‘Oh,’ Chellie said. ‘Well—thank you.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ he returned politely. ‘I didn’t want you to suffer the same fate as the toast, that’s all.’ And he went back to the table and his papers.

  Beast, thought Chellie, sending a muted glare to join him. But maybe it was better this way. Because if he ever started being nice to her then she would really be in trouble.

  She applied the sunblock with conscientious care, then settled back and opened one of the magazines she’d brought with her and began glancing in a desultory way through its glossy pages.

  On the face of it, everything back to normal, she thought. Only she knew, deep in her heart, that nothing would ever be the same again.

  She was disturbingly aware of him, seated only a few yards away. She found she was registering every slight movement, even the rustle of the papers as he turned them over.

  Before long I’ll be counting the hours again, she thought bitterly. Panicking about the length of the trip to St Hilaire.

  Ash shuffled the papers together and rose. He said, ‘I’m going to get Laurent a beer. Do you want anything?’

  ‘A Coke, maybe.’ Chellie reached for her shirt. ‘Shall I get them?’

  ‘Relax,’ he advised lazily. ‘You’re like a cat on hot bricks.’ He gave her a long look. ‘What’s the matter? Scared that Manuel is going to come over the horizon, flying the skull and crossbones and singing “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum”?’ He shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’

  She smiled tautly. ‘But not impossible.’

  ‘Roughly on the same level as being abducted by aliens.’ He paused. ‘Rats like Manuel don’t stray far from their sewers.’