Kitabı oku: «The Bedroom Barter», sayfa 3

Chellie checked instantly at the sight of him, and he stopped too, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

’Hola, chica,’ he said. ‘What you doing, huh?’

From some undiscovered depth Chellie found the strength to smile at him. ‘I thought I’d go down to the bar for a drink.’

‘Where’s that hombre who hired you?’ He was frowning.

‘Asleep.’ Chellie gave him a long, meaningful look from under her lashes. ‘And not much fun any more.’

He looked her over. ‘Why you in those clothes? And where your wig? You supposed to be blonde.’

‘My dress got torn.’ She shrugged casually. ‘And that wig is so hot. Surely I don’t need it just to buy a beer?’

A slow, unpleasant grin curled his mouth. ‘I have beer in my room, chica. You want more fun? You have it with me.’

‘No.’ Chellie took a step backwards, her hand closing on the strap of her bag in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

He noticed at once, his gaze speculative. ‘What you got there, hija?’

‘Nothing,’ she denied, lifting her chin. ‘And I’m going to have my drink in the bar—without company.’

For a moment he stared at her, then, to her astonishment, she saw him nod in apparent agreement. It was only when he slid to his knees, eyes glazing, then measured his length completely on the wooden floor that she realised who was standing behind him, grasping one of Mama Rita’s wooden candlesticks and looking down at his victim with grim pleasure.

She said shakily, ‘My God—is he dead?’

‘Not him.’ Ash stirred the recumbent body with a contemptuous foot. ‘I knew what I was doing. He’ll have a bad headache when he wakes up, that’s all.’

‘All?’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Breaking and entering, and now GBH. What next, I wonder?’

‘Well, I can’t speak for you.’ He went down on one knee, and rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets, producing his keyring with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘But I plan to get out of here before he’s missed.’ He got to his feet, his glance challenging. ‘I have your passport, so are you coming with me? Or would you rather stay here and accept his next invitation? It may not be as cordial as the last,’ he added drily. ‘But perhaps you don’t care.’

Not just the rock and the hard place, Chellie thought. This was the devil and the deep blue sea, and she was caught between them, as trapped as she’d always been.

And, it seemed, she had to choose the devil …

For now, she told herself, but not for ever. That was the thought she had to cling to. The resolution she had to make.

She felt a small quiver of fear, mixed with a strange excitement, uncurl in the pit of her stomach as she looked back at him, meeting the blue ice of his gaze.

She said lightly, ‘What are we waiting for, Galahad? Let’s go.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE air outside was warm and so thick she could almost chew it, but Chellie drew it into her lungs as if it was pure oxygen.

She thought, I’m free. And that’s the way I’m going to stay. For a moment, she felt tears of sheer relief prick at her eyes, but she fought them back. Because there was no time to cry. Instead she had to make good her escape. Or the first part of it, anyway.

Getting out of the club had been just as nerve-racking as everything that had gone before it. They had dragged Manuel, who had already begun to stir and mutter incoherently, into the office and locked him there with his own keys.

The way to the back door led past the girls’ dressing room, so they’d had to waste precious seconds waiting for the coast to be clear. He’d gone first, to unlock the rear door, and had slipped past unseen. But when it had been Chellie’s turn she’d found herself catching Jacinta’s startled gaze.

She’d made herself smile, and even give a little wave, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but there was no certainty that the other girl wouldn’t mention what she’d seen once Chellie’s absence had been discovered. In fact, she might not be given a choice, Chellie told herself with a pang.

However, she needed to put space between Mama Rita’s and herself and waste no time about it, she thought, breaking into a run.

‘Take it easy.’ The command was low-voiced but crisp, and her companion’s hand clamped her wrist, bringing her to a breathless halt.

‘What are you doing? We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming after us …’

‘Probably,’ he returned. ‘So the last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves. If we run in this heat, we’ll be remembered. If we walk, we’re just another anonymous couple among hundreds of others. So slow down and try and look as if you want to be with me. And for God’s sake stop peering back over your shoulder. Your whole body language is shouting “They’re after me”,’ he added, his tone faintly caustic.

‘Oh, please excuse me,’ Chellie hit back, heavily sarcastic. ‘But the role of fugitive is still rather new to me.’

‘Just as well,’ he returned, unmoved. ‘Hopefully you won’t have to play it for long.’

He released his grip on her wrist and clasped her fingers instead, drawing her closer to him, adapting his long stride to her shorter pace. Making it seem, she realised unwillingly, as if they were indeed a pair of lovers with the rest of the night to spend together.

On balance, Chellie thought she preferred a bruised wrist to this implied intimacy. The touch of his hand, the brush of his bare arm against hers was sending a tantalising ripple of awareness through her senses, which, frankly, she didn’t need or understand.

Life had taught her to be wary of strangers—to maintain her cool in unfamiliar situations. After all, it had taken a long time for Ramon to get under her guard, until, unluckily, she’d taken his persistence for devotion rather than greed.

But now she’d been thrown into the company of this stranger. Condemned, it seemed, to endure the proximity of a man who had no apparent compunction about committing burglary or hitting over the head anyone who got in his way. And knowing it had been done for her benefit hardly seemed an adequate excuse.

Someone who’d just walked in off the street and apparently felt sufficient compassion to take up her cause, she thought uneasily. And, on the face of it, how likely was that?

Sure, he’d offered her a way out, and she’d taken it. Yet she was risking a hell of a lot to accept his help, and she knew it. Which made her undeniable physical reaction to him all the more inexplicable. But if she was honest she’d been conscious of it—of him—since that first moment in the club when their eyes had met. And she’d found herself unable to look away.

When she was a small child, someone had warned her about wishing for things, in case her wish was granted in a way she did not expect. And Nanny had been quite right, she thought ruefully.

Because only a couple of hours ago Chellie had sung about wanting ‘someone to watch over her’, and that was precisely what she’d got. And every instinct was warning her that, among so many others, this could be her worst mistake so far.

The sooner I get away from him, the better, she thought, her throat muscles tightening. But that’s not going to be so easy. Because I seem to have passed seamlessly from Mama Rita’s clutches into his.

Oh, God, how could I have been such a fool? And is it too late to redress the situation somehow?

She drew a breath. ‘What did you do with Manuel’s keys?’

‘Threw them into an open drain.’

‘Oh.’ She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘That’s—good.’

‘I thought so,’ he returned with a touch of dryness.

She looked down at the cobbles. ‘This boat we’re leaving on—where is it exactly?’

‘It’s moored at the marina,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that the first place they’ll look?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because they have no reason to connect me with boats.’

‘You don’t seem very concerned.’

‘And you’re tying yourself into knots over possibilities,’ he retorted.

Chellie subsided into silence again, biting her lip. Then she said, ‘My passport—you did find it?’

He sighed. ‘I told you so.’

‘Then—could I have it, please?’

He gave her a swift sideways glance. ‘Thinking of making an independent bid for freedom, songbird?’ He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t get half a mile.’

Knowing he was right did nothing to improve her temper. Or alleviate the feeling that she was cornered.

‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘like Mama Rita, I feel I need something to guarantee your good behaviour.’

She gasped. ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ she demanded huskily.

‘Not as far as I could throw you with one hand, sweetheart.’ He paused. ‘Any more than you trust me.’ He slanted a grin at her. ‘Grind your teeth if you like, but I’m still your best bet for getting out of here unscathed, and you know it. And what’s a little mutual suspicion between friends?’

‘I,’ Chellie stated with cool clarity, ‘am not your friend.’

He shrugged again. ‘Well, my Christmas card list is full anyway.’

‘However,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I’d still like my passport back.’ She paused. ‘Please.’

‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘The authentic note of the autocrat. That didn’t take long to emerge. From downtrodden victim to “she who must be obeyed” in one easy step.’ His voice hardened. ‘And what am I supposed to do now, darling? Turn pale and grovel? You should have tried it with Manuel. He’d have been most impressed.’

‘How dare you.’ Her voice shook.

They had stopped walking. Suddenly Chellie found herself being propelled across the quayside and into the shadows between two wooden buildings, where he faced her, his eyes glittering, his hands gripping her shoulders, immobilising her completely. Making her look back at him.

‘Oh, I dare quite easily,’ he said. ‘Because someone should have stopped you in your tracks a long time ago. And then perhaps you wouldn’t need me to get you out of this mess now.’

‘I don’t need you,’ Chellie flung back at him recklessly. ‘There’ll be other boats. I can find a passage out of here without your questionable assistance.’

‘Yes,’ he said, grimly. ‘But probably not tonight. And that’s only one of your problems. Because how long can you afford to wait? How long before word gets round that a girl with eyes like a cat and a bad haircut is trying to leave port and Mama Rita tracks you down?’

He paused. ‘And there’s the small question of cost,’ he went on remorselessly. ‘You’ve no real cash, so are you really prepared to pay the alternative price you might be charged? If so, you could find it a very long voyage.’

‘You’re vile.’ She choked out the words.

‘I’m a realist,’ he returned implacably. ‘Whereas you …’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘In spite of everything that’s happened, you still haven’t learned a bloody thing, have you, sweetheart?’

She said in a stifled voice, ‘Please—please let go of me.’

‘Afraid I might want to teach you a valuable lesson?’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Not a chance, sweetheart. You’re not my type.’

But he made no attempt to release her, and Chellie, trapped between the hard male warmth of his body and the wall of rough planking behind her, felt herself begin to tremble inside.

Suddenly the world had shrunk to this dark corner, and the paler oval of his face looking down at her. The sheer physical nearness of him.

She was dimly aware of other things too. Men’s voices shouting angrily and the loud blare of a vehicle horn. But all that seemed to be happening in another world—another universe that had no relevance to her or the quiver of need that was growing and intensifying within her.

She saw his head turn sharply, heard him swear quietly and succinctly under his breath, then, before she could even contemplate resistance, he swooped down on her, and for one startled, breathless moment her mouth was crushed under his.

But not in anything that could be recognised as a kiss. That was the real shock of it all. Because the tight-lipped pressure of his mouth on hers was simply that—physical contact without an atom of desire or sensuality.

A harsh, untender parody of a caress.

And one that was over almost as soon as it had begun.

Chellie leaned back against the wall, her legs barely able to support

her, looking up at him, trying and failing to read his face.

She said in a voice she barely recognised, ‘What was—that about?’

He said, ‘That was Manuel in a Jeep, with another guy driving him.’ He paused. ‘Bald, built like a bull. Do you know him?’

‘Rico. He’s a bouncer at the club.’ Chellie spoke numbly, trying to drag together the remnants of her composure without success. ‘Did they see us?’

‘I think they might have stopped if so,’ he said drily. ‘Besides, I made sure you were well hidden.’

‘Yes,’ she said. And, again, ‘Yes.’ So that was why … She shivered.

He took her hand again. ‘Come on.’

She hung back, staring up at him, her eyes blank with fright. ‘What are we going to do now?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

He shrugged. ‘We go down to the marina and get aboard the boat, as planned. What else?’

‘But—everything’s changed.’ Her voice was a little wail of protest. ‘They’ll be there first—waiting for us.’

‘Then we’ll make damned sure they don’t see us.’ He sounded appallingly calm. ‘But I’d bet any money that they’re not going anywhere near the marina. Trust me on that, if nothing else.’

He put his arm round her and set off down the quay again at a brisker pace. ‘On the other hand, I’d prefer us not to be loitering around on their return journey. Going on a wild goose chase often brings out the worst in people,’ he added wryly.

Chellie went with him mechanically, her thoughts in turmoil. But it wasn’t simply the threat of discovery that plagued her. Because, to her own amazement, that no longer seemed to be her first priority.

Instead, she found she was reliving the moment when she’d stood with him in the darkness with his mouth on hers. Examining—analysing every trembling second of it.

And realising, to her horror, that she’d wanted more. That she’d needed him to recognise that she was female to his male. That she—wanted him.

The breath caught in her throat.

My God, she thought, with a touch of hysteria. It’s completely crazy. How can I be feeling like this? I—I don’t even know his name.

Nevertheless, that was the shaming truth she had to face—to endure. That there’d been more than a moment when she’d actually wanted her lips to part under his, inviting—imploring his deeper and more intimate invasion. When she’d longed to feel his hands on her body—the sting of his thighs against hers.

A soft, aching instant when she’d been ready to go wherever he might lead.

A small sound escaped her, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

He noticed instantly. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Chellie disclaimed instantly. ‘At least—I—don’t think I’m handling this situation very well.’

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was abrupt. ‘You’re doing all right.’

It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She’d hardly expected praise of the highest order, but she’d hoped, at least, for a little warmth and reassurance.

She thought, I wanted him to smile at me as if he meant it …

But I mustn’t think like that, she told herself in sudden anguish. It isn’t right. And it certainly isn’t safe.

Although his arm round her felt safe. Safe—but oddly impersonal. Just as his kiss had been.

Well, now she knew the reason for that totally sexless performance. I made sure you were well hidden.

Someone to watch over me, she thought wearily. That’s what I wanted, so I can hardly complain about the way he does it. And it was only a minute ago, anyway, that he told me I wasn’t his type.

She felt her face warm at the memory. She could only be thankful that she hadn’t yielded to that swift, burning temptation and responded to the taste of his mouth. Oh, it would have been so frighteningly easy—and such a disaster.

Because he wasn’t her type either, she reminded herself forcefully. He was more than merely attractive, and he might have an educated voice, but that was only a veneer. Underneath there was a darkness—a danger.

And certainly no Galahad either, she thought. He was just a buccaneer, like all the others who’d once pursued their predatory trade up and down the Caribbean sea.

If she’d met him in London, or down at Aynsbridge, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

Unless he’d looked at you first, said a sly voice in her brain. And you’d suddenly found you couldn’t tear yourself away …

Her problem was that she wasn’t accustomed to instant sexual attraction. Had always written off that kind of emotion as cheap. Told herself that passing attractions could have no place in her life.

Liking should come first, she’d always believed. A mental attunement that could blossom into real love—Shakespeare’s ‘marriage of true minds’ that ‘looks on tempests and is never shaken’.

So how, then, did she explain Ramon?

A chapter of accidents, she supposed wearily. She’d been searching desperately for a way to break her father’s yoke and release herself from the stultifying boredom of her life. Something that would take her further than non-stop partying.

She had also been rebelling over his persistence in pushing Jeffrey Chilham at her as a future husband. It was to have been a purely dynastic marriage—Jeffrey, a widower at least twenty years her senior, was poised to take over the running of the corporation when Sir Clive retired—and there was nothing the matter with him that a complete personality transplant could not have cured.

He was correct, worthy, and so ponderously indulgent in his attitude to her that she’d often longed to fling herself at him, screaming, and sink her teeth into his jugular vein.

As a result, she’d been driven to parading a succession of totally unsuitable young men in front of her father. She’d had no intention of marrying any of them. She had just wanted to convince Sir Clive that she was a person in her own right, and not for sale. That she was capable of finding her own husband.

Nevertheless, it had been painful to see them fade away, one after the other, after being exposed by him to the social equivalent of an Arctic winter.

The gossip columns had enjoyed a field-day with her, their comments becoming increasingly snide as one relationship after another had withered and died. Chellie had loathed finding herself portrayed as some heartless rich bitch who chewed men up and spat them out, treating love and marriage as a game for her ego.

Ramon had been so different—or was that just what she’d persuaded herself to believe? He was certainly unlike the suits who hung round her, trying to curry favour with her father and failing.

And he’d braved the full force of Sir Clive’s icy disapproval to be with her, which had earned him mega-points in her regard at an early stage in their acquaintance.

She’d never dreamed, of course, that she was simply being carefully and ruthlessly targeted.

He’d talked to her, too, in that deep, softly accented voice that seemed to caress her like dark velvet. Shown her for the first time the possibility of another kind of life outside her father’s aegis.

He’d spoken to her of rainforests, and rivers as wide as oceans. Of remote estancias where herds of cattle grazed on thousands of acres. Of the house that he’d inherited as his father’s only son and the fruit and coffee plantations that surrounded it.

And, of course, of the wife he needed to live beside him there. The girl who, miraculously, seemed to be her.

He’d wooed her so delicately, offering her what she’d believed was adoring respect, keeping her newly awakened senses in ferment. She was his angel on a pedestal, to be worshipped always.

He’d sold her a dream, Chellie thought with self-derision, and she’d bought into it completely. She hadn’t even thought to ask who was running those vast plantations while he was away. All she could see was herself, riding beside Ramon through an endless sun-drenched landscape. She’d been lost in the glamour of it all.

The question of money had never really been addressed, of course. Ramon was well dressed, had a flat in the right part of town, was seen in the best places and drove a fast car. Naïvely she’d supposed that that, and all his talk of family estates, added up to solvency. And that her own financial standing was immaterial to him.

Boy, was that the mistake of the century, she thought, grimacing inwardly. A little plain speaking on both sides would have saved a multitude of troubles.

And her father’s stony opposition had simply fuelled her resolve—her certainty that Ramon, and the life he described so lyrically, was all she would ever want.

And when Sir Clive, working himself into one of his furious rages, had forbidden her to marry Ramon, or even to see him again, the decision to run away with him had almost been made for her.

Perhaps if it hadn’t been for his totally unreasonable blanket condemnation of every other man but Jeffrey, she might, in turn, have dealt more rationally with his opposition. Might even have listened to the dossier he’d no doubt had prepared on Ramon and taken his warnings seriously.

Instead, she’d closed her eyes and ears to his outbursts. Ignored his threat to cut her out of his life and render her penniless if she disobeyed him.

Maybe she’d even thought that if he saw her happily married and living a useful, contented life—if there were grandchildren to soften his heart—he would relent and admit he’d been wrong.

In fact, it was supposed to be roses all the way, Chellie thought. But how wrong could anyone be? She sighed faintly.

‘Are you all right?’ His question sounded abrupt, but the arm around her tightened fractionally.

‘Fine.’ Chellie forced a smile to reinforce the fib. Remembering how completely Ramon had fooled her had been a painful procedure, but valuable in its way. There was nothing she could do to redeem the past, but the future was a very different matter.

During her time at Mama Rita’s she’d found it almost impossible to think beyond one bitter day at a time. Now she had to make serious plans about her life. And, naturally, those did not and could not feature the man walking at her side.

I’ll always be grateful to him, she told herself restively. But gratitude is all there can ever be. I don’t intend to make an abject fool of myself a second time, however attractive he may be.

She saw with surprise that they’d reached the marina already, and tensed as she looked around her.

Ramon had brought her here, she thought. They’d had dinner at the Casino, then Ramon had played blackjack and lost. She’d ascribed his subsequent moodiness to his bad luck, but she realised now he had been planning his escape—working out how to ditch her and vanish.

Having first given the condemned woman a hearty meal, she thought wryly.

And his scheme had been entirely successful.

She wondered if he’d ever given her a second thought since—concerned himself even marginally with how she might be surviving, alone and penniless, in an alien, dangerous environment. But she doubted it. He probably hoped that she’d simply disappear for good too. And she nearly had.

Her fate had been sealed from the moment he’d discovered that if she married against her father’s wishes her trust fund would only become available on her thirty-fifth birthday.

She’d seen the shock on his face when she told him—the total disbelief masking what she now realised had been anger.

But he’d had every right to be angry, she thought with irony. He’d spent a lot of time and effort pursuing a rich heiress only to find, when he caught her, that she didn’t have a bean.

That her father had used his money to control her life, refusing to allow her to train for anything which would have allowed her to earn her own living and conceding her only a small allowance.

Pin money, she thought. Isn’t that the old-fashioned term? It sounds sufficiently derogatory. Because the only career I was being groomed for was ‘rich man’s wife’.

And there were plenty of potential bridegrooms right here in the marina’s basin, she realised, with a wry twist of her mouth. There were a lot of glamorous yachts moored there, with some serious partying going on too.

Her ears were assailed by a non-stop barrage of laughter, talk and the chinking of glasses from the floodlit decks. She was dazzled by designer wear and jewellery.

A couple of months ago, if she’d been in Santo Martino, she’d probably have been a guest on one of these boats, working on her tan by day and parading her own wardrobe each evening.

She suddenly wondered what would happen if she walked up one of the gangways and introduced herself. I’m Clive Greer’s daughter, and I need help.

For a moment the temptation to pull free of her companion’s confining arm and make the attempt was almost overwhelming. Almost, but not quite.

My bloody passport, she groaned inwardly. Without it I’m going nowhere, even if they were prepared to lend me a hand. And looking like this, with my hair like a badly mown lawn, would anyone believe me?

She’d already noted and resented some of the disdainful looks being aimed in their direction.

‘Come on, songbird. No time for cocktails tonight.’ There was a note of amusement in his voice as he urged her forward.

So now he’s a mind-reader, she thought crossly.

‘People are staring at us,’ she muttered.

‘Not for much longer,’ he returned. ‘We’ll soon be out of here.’

She bit her lip. ‘You haven’t seen the Jeep?’

‘Relax,’ he advised lazily. ‘If we’re getting the beady eye, can you imagine the effect that Manuel and Rico would have on this select gathering? They’d suffer the death of a thousand icepicks before they’d gone twenty yards.’ He paused. ‘And there’s La Belle Rêve at last.’

Chellie’s eyes widened incredulously. The motor yacht was twice as large as she’d imagined, its sleek lines comparing favourably with any of the other boats in the basin.

She said faintly, ‘That’s what you’re taking to St Hilaire?’

‘You don’t think I’m capable?’ He sounded amused.

‘Far from it.’ She offered him a swift, glittering smile. ‘I suspect you’re capable of anything.’

An olive-skinned man with thick curly dark hair, wearing cut-off jeans and a denim waistcoat, was waiting at the top of the gangplank. He watched them come aboard, then looked at her companion, his brows raised, smiling a little.

‘Mon ami, I was becoming anxious about you, but now I fully understand the reason for your delay.’

He stepped forward, took Chellie’s hand, and made a slight bow over it. ‘Mademoiselle, I am Laurent Massim. Enchanté. May I know your name?’

Chellie’s hesitation was fractional, but it was noticed by the man beside her.

He said with faint amusement, ‘According to her passport, she’s Michelle Greer, and she’s the new ship’s cook.’

Chellie bit her lip. Hiding her identity had never been an option, of course, but fortunately he didn’t seem to have made any inconvenient connections. But then who would expect the daughter of a major industrialist to be working in a strip club in South America?

Well, she thought, long may he remain in ignorance.

She faced him, chin up. ‘And you?’ she queried. ‘Do you also have a name, or is it a deadly secret?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I’m Ash Brennan.’

For a moment Chellie thought she detected an odd note in his voice, almost like a challenge. But maybe he was simply responding to her in kind.

He turned to Laurent. ‘If we’re cleared for departure, I suggest we get going.’ He glanced at Chellie. ‘And it might be better if you went below before someone realises we’re carrying an extra passenger.’

‘Thank you.’ The adrenalin that had carried her on that long trek along the quayside had evaporated, leaving her drained and apprehensive.

She negotiated the companionway with care, clinging to the rail because her legs were shaking under her.

She found herself in a large saloon, luxuriously furnished with slate-blue leather seating, expensive rugs on the wooden floor. At one end was a fully stocked bar, and beyond it the galley, streamlined and gleaming like the interior of a spaceship. Chellie regarded it with foreboding.

While she was looking around, Ash joined her.

‘We’ll be underway very soon.’ He studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you all right? You don’t get seasick, do you?’

She summoned a pallid smile. ‘Not as far as I know. And certainly not while I’m still in harbour.’

‘The weather report is good,’ he said. ‘It should be plain sailing to St Hilaire.’

Plain sailing? Chellie controlled the bubble of hysteria threatening to well up inside her. How could it possibly be any such thing?

She shook her head. ‘I can’t really believe this is happening,’ she said huskily. ‘At any moment I’m going to wake up and find I’m back in cockroach alley.’

He said quietly, ‘It’s over, Michelle. Don’t you know what this boat is called? La Belle Rêve—the beautiful dream. So there’ll be no more nightmares.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘I—I’ll try and remember that.’

‘You’re out on your feet,’ he added curtly. ‘I’ll show you where you’re going to sleep.’

She’d half expected to find herself in some tiny cupboard with a bunk, so the spacious stateroom took her breath away. A queen-sized bed, with storage underneath, had been built against one wall, with windows above it. Another wall held fitted cupboards, and there was even her own shower room, compact but beautifully fitted.

She said uncertainly, ‘You’re sure about this? The owner won’t mind?’