Angela Devine - The Bride Of Santa Barbara

The skin on the back of her neck rose in goose-bumps that had nothing to do with the cold, as she realised whom he reminded her of. Her sister Kerry’s ex-husband Greg. A ruthless, irresistible sensualist who had swept her sister through four years of passion, excitement and misery before abandoning her for another woman. Involuntarily Beth stiffened as Daniel took her arm.

‘You’re cold. Go below to the cabin and dry yourself off,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘There’s a bathrobe of mine down there that you can put on. And when we get ashore we’ll see about having your dress dry-cleaned.’

Hating herself for the strange, fluttering thrill that his deep voice woke inside her, Beth obeyed without any argument. But, as she clambered awkwardly down the hatch in her wet dress, a maelstrom of confused feelings seethed inside her. Uppermost were shock and disbelief. This couldn’t have happened! And yet it had happened or she wouldn’t be here dripping a dark trail of sea-water along the carpeted floor. All the same, the reality of the accident still hadn’t sunk in. She felt numb, as if she were watching a blurred video about someone else. Some girl who had nearly drowned. That thought made her stiffen in horror, recalling those terrifying moments underwater before Daniel Pryor had saved her. Once again she felt the urgent grip of his powerful arms, the way he had thrust her upwards to the life-giving air. And, in spite of her misgivings about his raw animal magnetism, relief and gratitude flooded through her.

But this was followed almost at once by more turbulent emotions. Fear, apprehension, confusion. Why did she have to be saved by a man who woke such uncomfortable memories in her? Nobody had ever known of Beth’s unwilling attraction to her brother-in-law, because she had taken very good care that they shouldn’t. And when Greg, with his brooding bedroom eyes and husky, caressing voice, had finally abandoned her sister, Beth had viewed his departure with relief. After all, his callous behaviour had simply confirmed her view that sexy men were likely to be incredibly dangerous and destructive. But that didn’t make it any easier to cope with another one made in the same mould, especially when he appeared out of the blue like this. Not that she really knew anything about Daniel Pryor. Except that his arms were incredibly strong, his voice was like dark velvet and simply being in his presence made her feel weak at the knees. Yet that was quite enough to set alarm bells ringing in her head.

Beth shuddered as she gripped the cabin door-handle. One thing she was sure of—the sooner she was out of this situation, the better.

The cabin proved to be surprisingly luxurious in spite of its small size. The walls were upholstered in some kind of apricot-coloured vinyl and there was a large double bed with a grey and apricot cover. A strip of tiny lights ran along the cornice near the ceiling and stowage lockers were built into the walls. Pulling open a door, Beth saw that there was also a small en-suite bathroom decorated in pale green marble with a ceiling shaft to let in natural light from the deck above.

With shaking fingers she somehow managed to pull off the soaking wedding-dress and climbed into the shower. Two minutes under a refreshing downpour of hot water revived her spirits a little, but she was still too shaken to comprehend completely what had happened.

By the time she had dried off and wrapped a thick white towelling bathrobe around her she felt a bump as the yacht came alongside a jetty. Hastily rubbing her hair with the towel, she went into the cabin, opened one of the stowage lockers and looked inside. As she had hoped, she found a pair of leather thongs which she slipped on to her feet. A moment later there was a knock on the cabin door.

‘Come in,’ she called.

It was the man who had dragged her out of the water. Daniel Pryor. Unsmiling, soaking wet and with an expression of veiled exasperation on his face. And there was no mistaking the undertone of controlled hostility in his voice when he spoke.

‘If you’ve finished, Miss Saxon,’ he said, ‘I’ll just get changed myself and then we’ll go ashore. Perhaps you’d like to wait for me up on deck.’

‘Y-yes, of course,’ stammered Beth. She looked around in a dazed fashion, caught sight of the wedding-dress still crumpled on the floor in the tiny bathroom. ‘But my dress—’

‘I’ll bring it up with me when I come.’

Climbing up the hatchway on to the deck, she looked over the railings of the yacht and saw that they were drawn up alongside a jetty that formed part of the Yacht Club marina. And, to her alarm, she saw a policeman with a notebook standing at the far end of the jetty.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ she asked the short, grey-haired crewman who was sitting at the tiller of the yacht. His red, genial face wore an imperturbable look, as if collisions on the harbour were all in a day’s work for him. But at Beth’s question he unbent enough to smile faintly.

‘Don’t you worry, madam,’ he replied in a clipped British accent. ‘Mr Pryor will handle it, whatever it is.’

An almost reverent note crept into his voice as he spoke Daniel’s name and Beth found herself unaccountably irritated by it. She longed desperately to escape from this situation, but there was little she could do except wait. After a couple of minutes Daniel Pryor emerged from the hatchway looking casually well dressed in short-sleeved grey and white striped shirt, matching grey shorts and rope-soled espadrilles. He handed a large plastic bag to Benson and turned to Beth. His face was impassive as he stretched out one hand to her.

‘You’d better let me help you ashore,’ he offered. ‘You won’t be able to climb very well in that outfit.’

Reluctantly Beth allowed him to take her arm and help her over the railing on to the jetty. An involuntary tingle sparked through her at the touch of his warm fingers and she broke away the moment she was safely ashore. To her dismay she saw that an interested knot of spectators was collecting near the clubhouse and watching as the policeman strolled towards them. He touched his cap in a brief gesture of respect.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Pryor,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but we’ve had a complaint laid that you rammed somebody out there in the bay.’

Daniel Pryor’s dark eyes took on a stormy expression and his chin set into a hard line.

‘Perhaps we can go inside the clubhouse and discuss the matter in private,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the policeman.

Beth scuffled along between them in her overlarge thongs, trying not to think about the disturbing responses which Daniel Pryor’s nearness awoke in her. In any case, she had plenty of other problems to worry about. What really had happened out there in the bay? Had the motor launch really sunk so fast? And, if so, just whose fault was it? And what would happen to Warren if he was responsible?

Reaching the clubhouse, Daniel held open the door for her and ushered her inside. Then, after a quick word to an official, he led her into a private office along with the policeman.

‘Please sit down, Officer,’ he invited. ‘But if you don’t mind we’ll make this as brief as possible. The young lady has an important appointment to keep.’

Beth’s dark eyebrows met in a puzzled line. Do I? she thought. What appointment? But Daniel was already talking again. Striding across the room to a whiteboard that hung on one wall, he picked up a red felt pen and began drawing a diagram, while he explained rapidly what had happened. The conversation immediately became too technical for Beth to follow with its talk of port tacks, starboard tacks, figure-of-eights and wind directions. But the policeman was nodding attentively. In a few moments he closed his notebook with a snap and nodded with a satisfied expression.