Marion Lennox - Cinderella - Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny

‘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.’