She stared up at him in the moonlight. He stared straight back at her and she felt her heart surge.

What am I getting into? she demanded of herself, but suddenly she didn’t care. The night was warm, the boat was lovely, and this man was holding her hands, looking down at her in the moonlight, and his hands were imparting strength and surety and promise.

Promise? What was he promising? She was being fanciful.

But she had to be careful, she told herself fiercely. She must.

It was too late.

‘Yes,’ she said, before she could change her mind—and she was committed.

She was heading to the other side of the world with a man she’d met less than a day ago.

Was she out of her mind?

Cinderella: Hired By The Prince

By

Marion Lennox
The Sheikh’s Destiny

By

Melissa James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BY ROYAL APPOINTMENT

You’re invited to a royal wedding!

From turreted castles to picturesque palaces to sumptuous sheikhdoms—these kingdoms may be steeped in tradition, but romance always rules!

So don’t miss your VIP invitation to the most extravagant weddings of the year!

Your royal carriage awaits in…

CINDERELLA: HIRED BY THE PRINCE by Marion Lennox

THE SHEIKH’S DESTINY by Melissa James

Cinderella: Hired By The Prince

By

Marion Lennox

MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical™ Romances as well as Mills & Boon® Romance (she used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Mills & Boon Romances, search for author Trisha David as well). She’s now had over 75 romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost).

Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured what’s important and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate.

Preferably all at the same time!

Prologue

‘RAMÓN spends his life in jeans and ancient T-shirts. He has money and he has freedom. Why would he want the Crown?’

Señor Rodriguez, legal advisor to the Crown of Cepheus, regarded the woman before him with some sympathy. The Princess Sofía had been evicted from the palace of Cepheus sixty years ago, and she didn’t wish to be back here now. Her face was tear-stained and her plump hands were wringing.

‘I had two brothers, Señor Rodriguez,’ she told him, as if explaining her story could somehow alter the inevitable. ‘But I was only permitted to know one. My younger brother and I were exiled with my mother when I was ten years old, and my father’s cruelty didn’t end there. And now…I haven’t seen a tiara in sixty years and, as far as I know, Ramón’s never seen one. The only time he’s been in the palace is the night his father died. I’ve returned to the palace because my mother raised me with a sense of duty, but how can we demand that from Ramón? To return to the place that killed his father…’

‘The Prince Ramón has no choice,’ the lawyer said flatly. ‘And of course he’ll want the Crown.’

‘There’s no “of course” about it,’ Sofía snapped. ‘Ramón spends half of every year building houses for some charity in Bangladesh, and the rest of his life on his beautiful yacht. Why should he give that up?’

‘He’ll be Crown Prince.’

‘You think royalty’s everything?’ Sofía gave up hand wringing and stabbed at her knitting as if she’d like it to be the late, unlamented Crown Prince. ‘My nephew’s a lovely young man and he wants nothing to do with the throne. The palace gives him nightmares, as it gives us all.’

‘He must come,’ Señor Rodriguez said stiffly.

‘So how will you find him?’Sofía muttered. ‘When he’s working in Bangladesh Ramón checks his mail, but for the rest of his life he’s around the world in that yacht of his, who knows where? Since his mother and sister died he lets the wind take him where it will. And, even if you do find him, how do you think he’ll react to being told he has to fix this mess?’

‘There won’t be a mess if he comes home. He’ll come, as you have come. He must see there’s no choice.’

‘And what of the little boy?’

‘Philippe will go into foster care. There’s no choice there, either. The child is nothing to do with Prince Ramón.’

‘Another child of no use to the Crown,’ Sofía whispered, and she dropped two stiches without noticing. ‘But Ramón has a heart. Oh, Ramón, if I were you I’d keep on sailing.’

Chapter One

‘JENNY, lose your muffins. Get a life!’

Gianetta Bertin, known to the Seaport locals as Jenny, gave her best friend a withering look and kept right on spooning double choc chip muffin mixture into pans. Seaport Coffee ’n’ Cakes had been crowded all morning, and her muffin tray was almost bare.

‘I don’t have time for lectures,’ she told her friend severely. ‘I’m busy.’

‘You need to have time for lectures. Honest, Jen.’ Cathy hitched herself up onto Jenny’s prep bench and grew earnest. ‘You can’t stay stuck in this hole for ever.’

‘There’s worse holes to be stuck in, and get off my bench. If Charlie comes in he’ll sack me, and I won’t have a hole at all.’

‘He won’t,’ Cathy declared. ‘You’re the best cook in Seaport. You hold this place up. Charlie’s treating you like dirt, Jen, just because you don’t have the energy to do anything about it. I know you owe him, but you could get a job and repay him some other way.’

‘Like how?’ Jenny shoved the tray into the oven, straightened and tucked an unruly curl behind her ear. Her cap was supposed to hold back her mass of dark curls, but they kept escaping. She knew she’d now have a streak of flour across her ear but did it matter what she looked like?

And, as if in echo, Cathy continued. ‘Look at you,’ she declared. ‘You’re gorgeous. Twenty-nine, figure to die for, cute as a button, a woman ripe and ready for the world, and here you are, hidden in a shapeless white pinafore with flour on your nose—yes, flour on your nose, Jen—no don’t wipe it, you’ve made it worse.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Jenny said. ‘Who’s looking? Can I get on? There’s customers out there.’

‘There are,’ Cathy said warmly, peering out through the hatch but refusing to let go of her theme. ‘You have twenty people out there, all coming here for one of your yummy muffins and then heading off again for life. You should be out there with them. Look at that guy out there, for instance. Gorgeous or what? That’s what you’re missing out on, Jen, stuck in here every day.’

Jenny peered out the hatch as well, and it didn’t take more than a glance to see who Cathy was referring to.

The guy looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a yachtie—she could tell that by his gear—and he was seriously good-looking. It had been raining this morning. He was wearing battered jeans, salt-stained boating shoes and a faded black T-shirt, stretched tight over a chest that looked truly impressive. He’d shrugged a battered sou’wester onto the back of his chair.

Professional, she thought.

After years of working in Coffee ’n’ Cakes she could pick the classes of boaty. Holding the place up were the hard-core fishermen. Then there were the battered old salts who ran small boats on the smell of an oily rag, often living on them. Next there was the cool set, arriving at weekends, wearing gear that came out of the designer section of the Nautical Monthly catalogue, and leaving when they realized Coffee ’n’ Cakes didn’t sell Chardonnay.

And finally there were the serious yachties. Seaport was a deep water harbour just south of Sydney, and it attracted yachts doing amazing journeys. Seaport had a great dry dock where repairs could be carried out expertly and fast, so there were often one or two of these classy yachts in port.

This guy looked as if he was from one of these. His coat looked battered but she knew the brand, even from this distance. It was the best. Like the man. The guy himself also looked a bit battered, but in a good way. Worn by the sea. His tan was deep and real, his eyes were crinkled as if he spent his life in the sun, and his black hair was only really black at the roots. The tips were sun-bleached to almost fair.

He was definitely a professional sailor, she thought, giving herself a full minute to assess him. And why not? He was well worth assessing.

She knew the yachting hierarchy. The owners of the big sea-going yachts tended to be middle-aged or older. They spent short bursts of time on their boats but left serious seafaring to paid staff. This guy looked younger, tougher, leaner than a boat-owner. He looked seriously competent. He’d be being paid to take a yacht to where its owner wanted it to be.

And for a moment—just for a moment—Jenny let herself be consumed by a wave of envy. Just to go where the wind took you…To walk away from Seaport…

No. That’d take effort and planning and hope—all the things she no longer cared about. And there was also debt, an obligation like a huge anchor chained around her waist, hauling her down.

But her friend was thinking none of these things. Cathy was prodding her, grinning, rolling her eyes at the sheer good looks of this guy, and Jenny smiled and gazed a little bit more. Cathy was right—this guy was definite eye-candy. What was more, he was munching on one of her muffins—lemon and pistachio. Her favourite, she thought in approval.

And then he looked up and saw her watching. He grinned and raised his muffin in silent toast, then chuckled as she blushed deep crimson and pushed the hatch closed.

Cathy laughed her delight. ‘There,’ she said in satisfaction. ‘You see what’s out there? He’s gorgeous, Jen. Why don’t you head on out and ask him if he’d like another muffin?’

‘As if,’ she muttered, thoroughly disconcerted. She shoved her mixing bowl into the sink. ‘Serving’s Susie’s job. I’m just the cook. Go away, Cathy. You’re messing with my serenity.’

‘Stuff your serenity,’ Cathy said crudely. ‘Come on, Jen. It’s been two years…’ Then, as she saw the pain wash across Jenny’s face, she swung herself off the bench and came and hugged her. ‘I know. Moving on can’t ever happen completely, but you can’t keep hiding.’

‘Dr Matheson says I’m doing well,’ Jenny said stubbornly.

‘Yeah, he’s prescribing serenity,’ Cathy said dourly. ‘Honey, you’ve had enough peace. You want life. Even sailing…You love the water, but now you don’t go near the sea. There’s so many people who’d like a weekend crew. Like the guy out there, for instance. If he offered me a sail I’d be off for more than a weekend.’

‘I don’t want…’

‘Anything but to be left alone,’ Cathy finished for her. ‘Oh, enough. I won’t let you keep on saying it.’ And, before Jenny could stop her, she opened the hatch again. She lifted the bell Jenny used to tell Susie an order was ready and rang it like there was a shipwreck in the harbour. Jenny made a grab for it but Cathy swung away so her body protected the bell. Then, when everyone was watching…

‘Attention, please,’ she called to the room in general, in the booming voice she used for running the Seaport Ladies’ Yoga Sessions. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know this is unusual but I’d like to announce a fantastic offer. Back here in the kitchen is the world’s best cook and the world’s best sailor. Jenny’s available as crew for anyone offering her excitement, adventure and a way out of this town. All she needs is a fantastic wage and a boss who appreciates her. Anyone interested, apply right here, right now.’

‘Cathy!’ Jenny stared at her friend in horror. She made a grab for the hatch doors and tugged them shut as Cathy collapsed into laughter. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘I love you, sweetheart,’ Cathy said, still chuckling. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘Getting me sacked won’t help.’

‘Susie won’t tell Charlie,’Cathy said. ‘She agrees with me. Don’t you, Susie?’ she demanded as the middle-aged waitress pushed her way through the doors. ‘Do we have a queue out there, Suse, all wanting to employ our Jen?’

‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ Susie said severely, looking at Jenny in concern. ‘You’ve embarrassed her to death.’

‘There’s no harm done,’ Cathy said. ‘They’re all too busy eating muffins to care. But honest, Jen, put an ad in the paper, or at least start reading the Situations Vacant. Susie has a husband, four kids, two dogs and a farm. This place is a tiny part of her life. But for you…This place has become your life. You can’t let it stay that way.’

‘It’s all I want,’ Jenny said stubbornly. ‘Serenity.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Susie declared.

‘Of course it’s nonsense,’ Cathy said, jumping off the bench and heading for the door. ‘Okay, Stage One of my quest is completed. If it doesn’t have an effect then I’ll move to Stage Two, and that could be really scary.’

Coffee ’n’ Cakes was a daytime café. Charlie was supposed to lock up at five, but Charlie’s life was increasingly spent in the pub, so at five Jenny locked up, as she was starting to do most nights.

At least Charlie hadn’t heard of what had happened that morning. Just as well, Jenny thought as she turned towards home. For all Cathy’s assurances that she wouldn’t be sacked, she wasn’t so sure. Charlie’s temper was unpredictable and she had debts to pay. Big debts.

Once upon a time Charlie had been a decent boss. Then his wife died, and now…

Loss did ghastly things to people. It had to her. Was living in a grey fog of depression worse than spending life in an alcoholic haze? How could she blame Charlie when she wasn’t much better herself?

She sighed and dug her hands deep into her jacket pockets. The rain from this morning had disappeared. It was warm enough, but she wanted the comfort of her coat. Cathy’s behaviour had unsettled her.

She would’ve liked to take a walk along the harbour before she went home, only in this mood it might unsettle her even more.

All those boats, going somewhere.

She had debts to pay. She was going nowhere.

‘Excuse me?’

The voice came from behind her. She swung around and it was him. The guy with the body, and with the smile.

Okay, that was a dumb thing to think, but she couldn’t help herself. The combination of ridiculously good-looking body and a smile to die for meant it was taking everything she had not to drop her jaw.

It had been too long, she thought. No one since…

No. Don’t even think about going there.

‘Can I talk to you? Are you Jenny?’

He had an accent—Spanish maybe, she thought, and seriously sexy. Uh oh. Body of a god, killer smile and a voice that was deep and lilting and gorgeous. Her knees felt wobbly. Any minute now he’d have her clutching the nearest fence for support.

Hey! She was a grown woman, she reminded herself sharply. Where was a bucket of ice when she needed one? Making do as best she could, she tilted her chin, met his gaze square on and fought for composure.

‘I’m Jenny.’ Infuriatingly, her words came out a squeak. She turned them into a cough and tried again. ‘I…sure.’

‘The lady in the café said you were interested in a job,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for help. Can we talk about it?’

He was here to offer her a job?

His eyes were doing this assessing thing while he talked. She was wearing old jeans and an ancient duffel, built for service rather than style. Was he working out where she fitted in the social scale? Was he working out whether she cared what she wore?

Suddenly she found herself wishing she had something else on. Something with a bit of…glamour?

Now that was crazy. She was heading home to put her feet up, watch the telly and go to bed. What would she do with glamour?

He was asking her about a job. Yeah, they all needed deckhands, she thought, trying to ground herself. Lots of big yachts came into harbour here. There’d be one guy in charge—someone like this. There’d also be a couple of deckies, but the guy in charge would be the only one paid reasonable wages by the owners. Deckies were to be found in most ports—kids looking for adventure, willing to work for cheap travel. They’d get to their destination and disappear to more adventure, to be replaced by others.

Did this man seriously think she might be interested in such a job?

‘My friend was having fun at my expense,’ she said, settling now she knew what he wanted. Still trying to firm up her knees, though. ‘Sorry, but I’m a bit old to drop everything and head off into the unknown.’

‘Are you ever too old to do that?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped before she could stop herself—and then caught herself. ‘Sorry. Look, I need to get on.’

‘So you’re not interested.’

‘There’s a noticeboard down at the yacht club,’ she told him. ‘There’s always a list of kids looking for work. I already have a job.’

‘You do have a job.’ His smile had faded. He’d ditched his coat, leaving only his jeans and T-shirt. They were faded and old and…nice. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked loose-limbed, casually at ease with himself and quietly confident. His eyes were blue as the sea, though they seemed to darken when he smiled, and the crinkles round his eyes said smiling was what he normally did. But suddenly he was serious.

‘If you made the muffins I ate this morning you’re very, very good at your job,’ he told her. ‘If you’re available as crew, a man’d be crazy not to take you on.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ He had her rattled and she’d snapped again. Why? He was a nice guy offering her a job. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But no.’

‘Do you have a passport?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘I’m sailing for Europe just as soon as I can find some company. It’s not safe to do a solo where I’m going.’

‘Round the Horn?’ Despite herself, she was interested.

‘Round the Horn,’ he agreed. ‘It’s fastest.’

That’d be right. The boaties in charge of the expensive yachts were usually at the call of owners. She’d met enough of them to know that. An owner fancied a sailing holiday in Australia? He’d pay a guy like this to bring his boat here and have it ready for him. Maybe he’d join the boat on the interesting bits, flying in and out at will. Now the owner would be back in Europe and it’d be up to the employed skipper—this guy?—to get the boat back there as soon as he could.

With crew. But not with her.

‘Well, good luck,’ she said, and started to walk away, but he wasn’t letting her leave. He walked with her.

‘It’s a serious offer.’

‘It’s a serious rejection.’

‘I don’t take rejection kindly.’

‘That’s too bad,’ she told him. ‘The days of carting your crew on board drugged to the eyeballs is over. Press gangs are illegal.’

‘They’d make my life easier,’ he said morosely.

‘You know I’m very sure they wouldn’t.’ His presence as he fell into step beside her was making her thoroughly disconcerted. ‘Having a press-ganged crew waking up with hangovers a day out to sea surely wouldn’t make for serene sailing.’

‘I don’t look for serenity,’ he said, and it was so much an echo of her day’s thoughts that she stopped dead.

But this was ridiculous. The idea was ridiculous. ‘Serenity’s important,’ she managed, forcing her feet into moving again. ‘So thank you, but I’ve said no. Is there anything else you want?’

‘I pay well.’

‘I know what deckies earn.’

‘You don’t know what I pay. Why don’t you ask?’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘Do you really sail?’ he asked curiously.

He wasn’t going away. She was quickening her steps but he was keeping up with ease. She had the feeling if she broke into a run he’d keep striding beside her, effortlessly. ‘Once upon a time, I sailed,’ she said. ‘Before life got serious.’

‘Your life got serious? How?’ Suddenly his eyes were creasing in concern. He paused and, before she could stop him, he lifted her left hand. She knew what he was looking for.

No ring.

‘You have a partner?’ he demanded.

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Yes, but I want to know,’ he said in that gorgeous accent, excellent English but with that fabulous lilt—and there was that smile again, the smile she knew could get him anything he wanted if he tried hard enough. With these looks and that smile and that voice…Whew.

No. He couldn’t get anything from her. She was impervious.

She had to be impervious.

But he was waiting for an answer. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell him enough to get him off her back. ‘I’m happily single,’ she said.

‘Ah, but if you’re saying life’s serious then you’re not so happily single. Maybe sailing away on the next tide could be just what you want.’

‘Look,’ she said, tugging her hand away, exasperated. ‘I’m not a teenager looking for adventure. I have obligations here. So you’re offering me a trip to Europe? Where would that leave me? I’d get on your boat, I’d work my butt off for passage—I know you guys get your money’s worth from the kids you employ—and then I’d end up wherever it is you’re going. That’s it. I know how it works. I wouldn’t even have the fare home. I’m not a backpacker, Mr Whoever-You-Are, and I live here. I don’t know you, I don’t trust you and I’m not interested in your job.’

‘My name’s Ramón Cavellero,’ he said, sounding not in the least perturbed by her outburst. ‘I’m very trustworthy.’ And he smiled in a way that told her he wasn’t trustworthy in the least. ‘I’m sailing on the Marquita. You’ve seen her?’

Had she seen her? Every person in Seaport had seen the Marquita. The big yacht’s photograph had been on the front of their local paper when she’d come into port four days ago. With good reason. Quite simply she was the most beautiful boat Jenny had ever seen.

And probably the most expensive.

If this guy was captaining the Marquita then maybe he had the funds to pay a reasonable wage. That was an insidious little whisper in her head, but she stomped on it before it had a chance to grow. There was no way she could walk away from this place. Not for years.

She had to be sensible.

‘Look, Mr Cavellero, this has gone far enough,’ she said, and she turned back to face him directly. ‘You have the most beautiful boat in the harbour. You can have your pick of any deckie in the market—I know a dozen kids at least who would kill to be on that boat. But, as for me…My friend was making a joke but that’s all it was. Thank you and goodbye.’

She reached out and took his hand, to give it a good firm handshake, as if she was a woman who knew how to transact business, as if she should be taken seriously. He took it, she shook, but, instead of pulling away after one brief shake, she found he was holding on.

Or maybe it was that she hadn’t pulled back as she’d intended.

His hand was strong and warm and his grip as decisive as hers. Or more. Two strong wills, she thought fleetingly, but more…

But then, before she could think any further, she was aware of a car sliding to a halt beside them. She glanced sideways and almost groaned.

Charlie.

She could sense his drunkenness from here. One of these days he’d be caught for drink-driving, she thought, and half of her hoped it’d be soon, but the other half knew that’d put her boss into an even more foul mood than he normally was. Once upon a time he’d been a nice guy—but that was when he was sober, and she could barely remember when he’d been sober. So she winced and braced herself for an explosion as Charlie emerged from the car and headed towards them.

Ramón kept on holding her hand. She tugged it back and he released her but he shifted in closer. Charlie’s body language was aggressive. He was a big man; he’d become an alcoholic bully, and it showed.

But, whatever else Ramón might be, it was clear he knew how to protect his own. His own? That was a dumb thing to think. Even so, she was suddenly glad that he was here right now.

‘Hey, I want to speak to you, you stupid cow. Lose your friend,’ Charlie spat at her.

Jenny flinched. Uh oh. This could mean only one thing—that one of the patrons of the café had told Charlie of Cathy’s outburst. This was too small a town for such a joke to go unreported. Charlie had become universally disliked and the idea that one of his staff was advertising for another job would be used against him.

At her expense.

And Ramón’s presence here would make it worse. Protective or not, Charlie was right; she needed to lose him.

‘See you later,’ she said to Ramón, stepping deliberately away and turning her back on him. Expecting him to leave. ‘Hello, Charlie.’

But Charlie wasn’t into greetings. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, making personal announcements in my café, in my time?’ He was close to yelling, shoving right into her personal space so she was forced to step backward. ‘And getting another job? You walk away from me and I foreclose before the day’s end. You know what you owe me, girl. You work for me for the next three years or I’ll have you bankrupt and your friend with you. I could toss you out now. Your friend’ll lose her house. Great mess that’d leave her in. You’ll work the next four weekends with no pay to make up for this or you’re out on your ear. What do you say to that?’

She closed her eyes. Charlie was quite capable of carrying out his threats. This man was capable of anything.

Why had she ever borrowed money from him?

Because she’d been desperate, that was why. It had been right at the end of Matty’s illness. She’d sold everything, but there was this treatment…There’d been a chance. It was slim, she’d known, but she’d do anything.

She’d been sobbing, late at night, in the back room of the café. She’d been working four hours a day to pay her rent. The rest of the time she’d spent with Matty. Cathy had found her there, and Charlie came in and found them both.

He’d loan her the money, he said, and the offer was so extraordinary both women had been rendered almost speechless.

Jenny could repay it over five years, he’d told them, by working for half wages at the café. Only he needed security. ‘In case you decide to do a runner.’

‘She’d never do a runner,’ Cathy had said, incensed. ‘When Matty’s well she’ll settle down and live happily ever after.’

‘I don’t believe in happy ever after,’ Charlie had said. ‘I need security.’

‘I’ll pledge my apartment that she’ll repay you,’ Cathy had said hotly. ‘I trust her, even if you don’t.’

What a disaster. They’d been so emotional they hadn’t thought it through. All Jenny had wanted was to get back to the hospital, to get back to Matty, and she didn’t care how. Cathy’s generosity was all she could see.

So she’d hugged her and accepted and didn’t see the ties. Only ties there were. Matty died a month later and she was faced with five years bonded servitude.

Cathy’s apartment had been left to her by her mother. It was pretty and neat and looked out over the harbour. Cathy was an artist. She lived hand to mouth and her apartment was all she had.

Even Cathy hadn’t realised how real the danger of foreclosure was, Jenny thought dully. Cathy had barely glanced at the loan documents. She had total faith in her friend to repay her loan. Of course she had.

So now there was no choice. Jenny dug her hands deep into her pockets, she bit back angry words, as she’d bitten them back many times before, and she nodded.

‘Okay. I’m sorry, Charlie. Of course I’ll do the weekends.’

‘Hey!’ From behind them came Ramón’s voice, laced with surprise and the beginnings of anger. ‘What is this? Four weekends to pay for two minutes of amusement?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ Charlie said shortly. ‘Get lost.’

‘If you’re talking about what happened at the café, I was there. It was a joke.’

‘I don’t do jokes. Butt out. And she’ll do the weekends. She has no choice.’

And then he smiled, a drunken smile that made her shiver. ‘So there’s the joke,’ he jeered. ‘On you, woman, not me.’

And that was that. He stared defiance at Ramón, but Ramón, it seemed, was not interested in a fight. He gazed blankly back at him, and then watched wordlessly as Charlie swung himself unsteadily back into his car and weaved off into the distance.

Leaving silence.

How to explain what had just happened? Jenny thought, and decided she couldn’t. She took a few tentative steps away, hoping Ramón would leave her to her misery.

He didn’t. Instead, he looked thoughtfully at the receding car, then flipped open his cellphone and spoke a few sharp words. He snapped it shut and walked after Jenny, catching up and once again falling into step beside her.

‘How much do you owe him?’ he asked bluntly.

She looked across at him, startled. ‘Sorry?’

‘You heard. How much?’

‘I don’t believe that it’s…’

‘Any of my business,’ he finished for her. ‘Your boss just told me that. But, as your future employer, I can make it my business.’

‘You’re not my future employer.’

‘Just tell me, Jenny,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly so concerned, so warm, so laced with caring that, to her astonishment, she found herself telling him. Just blurting out the figure, almost as if it didn’t matter.

He thought about it for a moment as they kept walking. ‘That’s not so much,’ he said cautiously.

‘To you, maybe,’ she retorted. ‘But to me…My best friend signed over her apartment as security. If I don’t pay, then she loses her home.’

‘You could get another job. You don’t have to be beholden to this swine-bag. You could transfer the whole loan to the bank.’

‘I don’t think you realise just how broke I am,’ she snapped and then she shook her head, still astounded at how she was reacting to him. ‘Sorry. There’s no need for me to be angry with you when you’re being nice. I’m tired and I’m upset and I’ve got myself into a financial mess. The truth is that I don’t even have enough funds to miss a week’s work while I look for something else, and no bank will take me on. Or Cathy either, for that matter—she’s a struggling painter and has nothing but her apartment. So there you go. That’s why I work for Charlie. It’s also why I can’t drop everything and sail away with you. If you knew how much I’d love to…’

‘Would you love to?’ He was studying her intently. The concern was still there but there was something more. It was as if he was trying to make her out. His brow was furrowed in concentration. ‘Would you really? How good a sailor are you?’

That was a weird question but it was better than talking about her debts. So she told him that, too. Why not? ‘I was born and bred on the water,’ she told him. ‘My dad built a yacht and we sailed it together until he died. In the last few years of his life we lived on board. My legs are more at home at sea than on land.’

‘Yet you’re a cook.’

‘There’s nothing like spending your life in a cramped galley to make you lust after proper cooking.’ She gave a wry smile, temporarily distracted from her bleakness. ‘My mum died early so she couldn’t teach me, but I longed to cook. When I was seventeen I got an apprenticeship with the local baker. I had to force Dad to keep the boat in port during my shifts.’

‘And your boat? What was she?’

‘A twenty-five footer, fibreglass, called Wind Trader. Flamingo, if you know that class. She wasn’t anything special but we loved her.’

‘Sold now to pay debts?’ he asked bluntly.

‘How did you know?’ she said, crashing back to earth. ‘And, before you ask, I have a gambling problem.’

‘Now why don’t I believe that?’

‘Why would you believe anything I tell you?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, this is dumb. I’m wrecked and I need to go home. Can we forget we had this conversation? It was crazy to tell you my troubles and I surely don’t expect you to do anything about them. But thank you for letting me talk.’

She hesitated then. For some reason, it was really hard to walk away from this man, but she had no choice. ‘Goodbye, Mr Cavellero,’ she managed. ‘Thank you for thinking of me as a potential deckhand. It was very nice of you, and you know what? If I didn’t have this debt I’d be half tempted to take it on.’

Once more she turned away. She walked about ten steps, but then his voice called her back.

‘Jenny?’

She should have just kept on walking, but there was something in his voice that stopped her. It was the concern again. He sounded as if he really cared.

That was crazy, but the sensation was insidious, like a siren song forcing her to turn around.

‘Yes?’

He was standing where she’d left him. Just standing. Behind him, down the end of the street, she could see the harbour. That was where he belonged, she thought. He was a man of the sea. He looked a man from the sea. Whereas she…

‘Jenny, I’ll pay your debts,’ he said.

She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t know what to say.

‘This isn’t charity,’ he said quickly as she felt her colour rise. ‘It’s a proposition.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a very sketchy proposition,’ he told her. ‘I’ve not had time to work out the details so we may have to smooth it off round the edges. But, essentially, I’ll pay your boss out if you promise to come and work with me for a year. You’ll be two deckies instead of one—crew when I need it and cook for the rest of the time. Sometimes you’ll be run off your feet but mostly not. I’ll also add a living allowance,’he said and he mentioned a sum that made her feel winded.

‘You’ll be living on the boat so that should be sufficient,’ he told her, seemingly ignoring her amazement. ‘Then, at the end of the year, I’ll organise you a flight home, from wherever Marquita ends up. So how about it, Jenny?’ And there was that smile again, flashing out to warm parts of her she hadn’t known had been cold. ‘Will you stay here as Charlie’s unpaid slave, or will you come with me, cook your cakes on my boat and see the world? What do you say? Marquita’s waiting, Jenny. Come sail away.’

‘It’s three years’ debt,’ she gasped finally. Was he mad?

‘Not to me. It’s one year’s salary for a competent cook and sailor, and it’s what I’m offering.’

‘Your owner could never give the authority to pay those kind of wages.’

He hesitated for a moment—for just a moment—but then he smiled. ‘My owner doesn’t interfere with how I run my boat,’ he told her. ‘My owner knows if I…if he pays peanuts, he gets monkeys. I want good and loyal crew and with you I believe I’d be getting it.’

‘You don’t even know me. And you’re out of your mind. Do you know how many deckies you could get with that money?’

‘I don’t want deckies. I want you.’ And then, as she kept right on staring, he amended what had been a really forceful statement. ‘If you can cook the muffins I had this morning you’ll make my life—and everyone else who comes onto the boat—a lot more pleasant.’

‘Who does the cooking now?’ She was still fighting for breath. What an offer!

‘Me or a deckie,’ he said ruefully. ‘Not a lot of class.’

‘I’d…I’d be expected to cook for the owner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dinner parties?’

‘There’s not a lot of dinner parties on board the Marquita,’he said, sounding a bit more rueful. ‘The owner’s pretty much like me. A retiring soul.’

‘You don’t look like a retiring soul,’ she retorted, caught by the sudden flash of laughter in those blue eyes.

‘Retiring or not, I still need a cook.’

Whoa…To be a cook on a boat…With this man…

Then she caught herself. For a moment she’d allowed herself to be sucked in. To think what if.

What if she sailed away?

Only she’d jumped like this once before, and where had it got her? Matty, and all the heartbreak that went with him.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face. ‘What is it?’ Ramón asked, and his smile suddenly faded. ‘Hey, Jenny, don’t look like that. There’s no strings attached to this offer. I swear you won’t find yourself the seventeenth member of my harem, chained up for my convenience in the hold. I can even give you character references if you want. I’m extremely honourable.’

He was trying to make her smile. She did smile, but it was a wavery smile. ‘I’m sure you’re honourable,’ she said—despite the laughter lurking behind his amazing eyes suggesting he was nothing of the kind—‘but, references or not, I still don’t know you.’ Deep breath. Be sensible. ‘Sorry,’ she managed. ‘It’s an amazing offer, but I took a loan from Charlie when I wasn’t thinking straight, and look where that got me. And there have been…other times…when I haven’t thought straight either, and trouble’s followed. So I don’t act on impulse any more. I’ve learned to be sensible. Thank you for your offer, Mr Cavellero…’

‘Ramón.’

‘Mr Cavellero,’ she said stubbornly. ‘With the wages you’re offering, I know you’ll find just the crew you’re looking for, no problem at all. So thank you again and goodnight.’

Then, before she could let her treacherous heart do any more impulse urging—before she could be as stupid as she’d been in the past—she turned resolutely away.

She walked straight ahead and she didn’t look back.

Chapter Two

HER heart told her she was stupid all the way home. Her head told her she was right.

Her head addressed her heart with severity. This was a totally ridiculous proposition. She didn’t know this man.

She’d be jumping from the frying pan into the fire, she told herself. To be indebted to a stranger, then sail away into the unknown…He could be a white slave trader!

She knew he wasn’t. Take a risk, her heart was commanding her, but then her heart had let her down before. She wasn’t going down that road again.

So, somehow, she summoned the dignity to keep on walking.

‘Think about it,’ Ramón called after her and she almost hesitated, she almost turned back, only she was a sensible woman now, not some dumb teenager who’d jump on the nearest boat and head off to sea.

So she walked on. Round the next corner, and the next, past where Charlie lived.

A police car was pulled up beside Charlie’s front door, and Charlie hadn’t made it inside. Her boss was being breathalysed. He’d be way over the alcohol limit. He’d lose his licence for sure.

She thought back and remembered Ramón lifting his cellphone. Had he…

Whoa. She scuttled past, feeling like a guilty rabbit.

Ramón had done it, not her.

Charlie would guess. Charlie would never forgive her.

Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh.

By the time she got home she felt as if she’d forgotten to breathe. She raced up the steps into her little rented apartment and she slammed the door behind her.

What had Ramón done? Charlie, without his driving licence? Charlie, thinking it was her fault?

But suddenly she wasn’t thinking about Charlie. She was thinking about Ramón. Numbly, she crossed to the curtains and drew them aside. Just checking. Just in case he’d followed. He hadn’t and she was aware of a weird stab of disappointment.

Well, what did you expect? she told herself. I told him press gangs don’t work.

What if they did? What if he came up here in the dead of night, drugged her and carted her off to sea? What if she woke on his beautiful yacht, far away from this place?

I’d be chained to the sink down in the galley, she told herself with an attempt at humour. Nursing a hangover from the drugs he used to get me there.

But oh, to be on that boat…

He’d offered to pay all her bills. Get her away from Charlie…

What was she about, even beginning to think about such a crazy offer? If he was giving her so much money, then he’d be expecting something other than the work a deckie did.

But a man like Ramón wouldn’t have to pay, she thought, her mind flashing to the nubile young backpackers she knew would jump at the chance to be crew to Ramón. They’d probably jump at the chance to be anything else. So why did he want her?

Did he have a thing for older women?

She stared into the mirror and what she saw there almost made her smile. It’d be a kinky man who’d desire her like she was. Her hair was still flour-streaked from the day. She’d been working in a hot kitchen and she’d been washing up over steaming sinks. She didn’t have a spot of make-up on, and her nose was shiny. Very shiny.

Her clothes were ancient and nondescript and her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep. Oh, she had plenty of time for sleep, but where was sleep when you needed it? She’d stopped taking the pills her doctor prescribed. She was trying desperately to move on, but how?

‘What better way than to take a chance?’ she whispered to her image. ‘Charlie’s going to be unbearable to work with now. And Ramón’s gorgeous and he seems really nice. His boat’s fabulous. He’s not going to chain me to the galley, I’m sure of it.’ She even managed a smile at that. ‘If he does, I won’t be able to help him with the sails. He’d have to unchain me a couple of times a day at least. And I’d be at sea. At sea!’

So maybe…maybe…

Her heart and head were doing battle but her heart was suddenly in the ascendancy. It was trying to convince her it could be sensible as well.

Wait, she told herself severely. She ran a bath and wallowed and let her mind drift. Pros and cons. Pros and cons.

If it didn’t work, she could get off the boat at New Zealand.

He’d demand his money back.

So? She’d then owe money to Ramón instead of to Charlie, and there’d be no threat to Cathy’s apartment. The debt would be hers and hers alone.

That felt okay. Sensible, even. She felt a prickle of pure excitement as she closed her eyes and sank as deep as she could into the warm water. To sail away with Ramón…

Her eyes flew open. She’d been stupid once. One gorgeous sailor, and…Matty.

So I’m not that stupid, she told herself. I can take precautions before I go.

Before she went? This wasn’t turning out to be a relaxing bath. She sat bolt upright in the bath and thought, what am I thinking?

She was definitely thinking of going.

‘You told him where to go to find deckies,’ she said out loud. ‘He’ll have asked someone else by now.’

No!

‘So get up, get dressed and go down to that boat. Right now, before you chicken out and change your mind.

‘You’re nuts.

‘So what can happen that’s worse than being stuck here?’ she told herself and got out of the bath and saw her very pink body in the mirror. Pink? The sight was somehow a surprise.

For the last two years she’d been feeling grey. She’d been concentrating on simply putting one foot after another, and sometimes even that was an effort.

And now…suddenly she felt pink.

‘So go down to the docks, knock on the hatch of Ramón’s wonderful boat and say—yes, please, I want to come with you, even if you are a white slave trader, even if I may be doing the stupidest thing of my life. Jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Maybe, but, crazy or not, I want to jump,’ she told the mirror.

And she would.

‘You’re a fool,’ she told her reflection, and her reflection agreed.

‘Yes, but you’re not a grey fool. Just do it.’

What crazy impulse had him offering a woman passage on his boat? A needy woman. A woman who looked as if she might cling.

She was right, he needed a couple of deckies, kids who’d enjoy the voyage and head off into the unknown as soon as he reached the next port. Then he could find more.

But he was tired of kids. He’d been starting to think he’d prefer to sail alone, only Marquita wasn’t a yacht to sail by himself. She was big and old-fash-ioned and her sails were heavy and complicated. In good weather one man might manage her, but Ramón didn’t head into good weather. He didn’t look for storms but he didn’t shy away from them either.

The trip back around the Horn would be long and tough, and he’d hardly make it before he was due to return to Bangladesh. He’d been looking forward to the challenge, but at the same time not looking forward to the complications crew could bring.

The episode in the café this morning had made him act on impulse. The woman—Jenny—looked light years from the kids he generally employed. She looked warm and homely and mature. She also looked as if she might have a sense of humour and, what was more, she could cook.

He could make a rather stodgy form of paella. He could cook a steak. Often the kids he employed couldn’t even do that.

He was ever so slightly over paella.

Which was why the taste of Jenny’s muffins, the cosiness of her café, the look of her with a smudge of flour over her left ear, had him throwing caution to the winds and offering her a job. And then, when he’d realised just where that bully of a boss had her, he’d thrown in paying off her loan for good measure.

Sensible? No. She’d looked at him as if she suspected him of buying her for his harem, and he didn’t blame her.

It was just as well she hadn’t accepted, he told himself. Move on.

It was time to eat. Maybe he could go out to one of the dockside hotels.

He didn’t feel like it. His encounter with Jenny had left him feeling strangely flat—as if he’d seen something he wanted but he couldn’t have it.

That made him sound like his Uncle Iván, he thought ruefully. Iván, Crown Prince of Cepheus, arrogance personified.

Why was he thinking of Iván now? He was really off balance.

He gave himself a fast mental shake and forced himself to go back to considering dinner. Even if he didn’t go out to eat he should eat fresh food while in port. He retrieved steak, a tomato and lettuce from the refrigerator. A representation of the height of his culinary skill.

Dinner. Then bed?

Or he could wander up to the yacht club and check the noticeboard for deckies. The sooner he found a crew, the sooner he could leave, and suddenly he was eager to leave.

Why had the woman disturbed him? She had nothing to do with him. He didn’t need to regard Jenny’s refusal as a loss.

‘Hello?’

For a moment he thought he was imagining things, but his black mood lifted, just like that, as he abandoned his steak and made his way swiftly up to the deck.

He wasn’t imagining things. Jenny was on the jetty, looking almost as he’d last seen her but cleaner. She was still in her battered coat and jeans, but the flour was gone and her curls were damp from washing.

She looked nervous.

‘Jenny,’ he said and he couldn’t disguise the pleasure in his voice. Nor did he want to. Something inside him was very pleased to see her again. Extremely pleased.

‘I just…I just came out for a walk,’ she said.

‘Great,’ he said.

‘Charlie was arrested for drink-driving.’

‘Really?’

‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with you?’

‘Who, me?’ he demanded, innocence personified. ‘Would you like to come on board?’

‘I…yes,’ she said, and stepped quickly onto the deck as if she was afraid he might rescind his invitation. And suddenly her nerves seemed to be gone. She gazed around in unmistakable awe. ‘Wow!’

‘Wow’ was right. Ramón had no trouble agreeing with Jenny there. Marquita was a gracious old lady of the sea, built sixty years ago, a wooden schooner crafted by boat builders who knew their trade and loved what they were doing.

Her hull and cabins were painted white but the timbers of her deck and her trimmings were left unpainted, oiled to a warm honey sheen. Brass fittings glittered in the evening light and, above their heads, Marquita’s vast oak masts swayed majestically, matching the faint swell of the incoming tide.

Marquita was a hundred feet of tradition and pure unashamed luxury. Ramón had fallen in love with her the moment he’d seen her, and he watched Jenny’s face now and saw exactly the same response.

‘What a restoration,’ she breathed. ‘She’s exquisite.’

Now that was different. Almost everyone who saw this boat looked at Ramón and said: ‘She must have cost a fortune.’

Jenny wasn’t thinking money. She was thinking beauty.

Beauty…There was a word worth lingering on. He watched the delight in Jenny’s eyes as she gazed around the deck, taking in every detail, and he thought it wasn’t only his boat that was beautiful.

Jenny was almost as golden-skinned as he was; indeed, she could be mistaken for having the same Mediterranean heritage. She was small and compact. Neat, he thought and then thought, no, make that cute. Exceedingly cute. And smart. Her green eyes were bright with intelligence and interest. He thought he was right about the humour as well. She looked like a woman who could smile.

But she wasn’t smiling now. She was too awed.

‘Can I see below?’ she breathed.

‘Of course,’ he said, and he’d hardly got the words out before she was heading down. He smiled and followed. A man could get jealous. This was one beautiful woman, taking not the slightest interest in him. She was totally entranced by his boat.

He followed her down into the main salon, but was brought up short. She’d stopped on the bottom step, drawing breath, seemingly awed into silence.

He didn’t say anything; just waited.

This was the moment for people to gush. In truth, there was much to gush about. The rich oak wainscoting, the burnished timber, the soft worn leather of the deep settees. The wonderful colours and fabrics of the furnishing, the silks and velvets of the cushions and curtains, deep crimsons and dark blues, splashed with touches of bright sunlit gold.

When Ramón had bought this boat, just after the accident that had claimed his mother and sister, she’d been little more than a hull. He’d spent time, care and love on her renovation and his Aunt Sofía had helped as well. In truth, maybe Sofía’s additions were a little over the top, but he loved Sofía and he wasn’t about to reject her offerings. The result was pure comfort, pure luxury. He loved the Marquita—and right now he loved Jenny’s reaction.

She was totally entranced, moving slowly around the salon, taking in every detail. This was the main room. The bedrooms were beyond. If she was interested, he’d show her those too, but she wasn’t finished here yet.

She prowled, like a small cat inspecting each tiny part of a new territory. Her fingers brushed the burnished timber, lightly, almost reverently. She crossed to the galley and examined the taps, the sink, the stove, the attachments used to hold things steady in a storm. She bent to examine the additional safety features on the stove. Gas stoves on boats could be lethal. Not his. She opened the cupboard below the sink and proceeded to check out the plumbing.

He found he was smiling, enjoying her awe. Enjoying her eye for detail. She glanced up from where she was inspecting the valves below the sink and caught him smiling. And flushed.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s just so interesting. Is it okay to look?’

‘It’s more than okay,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve never had someone gasp at my plumbing before.’

She didn’t return his smile. ‘This pump,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve seen one in a catalogue. You’ve got them all through the boat?’

‘There are three bathrooms,’ he told her, trying not to sound smug. ‘All pumped on the same system.’

‘You have three bathrooms?’ She almost choked. ‘My father didn’t hold with plumbing. He said real sailors used buckets. I gather your owner isn’t a bucket man.’

‘No,’ he agreed gravely. ‘My owner definitely isn’t a bucket man.’

She did smile then, but she was still on the prowl. She crossed to the navigation desk, examining charts, checking the navigation instruments, looking at the radio. Still seeming awed.

Then…‘You leave your radio off?’

‘I only use it for outgoing calls.’

‘Your owner doesn’t mind? With a boat like this, I’d imagine he’d be checking on you daily.’

Your owner…

Now was the time to say he was the owner; this was his boat. But Jenny was starting to relax, becoming companionable, friendly. Ramón had seen enough of other women’s reactions when they realised the level of his wealth. For some reason, he didn’t want that reaction from Jenny.

Not yet. Not now.

‘My owner and I are in accord,’ he said gravely. ‘We keep in contact when we need to.’

‘How lucky,’ she said softly. ‘To have a boss who doesn’t spend his life breathing down your neck.’ And then she went right on prowling.

He watched, growing more fascinated by the moment. He’d had boat fanatics on board before—of course he had—and most of them had checked out his equipment with care. Others had commented with envy on the luxury of his fittings and furnishings. But Jenny was seeing the whole thing. She was assessing the boat, and he knew a part of her was also assessing him. In her role as possible hired hand? Yes, he thought, starting to feel optimistic. She was now under the impression that his owner trusted him absolutely, and such a reference was obviously doing him no harm.

If he wanted her trust, such a reference was a great way to start.

Finally, she turned back to him, and her awe had been replaced by a level of satisfaction. As if she’d seen a work of art that had touched a chord deep within. ‘I guess now’s the time to say, Isn’t she gorgeous?’ she said, and she smiled again. ‘Only it’s not a question. She just is.’

‘I know she is,’ he said. He liked her smile. It was just what it should be, lighting her face from within.

She didn’t smile enough, he thought.

He thought suddenly of the women he worked with in Bangladesh. Jenny was light years away from their desperate situations, but there was still that shadow behind her smile. As if she’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t trust the world.

‘Would you like to see the rest of her?’ he asked, suddenly unsure where to take this. A tiny niggle was starting in the back of his head. Take this further and there would be trouble…

It was too late. He’d asked. ‘Yes, please. Though…it seems an intrusion.’

‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said and he meant it. Then he thought, hey, he’d made his bed this morning. There was a bonus. His cabin practically looked neat.

He took her to the second bedroom first. The cabin where Sofía had really had her way. He’d restored Marquita in the months after his mother’s and sister’s death, and Sofía had poured all her concern into furnishings. ‘You spend half your life living on the floor in mud huts in the middle of nowhere,’ she’d scolded. ‘Your grandmother’s money means we’re both rich beyond our dreams so there’s no reason why you should sleep on the floor here.’

There was certainly no need now for him, or anyone else on this boat, to sleep on the floor. He’d kept a rein on his own room but in this, the second cabin, he’d let Sofía have her way. He opened the door and Jenny stared in stunned amazement—and then burst out laughing.

‘It’s a boudoir,’ she stammered. ‘It’s harem country.’

‘Hey,’ he said, struggling to sound serious, even offended, but he found he was smiling as well. Sofía had indeed gone over the top. She’d made a special trip to Marrakesh, and she’d furnished the cabin like a sheikh’s boudoir. Boudoir? Who knew? Whatever it was that sheikhs had.

The bed was massive, eight feet round, curtained with burgundy drapes and piled with quilts and pillows of purple and gold. The carpet was thick as grass, a muted pink that fitted beautifully with the furnishings of the bed. Sofía had tied in crisp, pure white linen, and matched the whites with silk hangings of sea scenes on the walls. The glass windows were open while the Marquita was in port and the curtains blew softly in the breeze. The room was luxurious, yet totally inviting and utterly, utterly gorgeous.

‘This is where you’d sleep,’ Ramón told Jenny and she turned and stared at him as if he had two heads.

‘Me. The deckie!’

‘There are bunkrooms below,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see why we shouldn’t be comfortable.’

‘This is harem country.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘I love it,’ she confessed, eyes huge. ‘What’s not to love? But, as for sleeping in it…The owner doesn’t mind?’

‘No.’

‘Where do you sleep?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t give me the best cabin.’

‘This isn’t the best cabin.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

He smiled and led the way back down the companionway. Opened another door. Ushered her in.

He’d decorated this room. Sofía had added a couple of touches—actually, Sofía had spoken to his plumber so the bathroom was a touch…well, a touch embarrassing—but the rest was his.

It was bigger than the stateroom he’d offered Jenny. The bed here was huge but he didn’t have hangings. It was more masculine, done in muted tones of the colours through the rest of the boat. The sunlit yellows and golds of the salon had been extended here, with only faint touches of the crimson and blues. The carpet here was blue as well, but short and functional.

There were two amazing paintings on the wall. Recognizable paintings. Jenny gasped with shock. ‘Please tell me they’re not real.’

Okay. ‘They’re not real.’ They were. ‘You want to see the bathroom?’ he asked, unable to resist, and he led her through. Then he stood back and grinned as her jaw almost hit the carpet.

While the Marquita was being refitted, he’d had to return to Bangladesh before the plumbing was done, and Sofía had decided to put her oar in here as well. And Sofía’s oar was not known as sparse and clinical. Plus she had this vision of him in sackcloth and ashes in Bangladesh and she was determined to make the rest of his life what she termed ‘comfortable’.

Plus she read romance novels.

He therefore had a massive golden bath in the shape of a Botticelli shell. It stood like a great marble carving in the middle of the room, with carved steps up on either side. Sofía had made concessions to the unsteadiness of bathing at sea by putting what appeared to be vines all around. In reality, they were hand rails but the end result looked like a tableau from the Amazon rainforest. There were gold taps, gold hand rails, splashes of crimson and blue again. There was trompe l’oeil—a massive painting that looked like reality—on the wall, making it appear as if the sea came right inside. She’d even added towels with the monogram of the royal family his grandmother had belonged to.

When he’d returned from Bangladesh he’d come in here and nearly had a stroke. His first reaction had been horror, but Sofía had been beside him, so anxious she was quivering.

‘I so wanted to give you something special,’ she’d said, and Sofía was all the family he had and there was no way he’d hurt her.

He’d hugged her and told her he loved it—and that night he’d even had a bath in the thing. She wasn’t to know he usually used the shower down the way.

‘You…you sleep in here?’ Jenny said, her bottom lip quivering.

‘Not in the bath,’ he said and grinned.

‘But where does the owner sleep?’ she demanded, ignoring his attempt at levity. She was gazing around in stupefaction. ‘There’s not room on his boat for another cabin like this.’

‘I…At need I use the bunkroom.’ And that was a lie, but suddenly he was starting to really, really want to employ this woman. Okay, he was on morally dubious ground, but did it matter if she thought he was a hired hand? He watched as the strain eased from her face and turned to laughter, and he thought surely this woman deserved a chance at a different life. If one small lie could give it to her…

Would it make a difference if she knew the truth? If he told her he was so rich the offer to pay her debts meant nothing to him…How would she react?

With fear. He’d seen her face when he’d offered her the job. There’d been an intuitive fear that he wanted her for more than her sailing and her cooking. How much worse would it be if she knew he could buy and sell her a thousand times over?

‘The owner doesn’t mind?’ she demanded.

He gave up and went along with it. ‘The owner likes his boat to be used and enjoyed.’

‘Wow,’ she breathed and looked again at the bath. ‘Wow!’

‘I use the shower in the shared bathroom,’ he confessed and she chuckled.

‘What a waste.’

‘You’d be welcome to use this.’

‘In your dreams,’ she muttered. ‘This place is Harems-R-Us.’

‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘But it’s still a working boat. I promise you, Jenny, there’s not a hint of harem about her.’

‘You swear?’ she demanded and she fixed him with a look that said she was asking for a guarantee. And he knew what that guarantee was.

‘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.’

He grinned. ‘You sound just like my Aunt Sofía. She reads them, too. But no, I never said you were wimpy. I never thought you were wimpy.’

‘I’d repay…’

‘No,’ he said strongly and took her plate away from her and set it down. He took her hands then, strong hands gripping hers so she felt the strength of him, the sureness and the authority. Authority? This was a man used to getting his own way, she thought, suddenly breathless, and once more came the fleeting thought, I should run.

There was nowhere to run. If she said yes there’d be nowhere to run for a year.

‘You will not repay,’ he growled. ‘A deal’s a deal, Jenny. You will be my crew. You will be my cook. I’ll ask nothing more.’

This was serious. Too serious. She didn’t want to think about the implications behind those words.

And maybe she didn’t want that promise. I’ll ask nothing more…

He’d said her debt was insignificant. Maybe it was to him. To her it was an insurmountable burden. She had her pride, but maybe it was time to swallow it, stand aside and let him play hero.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound meek.

‘Jenny?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m captain,’ he said. ‘But I will not tolerate subordination.’

‘Subordination?’

‘It’s my English,’ he apologised, sounding suddenly very Spanish. ‘As in captains say to their crew, “I will not tolerate insubordination!” just before they give them a hundred lashes and toss them in the brink.’

‘What’s the brink?’

‘I have no idea,’ he confessed. ‘I’m sure the Marquita doesn’t have one, which is what I’m telling you. Whereas most captains won’t tolerate insubordination, I am the opposite. If you’d like to argue all the way around the Horn, it’s fine by me.’

‘You want me to argue?’ She was too close to him, she thought, and he was still holding her hands. The sensation was worrying.

Worryingly good, though. Not worryingly bad. Arguing with this guy all the way round the Horn…

‘Yes. I will also expect muffins,’ he said and she almost groaned.

‘Really?’

‘Take it or leave it,’ he said. ‘Muffins and insubordination. Yes or no?’

She stared up at him in the moonlight. He stared straight back at her and she felt her heart do this strange surge, as if her fuel-lines had just been doubled.

What am I getting into, she demanded of herself, but suddenly she didn’t care. The night was warm, the boat was lovely and this man was holding her hands, looking down at her in the moonlight and his hands were imparting strength and sureness and promise.

Promise? What was he promising? She was being fanciful.

But she had to be careful, she told herself fiercely. She must.

It was too late.

‘Yes,’ she said before she could change her mind—and she was committed.

She was heading to the other side of the world with a man she’d met less than a day ago.

Was she out of her mind?

What had he done? What was he getting himself into?

He’d be spending three months at sea with a woman called Jenny.

Jenny what? Jenny who? He knew nothing about her other than she sailed and she cooked.

He spent more time on background checks for the deckies he employed. He always ran a fast check on the kids he employed, to ensure there weren’t skeletons in the closet that would come bursting out the minute he was out of sight of land.

And he didn’t employ them for a year. The deal was always that they’d work for him until the next port and then make a mutual decision as to whether they wanted to go on.

He’d employed Jenny for a year.

He wasn’t going to be on the boat for a year. Had he thought that through? No, so he’d better think it through now. Be honest? Should he say, Jenny, I made the offer because I felt sorry for you, and there was no way you’d have accepted my offer of a loan if you knew I’m only offering three months’ work?

He wasn’t going to say that, because it wasn’t true. He’d made the offer for far more complicated reasons than sympathy, and that was what was messing with his head now.

In three months he’d be in Bangladesh.

Did he need to go to Bangladesh?

In truth, he didn’t need to go anywhere. His family inheritance had been massive, he’d invested it with care and if he wished he could spend the rest of his life in idle luxury.

Only…his family had never been like that. Excluded from the royal family, Ramón’s grandmother had set about making herself useful. The royal family of Cepheus was known for indolence, mindless indulgence, even cruelty. His grandmother had left the royal palace in fear, for good reason. But then she’d started making herself a life—giving life to others. So she and her children, Ramón’s father and aunt, had set up a charity in Bangladesh. They built homes in the low lying delta regions, houses that could be raised as flood levels rose, homes that could keep a community safe and dry. Ramón had been introduced to it early and found the concept fascinating.

His father’s death had made him even more determined to stay away from royalty; to make a useful life for himself, so at seventeen he’d apprenticed himself to one of Cepheus’s top builders. He’d learned skills from the ground up. Now it wasn’t just money he was throwing at this project—it was his hands as well as his heart.

During the wet season he couldn’t build. During these months he used to stay on the island he still called home, spending time with his mother and sister. He’d also spent it planning investments so the work they were doing could go on for ever.

But then his mother and his sister died. One drunken driver and his family was wiped out. Suddenly he couldn’t bear to go home. He employed a team of top people to take over his family’s financial empire, and he’d bought the Marquita.

He still worked in Bangladesh—hands-on was great, hard manual work which drove away the demons. But for the rest of the year he pitted himself against the sea and felt better for it.

But there was a gaping hole where his family had been; a hole he could never fill. Nor did he want to, he decided after a year or so. If it hurt so much to lose…to get close to someone again seemed stupid.

So why ask Jenny onto his boat? He knew instinctively that closeness was a very real risk with this woman. But it was as if another part of him, a part he didn’t know existed, had emerged and done the asking.

He’d have to explain Bangladesh to her. Or would he? When he got to Cepheus he could simply say there was no need for the boat, the owner wanted her in dry dock for six months. Jenny was free to fly back to Australia—he’d pay her fare—and she could fill the rest of her contract six months later.

That’d mean he had crew not only for now but for the future as well.

A crew of one woman.

This was danger territory. The Ramón he knew well, the Ramón he trusted, was screaming a warning.

No. He could be sensible. This was a big enough boat for him to keep his own counsel. He’d learned to do that from years of sailing with deckies. The kids found him aloof, he knew, but aloof was good. Aloof meant you didn’t open yourself to gut-wrenching pain.

Aloof meant you didn’t invite a woman like Jenny to sail around the world with you.

A shame that he just had.

‘The Marquita’s reported as having left Fiji two weeks ago. We think Ramón’s in Australia.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Sofía pushed herself up on her cushions and stared at the lawyer, perplexed. ‘What’s he doing in Australia?’

‘Who would know?’ the lawyer said with asperity. ‘He’s left no travel plans.’

‘He could hardly expect this awfulness,’ Sofía retorted. ‘There’s never been a thought that Ramón could inherit.’

‘Well, it makes life difficult for us,’ the lawyer snapped. ‘He doesn’t even answer incoming radio calls.’

‘Ramón’s been a loner since his mother and sister died,’ Sofía said, and she sighed. ‘It affected me deeply, so who knows how it affected him? If he wants to be alone, who are we to stop him?’

‘He can’t be alone any longer,’ the lawyer said. ‘I’m flying out.’

‘To Australia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t Australia rather big?’ Sofía said cautiously. ‘I mean…I don’t want to discourage you, but if you flew to Perth and he ended up at Darwin…I’ve read about Australia and it does sound a little larger than Cepheus.’

‘I believe the smallest of its states is bigger than Cepheus,’ the lawyer agreed. ‘But if he’s coming from Fiji he’ll be heading for the east coast. We have people looking out for him at every major port. If I wait in Sydney I can be with him in hours rather than days.’

‘You don’t think we could wait until he makes contact?’ Sofía said. ‘He does email me. Eventually.’

‘He needs to take the throne by the end of the month or Carlos inherits.’

‘Carlos?’ Sofía said, and her face crumpled in distress. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘So you see the hurry,’ the lawyer said. ‘If I’m in Australia, as soon as we locate his boat I can be there. He has to come home. Now.’

‘I wish we could find him before I make a decision about Philippe,’ she said. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘I thought you’d found foster parents for him.’

‘Yes, but…it seems wrong to send him away from the palace. What would Ramón do, do you think?’

‘I hardly think Prince Ramón will wish to be bothered with a child.’

‘No,’ Sofía said sadly. ‘Maybe you’re right. There are so many things Ramón will be bothered with now—how can he want a say in the future of a child he doesn’t know?’

‘He won’t. Send the child to foster parents.’

‘Yes,’ Sofía said sadly. ‘I don’t know how to raise a child myself. He’s had enough of hired nannies. I think it’s best for everyone.’

Chapter Three

THIS was really, really foolish. She was allowing an unknown Spaniard to pay her debts and sweep her off in his fabulous yacht to the other side of the world. She was so appalled at herself she couldn’t stop grinning.

Watching Cathy’s face had been a highlight. ‘I can’t let you do it,’ she’d said in horror. ‘I know I joked about it but I never dreamed you’d take me seriously. You know nothing about him. This is awful.’

And Jenny had nodded solemn agreement.

‘It is awful. If I turn up in some Arabic harem on the other side of the world it’s all your fault,’ she told her friend. ‘You pointed him out to me.’

‘No. Jenny, I never would have…No!’

She’d chuckled and relented. ‘Okay, I won’t make you come and rescue me. I know this is a risk, my love, but honestly, he seems nice. I don’t think there’s a harem but even if there is…I’m a big girl and I take responsibility for my own decision. I know it’s playing with fire, but honestly, Cathy, you were right. I’m out of here any way I can.’

And what a way! Sailing out of the harbour on board the Marquita with Ramón at the helm was like something out of a fairy tale.

Fairy tales didn’t include scrubbing decks, though, she conceded ruefully. There was enough of reality to keep her grounded—or as grounded as one could be at sea. Six days later, Jenny was on her knees swishing a scrubbing brush like a true deckhand. They’d been visited by a flock of terns at dawn—possibly the last they’d see until they neared land again. She certainly hoped so. The deck was a mess.

But making her feel a whole lot better about scrubbing was the fact that Ramón was on his knees scrubbing as well. That didn’t fit the fairy tale either. Knight on white charger scrubbing bird droppings? She glanced over and found he was watching her. He caught her grin and he grinned back.

‘Not exactly the romantic ideal of sailing into the sunset,’ he said, and it was so much what she’d been thinking that she laughed. She sat back on her heels, put her face up to the sun and soaked it in. The Marquita was on autopilot, safe enough in weather like this. There was a light breeze—enough to make Marquita slip gracefully through the water like a skier on a downhill run. On land it would be hot, but out here on the ocean it was just plain fabulous. Jenny was wearing shorts and T-shirt and nothing else. Her feet were bare, her hair was scrunched up in a ponytail to keep it out of her eyes, her nose was white with sunscreen—and she was perfectly, gloriously happy.

‘You’re supposed to complain,’ Ramón said, watching her. ‘Any deckie I’ve ever employed would be complaining by now.’

‘What on earth would I be complaining about?’

‘Scrubbing, maybe?’

‘I’d scrub from here to China if I could stay on this boat,’ she said happily and then saw his expression and hastily changed her mind. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. You keep right on thinking I’m working hard for my money. But, honestly, you have the best job in the world, Ramón Cavellero, and I have the second best.’

‘I do, don’t I?’ he said, but his smile faded, and something about him said he had shadows too. Did she want to ask?

Maybe not.

She’d known Ramón for over a week now, and she’d learned a lot in that time. She’d learned he was a wonderful sailor, intuitive, clever and careful. He took no unnecessary risks, yet on the second night out there’d been a storm. A nervous sailor might have reefed in everything and sat it out. Ramón, however, had looked at the charts, altered his course and let the jib stay at full stretch. The Marquita had flown across the water with a speed Jenny found unbelievable, and when the dawn came and the storm abated they were maybe three hundred miles further towards New Zealand than they’d otherwise have been.

She’d taken a turn at the wheel that night but she knew Ramón hadn’t slept. She’d been conscious of his shadowy presence below, aware of what the boat was doing, aware of how she was handling her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but she was new crew and to sleep in such a storm while she had such responsibility might have been dangerous.

His competence pleased her, as did the fact that he hadn’t told her he was checking on her. Lots of things about him pleased her, she admitted—but Ramón kept himself to himself. Any thoughts she may have had of being an addition to his harem were quickly squashed. Once they were at sea, he was reserved to the point of being aloof.

‘How long have you skippered this boat?’ she asked suddenly, getting back to scrubbing, not looking up. She was learning that he responded better that way, talking easily as they worked together. Once work stopped he retreated again into silence.

‘Ten years,’ he said.

‘Wow. You must have been at kindergarten when you were first employed.’

‘I got lucky,’ he said brusquely, and she thought, don’t go there. She’d asked a couple of things about the owner, and she’d learned quickly that was the way to stop a conversation dead.

‘So how many crews would you have employed in that time?’ she asked. And then she frowned down at what she was scrubbing. How on earth had the birds managed to soil under the rim of the forward hatch? She tried to imagine, and couldn’t.

‘How long’s a piece of string?’ Ramón said. ‘I get new people at every port.’

‘But you have me for a year.’

‘That’s right, I have,’ he said and she glanced up and caught a flash of something that might be satisfaction. She smiled and went back to scrubbing, unaccountably pleased.

‘That sounds like you liked my lunch time paella.’

‘I loved your lunch time paella. Where did you learn to cook something so magnificently Spanish?’

‘I’m part Spanish,’ she said and he stopped scrubbing and stared.

‘Spanish?’

‘Well, truthfully, I’m all Australian,’ she said, ‘but my father was Spanish. He moved to Australia when he met my mother. My mother’s mother was Spanish as well. Papà came as an adventuring young man. He contacted my grandmother as a family friend and the rest is history.

‘So,’ Ramón said slowly, sounding dazed. ‘Habla usted español? Can you speak Spanish?’

‘Sí,’ she said, and tried not to sound smug.

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘There’s no end to my talents,’ she agreed and grinned, and then peered under the hatch. ‘Speaking of talent…How did these birds do this? They must have lain on their sides and aimed.’

‘It’s a competition between them and me,’ Ramón said darkly. ‘They don’t like my boat looking beautiful. All I can do is sail so far out to sea they can’t reach me. But…you have a Spanish background? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You never asked,’ she said, and then she hesitated. ‘There’s lots you didn’t ask, and your offer seemed so amazing I saw no reason to mess it with detail. I could have told you I play a mean game of netball, I can climb trees, I have my bronze surf lifesaving certificate and I can play Waltzing Matilda on a gum leaf. You didn’t ask and how could I tell you? You might have thought I was skiting.’

‘Skiting?’

‘Making myself out to be Miss Wonderful.’

‘I seem to have employed Miss Wonderful regardless,’ he said. And then…‘Jenny?’

‘Mmm?’

‘No, I mean, what sort of Spanish parents call their daughter Jenny?’

‘It’s Gianetta.’

‘Gianetta.’ He said it with slow, lilting pleasure, and he said it the way it was supposed to sound. The way her parents had said it. She blinked and then she thought no. Actually, the way Ramón said it wasn’t the way her parents had said it. He had the pronunciation right but it was much, much better. He rolled it, he almost growled it, and it sounded so sexy her toes started to curl.

‘I would have found out when you signed your contract,’ Ramón was saying while she attempted a bit of toe uncurling. Then he smiled. ‘Speaking of which, maybe it’s time you did sign up. I don’t want to let anyone who can play Waltzing Matilda on a gum leaf get away.’

‘It’s a dying art,’ she said, relieved to be on safer ground. In fact she’d been astounded that he hadn’t yet got round to making her sign any agreement.

The day before they’d sailed he’d handed Charlie a cheque. ‘How do you know you can trust me to fill my part of the bargain?’ she’d asked him, stunned by what he was doing, and Ramón had looked down at her for a long moment, his face impassive, and he’d given a small decisive nod.

‘I can,’ he’d said, and that was that.

‘Playing a gum leaf’s a dying art?’ he asked now, cautiously.

‘It’s something I need to teach my grandchildren,’ she told him. And then she heard what she’d said. Grandchildren. The void, always threatening, was suddenly right under her. She hauled herself back with an effort.

‘What is it?’ Ramón said and he was looking at her with concern. The void disappeared. There went her toes again, curling, curling. Did he have any idea of what those eyes did to her? They helped, though. She was back again now, safe. She could move on. If she could focus on something other than those eyes.

‘So I’m assuming you’re Spanish, too?’ she managed.

‘No!’

‘You’re not Spanish?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘You sound Spanish.’ Then she hesitated. Here was another reason she hadn’t told him about her heritage—she wasn’t sure. There was something else in his accent besides Spain. France? It was a sexy mix that she couldn’t quite place.

‘I come from Cepheus,’ he said, and all was explained.

Cepheus. She knew it. A tiny principality on the Mediterranean, fiercely independent and fiercely proud.

‘My father told me about Cepheus,’ she said, awed that here was an echo from her childhood. ‘Papà was born not so far away from the border and he went there as a boy. He said it’s the most beautiful country in the world—but he also said it belonged to Spain.’

‘If he’s Spanish then he would say that,’ Ramón growled. ‘If he was French he’d say the same thing. They’ve been fighting over my country for generations, like eagles over a small bird. What they’ve come to realize, however, is that the small bird has claws and knows how to protect itself. For now they’ve dropped us—they’ve let us be. We are Cepheus. Nothing more.’

‘But you speak Spanish?’

‘The French and the Spanish have both taken part of our language and made it theirs,’ he said, and she couldn’t help herself. She chuckled.

‘What’s funny?’ He was suddenly practically glowering.

‘Your patriotism,’ she said, refusing to be deflected. ‘Like Australians saying the English speak Australian with a plum in their mouths.’

‘It’s not the same,’ he said but then he was smiling again. She smiled back—and wham.

What was it with this man?

She knew exactly what it was. Quite simply he was the most gorgeous guy she’d ever met. Tall, dark and fabulous, a voice like a god, rugged, clever…and smiling. She took a deep breath and went back to really focused scrubbing. It was imperative that she scrub.

She was alone on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a man she was so attracted to her toes were practically ringlets. And she was crew. Nothing more. She was cook and deckhand. Remember it!

‘So why the debt?’ he asked gently, and she forgot about being cook and deckhand. He was asking as if he cared.

Should she tell him to mind his own business? Should she back away?

Why? He’d been extraordinarily kind and if he wanted to ask…He didn’t feel like her boss, and at this moment she didn’t feel like a deckie.

Maybe he even had the right to know.

‘I lost my baby,’ she said flatly, trying to make it sound as if it was history. Only of course she couldn’t. Two years on, it still pierced something inside her to say it. ‘Matty was born with a congenital heart condition. He had a series of operations, each riskier than the last. Finally, there was only one procedure left to try—a procedure so new it cost the earth. It was his last chance and I had to take it, but of course I’d run out of what money I had. I was working for Charlie for four hours a day over the lunch time rush—Matty was in hospital and I hated leaving him but I had to pay the rent, so when things hit rock bottom Charlie knew. So Charlie loaned me what I needed on the basis that I keep working on for him.’

She scrubbed fiercely at a piece of deck that had already been scrubbed. Ramón didn’t say anything. She scrubbed a bit more. Thought about not saying more and then decided—why not say it all?

‘You need to understand…I’d been cooking on the docks since I was seventeen and people knew my food. Charlie’s café was struggling and he needed my help to keep it afloat. But the operation didn’t work. Matty died when he was two years, three months and five days old. I buried him and I went back to Charlie’s café and I’ve been there ever since.’

‘I am so sorry.’ Ramón was sitting back on his heels and watching her. She didn’t look up—she couldn’t. She kept right on scrubbing.

The boat rocked gently on the swell. The sun shone down on the back of her neck and she was acutely aware of his gaze. So aware of his silence.

‘Charlie demanded that you leave your baby, for those hours in the last days of his life?’ he said at last, and she swallowed at that, fighting back regret that could never fade.

‘It was our deal.’ She hesitated. ‘You’ve seen the worst of Charlie. Time was when he was a decent human being. Before the drink took over. When he offered me a way out—I only saw the money. I guess I just trusted. And after I borrowed the money there was no way out.’

‘So where,’ he asked, in his soft, lilting accent that seemed to have warmth and sincerity built into it, ‘was Matty’s father?’

‘On the other side of the world, as far as I know,’ she said, and she blinked back self-pity and found herself smiling. ‘My Kieran. Or, rather, no one’s Kieran.’

‘You’re smiling?’ He sounded incredulous, as well he might.

‘Yes, that’s stupid. And yes, I was really stupid.’ Enough with the scrubbing—any more and she’d start taking off wood. She tossed her brush into the bucket and stood up, leaning against the rail and letting the sun comfort her. How to explain Kieran? ‘My father had just died, and I was bleak and miserable. Kieran came into port and he was just…alive. I met him on the wharf one night, we went dancing and I fell in love. Only even then I knew I wasn’t in love with Kieran. Not with the person. I was in love with what he represented. Happiness. Laughter. Life. At the end of a wonderful week he sailed away and two weeks later I discovered our precautions hadn’t worked. I emailed him to tell him. He sent me a dozen roses and a cheque for a termination. The next time I emailed, to tell him I was keeping our baby, there was no reply. There’s been no reply since.’

‘Do you mind?’ he said gently.

‘I mind that Kieran didn’t have a chance to meet his son,’ she said. ‘It was his loss. Matty was wonderful.’ She pulled herself together and managed to smile again. ‘But I’d imagine all mothers say that about their babies. Any minute now I’ll be tugging photographs out of my purse.’

‘It would be my privilege to see them.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Why would I not?’

Her smile faded. She searched his face and saw only truth.

‘It’s okay,’ she said, disconcerted. She was struggling to understand this man. She’d accepted this job suspecting he was another similar to Kieran, sailing the world to escape responsibility, only the more she saw of him the more she realized there were depths she couldn’t fathom.

She had armour now to protect herself against the likes of Kieran. She knew she did—that was why she’d taken the job. But this man’s gentle sympathy and practical help were something new. She tried to imagine Kieran scrubbing a deck when he didn’t have to, and she couldn’t.

‘So where’s your family?’ she asked, too abruptly, and she watched his face close. Which was what she was coming to expect. He’d done this before to her, simply shutting himself off from her questions. She thought it was a method he’d learned from years of employing casual labour, setting boundaries and staying firmly behind them.

Maybe that was reasonable, she conceded. Just because she’d stepped outside her personal boundaries, it didn’t mean he must.

‘Sorry. I’ll put the buckets away,’ she said, but he didn’t move and neither did she.

‘I don’t like talking of my family.’

‘That’s okay. That’s your right.’

‘You didn’t have to tell me about your son.’

‘Yes, but I like talking about Matty,’ she said. She thought about it. It wasn’t absolutely true. Or was it?

She only talked about Matty to Cathy, to Susie, to those few people who’d known him. But still…

‘Talking about him keeps him real,’ she said, trying to figure it out as she spoke. ‘Keeping silent locks him in my heart and I’m scared he’ll shrivel. I want to be able to have him out there, to share him.’ She shrugged. ‘It makes no sense but there it is. Your family…you keep them where you need to have them. I’m sorry I intruded.’

‘I don’t believe you could ever intrude,’ he said, so softly she could hardly hear him. ‘But my story’s not so peaceful. My father died when I was seven. He and my grandfather…well, let’s just say they didn’t get on. My grandfather was what might fairly be described as a wealthy thug. He mistreated my grandmother appallingly, and finally my father thought to put things right by instigating legal proceedings. Only when it looked like my father and grandmother might win, my grandfather’s thugs bashed him—so badly he died.’

‘Oh, Ramón,’ she whispered, appalled.

‘It’s old history,’ he said in a voice that told her it wasn’t. It still had the power to hurt. ‘Nothing could ever be proved, so we had to move on as best we could. But my grandmother never got over it. She died when I was ten, and then my mother and my sister were killed in a car accident when I was little more than a teenager. So that’s my family. Or, rather, that was my family. I have an aunt I love, but that’s all.’

‘So you don’t have a home,’ she said softly.

‘The sea makes a wonderful mistress.’

‘She’s not exactly cuddly,’ Jenny retorted before she thought it through, and then she heard what she’d said and she could have kicked herself. But it seemed her tongue was determined to keep her in trouble. ‘I mean…Well, the sea. A mistress? Wouldn’t you rather have a real one?’

His lips twitched. ‘You’re asking why don’t I have a woman?’

‘I didn’t mean that at all,’ she said, astounded at herself. ‘If you don’t choose to…’

But she stopped herself there. She was getting into deeper water at every word and she was floundering.

‘Would you rate yourself as cuddly?’ he asked, a slight smile still playing round his mouth, and she felt herself colouring from the toes up. She’d walked straight into that one.

He thoroughly disconcerted her. It was as if there was some sort of connection between them, like an electric current that buzzed back and forth, no matter how she tried to subdue it.

She had to subdue it. Ramón was her boss. She had to maintain a working relationship with him for a year.

‘No. No!’ She shook her head so hard the tie came loose and her curls went flying every which way. ‘Of course I’m not cuddly. I got myself in one horrible mess with Kieran, and I’m not going down that path again, thank you very much.’

‘So maybe the sea is to be your partner in life, too?’

‘I don’t want a partner,’ she said with asperity. ‘I don’t need one, thank you very much. You’re very welcome to your sea, Mr Cavellero, but I’ll stick to cooking, sailing and occasional scrubbing. What more could a woman want? It sounds like relationships, for both of us, are a thing of the past.’ And then she paused. She stared out over Ramón’s shoulder. ‘Oh!’ She put her hand up to shade her eyes. ‘Oh, Ramón, look!’

Ramón wheeled to see what she was seeing, and he echoed her gasp.

They’d been too intent on each other to notice their surroundings—the sea was clear to the horizon so there was no threat, but suddenly there was a great black mound, floating closer and closer to the Marquita. On the far side of the mound was another, much smaller.

The smaller mound was gliding through the water, surfacing and diving, surfacing and diving. The big mound lay still, like a massive log, threequarters submerged.

‘Oh,’ Jenny gasped, trying to take in what she was seeing. ‘It’s a whale and its calf. But why…’

Why was the larger whale so still?

They were both staring out to starboard now. Ramón narrowed his eyes, then swore and made his way swiftly aft. He retrieved a pair of field glasses, focused and swore again.

‘She’s wrapped in a net.’ He flicked off the autopilot. ‘Jenny, we’re coming about.’

The boat was already swinging. Jenny dropped her buckets and moved like lightning, reefing in the main with desperate haste so the boom wouldn’t slam across with the wind shift.

Even her father wouldn’t have trusted her to move so fast, she thought, as she winched in the stays with a speed even she hadn’t known was possible. Ramón expected the best of her and she gave it.

But Ramón wasn’t focused on her. All his attention was on the whale. With the sails in place she could look again at what was in front of her. And what she saw…She drew in her breath in distress.

The massive whale—maybe fifty feet long or more—was almost completely wrapped in a damaged shark net. Jenny had seen these nets. They were set up across popular beaches to keep swimmers safe, but occasionally whales swam in too close to shore and became entangled, or swam into a net that had already been dislodged.

The net was enfolding her almost completely, with a rope as thick as Jenny’s wrist tying her from head to tail, forcing her to bend. As the Marquita glided past, Jenny saw her massive pectoral fins were fastened uselessly to her sides. She was rolling helplessly in the swell.

Dead?

No. Just as she thought it, the creature gave a massive shudder. She was totally helpless, and by her side her calf swam free, but helpless as well in the shadow of her mother’s entrapment.

‘Dios,’ she whispered. It was the age-old plea she’d learned from her mother, and she heard the echo of it from Ramón’s lips.

‘It’s a humpback,’ she said in distress. ‘The net’s wrapped so tight it’s killing her. What can we do?’

But Ramón was already moving. ‘We get the sails down and start the motor,’ he said. ‘The sails won’t give us room to manoeuvre. Gianetta, I need your help. Fast.’

He had it. The sails were being reefed in almost before he finished speaking, as the motor hummed seamlessly into life.

He pushed it into low gear so the sound was a low hum. The last thing either of them wanted was to panic the whale. As it was, the calf was moving nervously away from them, so the mother was between it and the boat.

‘If she panics there’s nothing we can do,’ Jenny said grimly. ‘Can we get near enough to cut?’

They couldn’t. Ramón edged the Marquita close, the big whale rolled a little, the swell separated them and Jenny knew they could never simply reach out and cut.

‘Can we call someone?’ she said helplessly. ‘There’s whale rescue organisations. Maybe they could come out.’

‘We’re too far from land,’ Ramón said. ‘It’s us or no one.’

No one, Jenny thought as they tried one more pass. It was hopeless. For them to cut the net the whale had to be right beside the boat. With the lurching of the swell there was no way they could steer the boat alongside and keep her there.

How else to help? To get into the water and swim, then cling and cut was far, far too risky. Jenny was a good swimmer but…

‘It’s open water, the job’s too big, there’s no way I could count on getting back into the boat,’ Ramón said, and she knew he was thinking the same.

‘You would do it if you could?’ she asked, incredulous.

‘If I knew it’d be effective. But do you think she’s going to stay still while I cut? If she rolled, if I was pushed under and caught…’

As if on cue, the whale rolled again. Her massive pectoral fins were fastened hard against her, so a sideways roll was all she could do. She blew—a spray of water misted over Jenny’s face, but Jenny’s face was wet anyway.

‘We can’t leave her like this,’ she whispered. ‘We have to try.’

‘We do,’ Ramón said. ‘Jenny, are you prepared to take a risk?’

There was no question. ‘Of course.’

‘Okay,’ he said, reaching under the seat near the wheel and hauling out life jackets. ‘Here’s the plan. We put these on. We unfasten the life raft in case worst comes to worst and we let the authorities know what’s happening. We radio in our position, we tell them what we intend to do and if they don’t hear back from us then they’ll know we’re sitting in a life raft in the middle of the Pacific. We’re wearing positional locators anyway. We should be fine.’

‘What…what are we intending to do?’ Jenny asked faintly.

‘Pull the boat up beside the whale,’ he said. ‘If you’re brave enough.’

She stared at him, almost speechless. How could he get so close? And, even if he did, if the whale rolled…‘You’d risk the boat?’ she gasped.

‘Yes.’ Unequivocal.

‘Could we be sure of rescue?’

‘I’ll set it up so we would be,’ he said. ‘I’m not risking our lives here. Only our boat and the cost of marine rescue.’

‘Marine rescue…It’d cost a fortune.’

‘Jenny, we’re wasting time. Yes or no?’

She looked out at the whale. Left alone, she’d die, dreadfully, agonisingly and, without her, her calf would slowly starve to death as well.

Ramón was asking her to risk all. She looked at him and he met her gaze, levelly and calmly.

‘Gianetta, she’s helpless,’ he said. ‘I believe at some subliminal level she’ll understand we’re trying to help and she won’t roll towards us. But you know I can’t guarantee that. There’s a small chance we may end up sitting in a lifeboat for the next few hours waiting to be winched to safety. But I won’t do it unless I have your agreement. It’s not my risk, Gianetta. It’s our risk.’

Our risk.

She thought about what he was asking—what he was doing. He’d have to explain to his owner that he’d lost his boat to save a whale. He’d lose his job at the very least. Maybe he’d be up for massive costs, for the boat and for rescue.

She looked at him and she saw it meant nothing.

He was free, she thought, with a sudden stab of something that could almost be jealousy. There was the whale to be saved. He’d do what needed to be done without thinking of the future.

Life…That was all that mattered, she thought suddenly, and with it came an unexpected lifting of the dreariness of the last couple of years. She’d fought long and hard for Matty. She’d lost but she’d had him and she’d loved him and she’d worried about the cost later.

She looked out at the whale and she knew there was only one answer to give.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes to stick a ration pack in the life raft. If I’m going to float around for a day or so waiting for rescue flights then I want at least two bottles of champagne and some really good cheeses while I’m waiting.’

Jenny didn’t have a clue what Ramón intended, but when she saw she was awed. With his safeguards in place, he stood on the highest point of the boat with a small anchor—one he presumably used in shallow waters when lowering the massive main anchor would potentially damage the sea bed.

This anchor was light enough for a man to hold. Or, rather, for Ramón to hold, Jenny corrected herself. It still looked heavy. But Ramón stood with the anchor attached by a long line and he held it as if it was no weight at all, while Jenny nosed the boat as close to the whale as she dared. Ramón swung the anchor round and round, in wider and wider circles, and then he heaved with every ounce of strength he had.

The whale was maybe fifteen feet from the boat. The anchor flew over the far side of her and slid down. As it slid, Ramón was already striding aft, a far more secure place to manoeuvre, and he was starting to tug the rope back in.

‘Cut the motor,’ he snapped. She did, and finally she realized what he was doing.

The anchor had fallen on the far side of the whale. As Ramón tugged, the anchor was being hauled up the whale’s far side. Its hooks caught the ropes of the net and held, and suddenly Ramón was reeling in the anchor with whale attached. Or, rather, the Marquita was being reeled in against the whale, and the massive creature was simply submitting.

Jenny was by Ramón’s side in an instant, pulling with him. Boat and whale moved closer. Closer still.

‘Okay, hold her as close as you can,’ Ramón said curtly as the whale’s vast body came finally within an arm’s length. ‘If she pulls, you let go. No heroics, Gianetta, just do it. But keep tension on the rope so I’ll know as soon as I have it free.’

Ramón had a lifeline clipped on. He was leaning over the side, with a massive gutting knife in his hand. Reaching so far Jenny was sure he’d fall.

The whale could roll this way, she thought wildly, and if she did he could be crushed. He was supporting himself on the whale itself, his legs still on the boat, but leaning so far over he was holding onto the netting. Slicing. Slicing. As if the danger was nothing.

She tugged on. If the whale pulled away, she’d have to release her. They’d lose the anchor. They had this one chance. Please…

But the whale didn’t move, except for the steady rise and fall of the swell, where Jenny had to let out, reel in, let out, reel in, to try and keep Ramón’s base steady against her.

He was slicing and slicing and slicing, swearing and slicing some more, until suddenly the tension on Jenny’s rope was no longer there. The anchor lifted free, the net around the whale’s midriff dislodged. Jenny, still pulling, was suddenly reeling in a mass of netting and an anchor.

And Ramón was back in the boat, pulling with her.

One of the whale’s fins was free. The whale moved it a little, stretching, and she floated away. Not far. Twenty feet, no more.

The whale stilled again. One fin was not enough. She was still trapped.

On the far side of her, her calf nudged closer.

‘Again,’ Ramón said grimly as Jenny gunned the motor back into action and nosed close. He was already on top of the cabin, swinging the anchor rope once more. ‘If she’ll let us.’

‘You’ll hit the calf,’ she said, almost to herself, and then bit her tongue. Of all the stupid objections. She knew what his answer must be.

‘It’s risk the calf having a headache, or both of them dying. No choice.’

But he didn’t need to risk. As the arcs of the swinging anchor grew longer, the calf moved away again.

As if it knew.

And, once again, Ramón caught the net.

It took an hour, maybe longer, the times to catch the net getting longer as the amount of net left to cut off grew smaller. But they worked on, reeling her in, slicing, reeling her in, slicing, until the netting was a massive pile of rubbish on the deck.

Ramón was saving her, Jenny thought dazedly as she worked on. Every time he leaned out he was risking his life. She watched him work—and she fell in love.

She was magnificent. Ramón was working feverishly, slashing at the net while holding on to the rails and stretching as far as he could, but every moment he did he was aware of Jenny.

Gianetta.

She had total control of the anchor rope, somehow holding the massive whale against the side of the boat. But they both knew that to hold the boat in a fixed hold would almost certainly mean capsizing. What Jenny had to do was to work with the swells, holding the rope fast, then loosening it as the whale rose and the boat swayed, or the whale sank and the boat rose. Ramón had no room for anything but holding on to the boat and slashing but, thanks to Jenny, he had an almost stable platform to work with.

Tied together, boat and whale represented tonnage he didn’t want to think about, especially as he was risking slipping between the two.

He wouldn’t slip. Jenny was playing her part, reading the sea, watching the swell, focused on the whale in case she suddenly decided to roll or pull away…

She didn’t. Ramón could slash at will at the rope entrapment, knowing Jenny was keeping him safe.

He slipped once and he heard her gasp. He felt her hand grip his ankle.

He righted himself—it was okay—but the memory of her touch stayed.

Gianetta was watching out for him.

Gianetta. Where had she come from, this magical Gianetta?

It was working. Jenny was scarcely breathing. Please, please…

But somehow her prayers were being answered. Piece by piece the net was being cut away. Ramón was winning. They were both winning.

The last section to be removed was the netting and the ropes trapping and tying the massive tail, but catching this section was the hardest. Ramón threw and threw, but each time the anchor slipped uselessly behind the whale and into the sea.

To have come so far and not save her…Jenny felt sick.

But Ramón would not give up. His arm must be dropping off, she thought, but just as she reached the point where despair took over, the whale rolled. She stretched and lifted her tail as far as she could within the confines of the net, and in doing so she made a channel to trap the anchor line as Ramón threw. And her massive body edged closer to the boat.

Ramón threw again, and this time the anchor held.

Once more Jenny reeled her in and once more Ramón sliced. Again. Again. One last slash—and the last piece of rope came loose into his hands.

Ramón staggered back onto the deck and Jenny was hauling the anchor in one last time. He helped her reel it in, then they stood together in the mass of tangled netting on the deck, silent, awed, stunned, as the whale finally floated free. Totally free. The net was gone.

But there were still questions. Were they too late? Had she been trapped too long?

Ramón’s arm came round Jenny’s waist and held, but Jenny was hardly aware of it. Or maybe she was, but it was all part of this moment. She was breathing a plea and she knew the plea was echoing in Ramón’s heart as well as her own.

Please…

The whale was wallowing in the swell, rolling up and down, up and down. Her massive pectoral fins were free now. They moved stiffly outward, upward, over and over, while Jenny and Ramón held their breath and prayed.

The big tail swung lazily back and forth; she seemed to be stretching, feeling her freedom. Making sure the ropes were no longer there.

‘She can’t have been caught all that long,’ Jenny whispered, breathless with wonder. ‘Look at her tail. That rope was tied so tightly but there’s hardly a cut.’

‘She might have only just swum into it,’ Ramón said and Jenny was aware that her awe was echoed in his voice. His arm had tightened around her and it seemed entirely natural. This was a prayer shared. ‘If it was loosened from the shore by a storm it might have only hit her a day or so ago. The calf looks healthy enough.’

The calf was back at its mother’s side now, nudging against her flank. Then it dived, straight down into the deep, and Jenny managed a faltering smile.

‘He’ll be feeding. She must still have milk. Oh, Ramón…’

‘Gianetta,’ Ramón murmured back, and she knew he was feeling exactly what she was feeling. Awe, hope, wonder. They might, they just might, have been incredibly, wondrously lucky.

And then the big whale moved. Her body seemed to ripple. Everything flexed at once, her tail, her fins…She rolled away, almost onto her back, as if to say to her calf: No feeding, not yet, I need to figure if I’m okay.

And figure she did. She swam forward in front of the boat, speeding up, speeding up. Faster, faster she swam, with her calf speeding after her.

And then, just as they thought they’d lost sight of her, she came sweeping back, a vast majestic mass of glossy black muscle and strength and bulk. Then, not a hundred yards from the boat, she rolled again, only higher, so her body was half out of the water, stretching, arching back, her pectoral fins outstretched, then falling backward with a massive splash that reached them on the boat and soaked them to the skin.

Neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared.

The whale was sinking now, deep, so deep that only a mass of still water on the surface showed her presence. Then she burst up one more time, arched back once more—and she dived once more and they saw her print on the water above as she adjusted course and headed for the horizon, her calf tearing after her.

Two wild creatures returned to the deep.

Tears were sliding uselessly down Jenny’s face. She couldn’t stop them, any more than she could stop smiling. And she looked up at Ramón and saw his smile echo hers.

‘We did it,’ she breathed. ‘Ramón, we did it.’

‘We did,’ he said, and he tugged her hard against him, then swung her round so he was looking into her tear-stained face. ‘We did it, Gianetta, we saved our whale. And you were magnificent. Gianetta, you may be a Spanish-Australian woman in name but I believe you have your nationality wrong. A woman like you…I believe you’re worthy of being a woman of Cepheus.’

And then, before she knew what he intended, before she could guess anything at all, he lifted her into his arms and he kissed her.

Chapter Four

ONE moment she was gazing out at the horizon, catching the last shimmer of the whale’s wake on the translucence of the sea. The next she was being kissed as she’d never been kissed in her life.

His hands were lifting her, pulling her hard in against him so her feet barely touched the deck. His body felt rock-hard, the muscled strength he’d just displayed still at work, only now directed straight at her. Straight with her.

The emotions of the rescue were all around her. He was wet and wild and wonderful. She was soaking as well, and the dripping fabric of his shirt and hers meant their bodies seemed to cling and melt.

It felt right. It felt meant. It felt as if there was no room or sense to argue.

His mouth met hers again, his arms tightening around her so she was locked hard against him. He was so close she could feel the rapid beat of his heart. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her face had tilted instinctively, her mouth was caught…

Caught? Merged, more like. Two parts of a whole finding their home.

He tugged her tighter, tighter still against him, moulding her lips against his. She was hard against him, closer, closer, feeling him, tasting him, wanting him…

To be a part of him seemed suddenly as natural, as right, as breathing. To be kissed by this man was an extension of what had just happened.

Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was an extension of the whole of the last week.

Maybe she’d wanted this from the moment she’d seen him.

Either way, she certainly wasn’t objecting now. She heard herself give a tiny moan, almost a whimper, which was stupid because she didn’t feel the least like whimpering. She felt like shouting, Yes!

His mouth was demanding, his tongue was searching for an entry, his arms holding her so tightly now he must surely bruise. But he couldn’t hold her tight enough. She was holding him right back, desperate that she not be lowered, desperate that this miraculous contact not be lost.

He felt so good. He felt as if he was meant to be right here in her arms. That she’d been destined for this moment for ever and it had taken this long to find him.

He hadn’t shaved this morning. She could feel the stubble on his jaw, she could almost taste it. There was salt on his face—of course there was, he’d been practically submerged, over and over. He smelled of salt and sea, and of pure testosterone.

He tasted of Ramón.

‘Ramón.’ She heard herself whisper his name, or maybe it was in her heart, for how could she possibly whisper when he was kissing as if he was a man starved for a woman, starved of this woman? She knew so clearly what was happening, and she accepted it with elation. This woman was who he wanted and he’d take her, he wanted her, she was his and he was claiming his own.

Like the whale rolling joyously in the sea, she thought, dazed and almost delirious, this was nature; it was right, it was meant.

She was in his arms and she wasn’t letting go.

Ramón.

‘Gianetta…’ His voice was ragged with heat and desire. Somehow he dragged himself back from her and held her at arm’s length. ‘Gianetta, mia…’

‘If you’re asking if I want you, then the answer’s yes,’ she said huskily, and almost laughed at the look of blazing heat that came straight back at her. His eyes were almost black, gleaming with tenderness and want and passion. But something else. He wouldn’t take her yet. His eyes were searching.

‘I’ll take no woman against her will,’ he growled.

‘You think…you think this is against my will?’ she whispered, as the blaze of desire became almost white-hot and she pressed herself against him, forcing him to see how much this was not the case.

‘Gianetta,’ he sighed, and there was laughter now as well as wonder and desire. Before she could respond he had her in his arms, held high, cradled against him, almost triumphant.

‘You don’t think maybe we should set the automatic pilot or something?’ she murmured. ‘We’ll drift.’

‘The radar will tell us if we’re about to hit something big,’ he said, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘But it can’t pick up things like jellyfish, so there’s a risk. You want to risk death by jellyfish and come to my bed while we wait, my Gianetta?’

And what was a girl to say to an invitation like that?

‘Yes, please,’ she said simply and he kissed her and he held her tight and carried her down below.

To his bed. To his arms. To his pleasure.

‘She left port six days ago, heading for New Zealand.’

The lawyer stared at the boat builder in consternation. ‘You’re sure? The Marquita?’

‘That’s the one. The guy skippering her— Ramón, I think he said his name was—had her in dry dock here for a couple of days, checking the hull, but she sailed out on the morning tide on Monday. Took the best cook in the bay with him, too. Half the locals are after his blood. He’d better look after our Jenny.’

But the lawyer wasn’t interested in Ramón’s staff. He stood on the dock and stared out towards the harbour entrance as if he could see the Marquita sailing away.

‘You’re sure he was heading for Auckland?’

‘I am. You’re Spanish, right?’

‘Cepheus country,’ the lawyer said sharply. ‘Not Spain. But no matter. How long would it take the Marquita to get to Auckland?’

‘Coupla weeks,’ the boat builder told him. ‘Can’t see him hurrying. I wouldn’t hurry if I had a boat like the Marquita and Jenny aboard.’

‘So if I go to Auckland…’

‘I guess you’d meet him. If it’s urgent.’

‘It’s urgent,’the lawyer said grimly. ‘You have no idea how urgent.’

There was no urgency about the Marquita. If she took a year to reach Auckland it was too soon for Jenny.

Happiness was right now.

They could travel faster, but that would mean sitting by the wheel hour after hour, setting the sails to catch the slightest wind shift, being sailors.

Instead of being lovers.

She’d never felt like this. She’d melted against Ramón’s body the morning of the whales and she felt as if she’d melted permanently. She’d shape shifted, from the Jenny she once knew to the Gianetta Ramón loved.

For that was what it felt like. Loved. For the first time in her life she felt truly beautiful, truly desirable—and it wasn’t just for her body.

Yes, he made love to her, over and over, wonderful lovemaking that made her cry out in delight.

But more.

He wanted to know all about her.

He tugged blankets up on the deck. They lay in the sun and they solved the problems of the world. They watched dolphins surf in their wake. They fished. They compared toes to see whose little toe bent the most.

That might be ridiculous but there was serious stuff, too. Ramón now knew all about her parents, her life, her baby. She told him everything about Matty, she showed him pictures and he examined each of them with the air of a man being granted a privilege.

When Matty was smiling, Ramón smiled. She watched this big man respond to her baby’s smile and she felt her heart twist in a way she’d never thought possible.

He let the boom net down off the rear deck, and they surfed behind the boat, and when the wind came up it felt as if they were flying. They worked the sails as a team, setting them so finely that they caught up on time lost when they were below, lost in each other’s bodies.

He touched her and her body reacted with fire.

Don’t fall in love. Don’t fall in love. It was a mantra she said over and over in her head, but she knew it was hopeless. She was hopelessly lost.

It wouldn’t last. Like Kieran, this man was a nomad, a sailor of no fixed address, going where the wind took him.

He talked little about himself. She knew there’d been tragedy, the sister he’d loved, parents he’d lost, pain to make him shy from emotional entanglement.

Well, maybe she’d learned that lesson, too. So savour the moment, she told herself. For now it was wonderful. Each morning she woke in Ramón’s arms and she thought: Ramón had employed her for a year! When they got back to Europe conceivably the owner would join them. She could go back to being crew. But Ramón would be crew as well, and the nights were long, and owners never stayed aboard their boats for ever.

‘Tell me about the guy who owns this boat,’ she said, two days out of Auckland and she watched a shadow cross Ramón’s face. She was starting to know him so well—she watched him when he didn’t know it—his strongly boned, aquiline face, his hooded eyes, the smile lines, the weather lines from years at sea.

What had suddenly caused the shadow?

‘He’s rich,’ he said shortly. ‘He trusts me. What else do you need to know?’

‘Well, whether he likes muffins, for a start,’ she said, with something approaching asperity, which was a bit difficult as she happened to be entwined in Ramón’s arms as she spoke and asperity was a bit hard to manage. Breathless was more like it.

‘He loves muffins,’ Ramón said.

‘He’ll be used to richer food than I can cook. Do you usually employ someone with special training?’

‘He eats my cooking.’

‘Really?’ She frowned and sat up in bed, tugging the sheet after her. She’d seen enough of Ramón’s culinary skills to know what an extraordinary statement this was. ‘He’s rich and he eats your cooking?’

‘As I said, he’ll love your muffins.’

‘So when will you next see him?’

‘Back in Europe,’ Ramón said, and sighed. ‘He’ll have to surface then, but not now. Not yet. There’s three months before we have to face the world. Do you think we can be happy for three months, cariño?’ And he tugged her back down to him.

‘If you keep calling me cariño,’ she whispered. ‘Are we really being paid for this?’

He chuckled but then his smile faded once more. ‘You know it can’t last, my love. I will need to move on.’

‘Of course you will,’ she whispered, but she only said it because it was the sensible, dignified thing to say. A girl had some pride.

Move on?

She never wanted to move on. If her world could stay on this boat, with this man, for ever, she wasn’t arguing at all.

She slept and Ramón held her in his arms and tried to think of the future.

He didn’t have to think. Not yet. It was three months before he was due to leave the boat and return to Bangladesh.

Three months before he needed to tell Jenny the truth.

She could stay with the boat, he thought, if she wanted to. He always employed someone to stay on board while he was away. She could take that role.

Only that meant Jenny would be in Cepheus while he was in Bangladesh.

He’d told her he needed to move on. It was the truth.

Maybe she could come with him.

The idea hit and stayed. His team always had volunteers to act as manual labour. Would Jenny enjoy the physical demands of construction, of helping make life bearable for those who had nothing?

Maybe she would.

What was he thinking? He’d never considered taking a woman to Bangladesh. He’d never considered that leaving a woman behind seemed unthinkable.

Gianetta…

His arms tightened their hold and she curved closer in sleep. He smiled and kissed the top of her head. Her curls were so soft.

Maybe he could sound her out about Bangladesh.

Give it time, he told himself, startled by the direction his thoughts were taking him. You’ve known her for less than two weeks.

Was it long enough?

There was plenty of time after Auckland. It was pretty much perfect right now, he thought. Let’s not mess with perfection. He’d just hold this woman and hope that somehow the love he’d always told himself was an illusion might miraculously become real.

Anything was possible.

‘How do you know he’ll sail straight to Auckland?’

In the royal palace of Cepheus, Sofía was holding the telephone and staring into the middle distance, seeing not the magnificent suits of armour in the grand entrance but a vision of an elderly lawyer pacing anxiously on an unknown dock half a world away. She could understand his anxiety. Things in the palace were reaching crisis point.

The little boy had gone into foster care yesterday. Philippe needed love, Sofía thought bleakly. His neglect here—all his physical needs met, but no love, little affection, just a series of disinterested nannies—seemed tantamount to child abuse, and the country knew of it. She’d found him lovely foster parents, but his leaving the palace was sending the wrong message to the population—as if Ramón himself didn’t care for the child.

Did Ramón even know about him?

‘I don’t know for sure where the Prince will sail,’ the lawyer snapped. ‘But I can hope. He’ll want to restock fast to get around the Horn. It makes sense for him to come here.’

‘So you’ll wait.’

‘Of course I’ll wait. What else can I do?’

‘But there’s less than two weeks to go,’ Sofía wailed. ‘What if he’s delayed?’

‘Then we have catastrophe,’ the lawyer said heavily. ‘He has to get here. Then he has to get back to Cepheus and accept his new life.’

‘And the child?’

‘It doesn’t matter about the child.’

Yes, it does, Sofía thought. Oh, Ramón, what are you facing?

They sailed into Auckland Harbour just after dawn. Jenny stood in the bow, ready to jump across to shore with the lines, ready to help in any way she could with berthing the Marquita. Ramón was at the wheel. She glanced back at him and had a pang of misgivings.

They hadn’t been near land for two weeks. Why did it feel as if the world was waiting to crowd in?

How could it? Their plan was to restock and be gone again. Their idyll could continue.

But they’d booked a berth with the harbour master. Ramón had spoken to the authorities an hour ago, and after that he’d looked worried.

‘Problem?’ she’d asked.

‘Someone’s looking for me.’

‘Debt collectors?’ she’d teased, but he hadn’t smiled.

‘I don’t have debts.’

‘Then who…?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, and his worry sounded as if it was increasing. ‘No one knows where I am.’

‘Conceivably the owner knows.’

‘What…?’ He caught himself. ‘I…yes. But he won’t be here. I can’t think…’

That was all he’d said but she could see worry building.

She turned and looked towards the dock. She’d looked at the plan the harbour master had faxed through and from here she could see the berth that had been allocated to them.

There was someone standing on the dock, at the berth, as if waiting. A man in a suit.

It must be the owner, she thought.

She glanced back at Ramón and saw him flinch.

‘Rodriguez,’ he muttered, and in the calm of the early morning she heard him swear. ‘Trouble.’

‘Is he the boat’s owner?’

‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘He’s legal counsel to the Crown of Cepheus. I’ve met him once or twice when he had business with my grandmother. If he’s here…I hate to imagine what he wants of me.’

Señor Rodriguez was beside himself. He had ten days to save a country. He glanced at his watch as the Marquita sailed slowly towards her berth, fretting as if every second left was vital.

What useless display of skill was this, to sail into harbour when motoring would be faster? And why was the woman in the bow, rather than Ramón himself? He needed to talk to Ramón, now!

The boat edged nearer. ‘Can you catch my line?’ the woman called, and he flinched and moved backward. He knew nothing about boats.

But it seemed she could manage without him. She jumped lightly over a gap he thought was far too wide, landing neatly on the dock, then hauled the boat into position and made her fast as Ramón tugged down the last sail.

‘Good morning,’ the woman said politely, casting him a curious glance. And maybe she was justified in her curiosity. He was in his customary suit, which he acknowledged looked out of place here. The woman was in the uniform of the sea—faded shorts, a T-shirt and nothing else. She looked windblown and free. Momentarily, he was caught by how good she looked, but only for an instant. His attention returned to Ramón.

‘Señor Rodriguez,’ Ramón called to him, cautious and wary.

‘You remember me?’

‘Yes,’ Ramón said shortly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ the lawyer said, speaking in the mix of French and Spanish that formed the Cepheus language. ‘As long as you come home.’

‘My home’s on the Marquita. You know that.’

‘Not any more it’s not,’ the lawyer said. ‘Your uncle and your cousin are dead. As of four weeks ago, you’re the Crown Prince of Cepheus.’

There was silence. Jenny went on making all secure while Ramón stared at the man on the dock as if he’d spoken a foreign language.

Which he had, but Jenny had been raised speaking Spanish like a native, and she’d picked up French at school. There were so many similarities in form she’d slipped into it effortlessly. Now…She’d missed the odd word but she understood what the lawyer had said.

Or she thought she understood what he’d said.

Crown Prince of Cepheus. Ramón.

It might make linguistic sense. It didn’t make any other sort of sense.

‘My uncle’s dead?’ Ramón said at last, his voice without inflexion.

‘In a light plane crash four weeks ago. Your uncle, your cousin and your cousin’s wife, all killed. Only there’s worse. It seems your cousin wasn’t really married—he brought the woman he called his wife home and shocked his father and the country by declaring he was married, but now we’ve searched for proof, we’ve found none. So the child, Philippe, who stood to be heir, is illegitimate. You stand next in line. But if you’re not home in ten days then Carlos inherits.’

‘Carlos!’ The look of flat shock left Ramón’s face, replaced by anger, pure and savage. ‘You’re saying Carlos will inherit the throne?’

‘Not if you come home. You must see that’s the only way.’

‘No!’

‘Think about it.’

‘I’ve thought.’

‘Leave the woman to tend the boat and come with me,’ Señor Rodriguez said urgently. ‘We need to speak privately.’

‘The woman’s name is Gianetta.’ Ramón’s anger seemed to be building. ‘I won’t leave her.’

The man cast an uninterested glance at Jenny, as if she was of no import. Which, obviously, was the case. ‘Regardless, you must come.’

‘I can look after the boat,’ Jenny said, trying really hard to keep up. I won’t leave her. There was a declaration. But he obviously meant it for right now. Certainly not for tomorrow.

Crown Prince of Cepheus?

‘There’s immigration…’ Ramón said.

‘I can sort my papers out,’ she said. ‘The harbour master’s office is just over there. You do what you have to do on the way to wherever you’re going. Have your discussion and then come back and tell me what’s happening.’

‘Jenny…’

But she was starting to add things together in her head and she wasn’t liking them. Crown Prince of Cepheus.

‘I guess the Marquita would be your boat, then?’ she asked flatly, and she saw him flinch.

‘Yes, but…’

She felt sick. ‘There you go,’ she managed, fighting for dignity. ‘The owner’s needs always come first. I’ll stow the sails and make all neat. Then I might go for a nice long walk and let off a little steam. I’ll see you later.’

And Ramón cast her a glance where frustration, anger—and maybe even a touch of envy—were combined.

‘If you can…’

‘Of course I can,’ she said, almost cordially. ‘We’re on land again. I can stand on my own two feet.’

There were complications everywhere, and all he could think of was Jenny. Gianetta. His woman.

The flash of anger he’d seen when he’d confessed that he did indeed own the Marquita; the look of betrayal…

She’d think he’d lied to her. She wouldn’t understand what else was going on, but the lie would be there, as if in flashing neon.

Yes, he’d lied.

He needed to concentrate on the lawyer.

The throne of Cepheus was his.

Up until now there’d never been a thought of him inheriting. Neither his uncle nor his cousin, Cristián, had ever invited Ramón near the palace. He knew the country had been in dread of Cristián becoming Crown Prince but there was nothing anyone could do about it. Cristián had solidified his inheritance by marrying and having a child. The boy must be what, five?

For him to be proved illegitimate…

‘I can’t even remember the child’s name,’ he said across the lawyer’s stream of explanations, and the lawyer cast him a reproachful glance.

‘Philippe.’

‘How old?’

‘Five,’ he confirmed.

‘So what happens to Philippe?’

‘Nothing,’ the lawyer said. ‘He has no rights. With his parents dead, your aunt has organized foster care, and if you wish to make a financial settlement on him I imagine the country will be relieved. There’s a certain amount of anger…’

‘You mean my cousin didn’t make provision for his own son?’

‘Your cousin and your uncle spent every drop of their personal incomes on themselves, on gambling, on…on whatever they wished. The Crown itself, however, is very wealthy. You, with the fortune your grandmother left you and the Crown to take care of your every need, will be almost indecently rich. But the child has nothing.’

He felt sick. A five-year-old child. To lose everything…

He’d been not much older than Philippe when he’d lost his own father.

It couldn’t matter. It shouldn’t be his problem. He didn’t even know the little boy…

‘I’ll take financial care of the child,’ Ramón said shortly. ‘But I can’t drop everything. I have twelve more weeks at sea and then I’m due in Bangladesh.’

‘Your team already knows you won’t be accompanying them this year,’ the lawyer told him flatly, leaving no room for argument. ‘And I’ve found an experienced yachtsman who’s prepared to sail the Marquita back to Cepheus for you. We can be on a flight tonight, and even that’s not soon enough.’ Then, as the lawyer noticed Ramón’s face—and Ramón was making no effort to disguise his fury—he added quickly, ‘There’s mounting hysteria over the mess your uncle and cousin left, and there’s massive disquiet about Carlos inheriting.’

‘As well there might be,’ Ramón growled, trying hard to stay calm. Ramón’s distant cousin was an indolent gamester, rotund, corrupt and inept. He’d faced the court more than once, but charges had been dropped, because of bribery? He wasn’t close enough to the throne to know.

‘He’s making noises that the throne should be his. Blustering threats against you and your aunt.’

‘Threats?’ And there it was again, the terror he’d been raised with. ‘Don’t go near the throne. Ever!’

‘If the people rise against the throne…’ the lawyer was saying.

‘Maybe that would be a good thing.’

‘Maybe it’d be a disaster,’ the man said, and proceeded to tell him why. At every word Ramón felt his world disintegrate. There was no getting around it—the country was in desperate need of a leader, of some sort of stability…of a Crown Prince.

‘So you see,’ the lawyer said at last, ‘you have to come. Go back to the boat, tell the woman—she’s your only crew?—what’s happening, pack your bags and we’ll head straight to the airport.’

And there was nothing left for him but to agree. To take his place in a palace that had cost his family everything.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, feeling ill.

‘Tonight.’

‘I will spend tonight with Gianetta,’ Ramón growled, and the lawyer raised his brows.

‘Like that?’

‘Like nothing,’ Ramón snapped. ‘She deserves an explanation.’

‘It’s not as if you’re sacking her,’ the lawyer said. ‘I’ve only hired one man to replace you. She’ll still be needed. She can help bring the Marquita home and then you can pay her off.’

‘I’ve already paid her.’

‘Then there’s no problem.’ The lawyer rose and so did Ramón. ‘Tonight.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Ramón snapped and looked at the man’s face and managed a grim smile. ‘Consider it my first royal decree. Book the tickets for tomorrow’s flights.’

‘But…’

‘I will not argue,’ Ramón said. ‘I’ve a mind to wash my hands of the whole business and take Marquita straight back out to sea.’ Then, at the wash of undisguised distress on the lawyer’s face, he sighed and relented. ‘But, of course, I won’t,’ he said. ‘You know I won’t. I will return with you to Cepheus. I’ll do what I must to resolve this mess, I’ll face Carlos down, but you will give me one more night.’

Chapter Five

SHE walked for four long hours, and then she found an Internet café and did some research. By the time she returned to the boat she was tired and hungry and her anger hadn’t abated one bit.

Ramón was the Crown Prince of Cepheus. What sort of dangerous mess had she walked into?

She’d slept with a prince?

Logically, it shouldn’t make one whit of difference that he was royal, but it did, and she felt used and stupid and very much like a star-struck teenager. All that was needed was the paparazzi. Images of headlines flashed through her head—Crown Prince of Cepheus Takes Stupid, Naive Australian Lover—and as she neared the boat she couldn’t help casting a furtive glance over her shoulder to check the thought had no foundation.

It didn’t—of course it didn’t. There was only Ramón, kneeling on the deck, calmly sealing the ends of new ropes.

He glanced up and saw her coming. He smiled a welcome, but she was too sick at heart to smile back.

For a few wonderful days she’d let herself believe this smile could be for her.

She felt besmirched.

‘I’ve just come back to get my things,’ she said flatly before he had a chance to speak.

‘You’re leaving?’ His eyes were calmly appraising.

‘Of course I’m leaving.’

‘To go where?’

‘I’ll see if I can get a temporary job here. As soon as I can get back to Australia I’ll organize some way of repaying the loan.’

‘There’s no need for you to repay…’

‘There’s every need,’ she flashed, wanting to stamp her foot; wanting, quite badly, to cry. ‘You think I want to be in your debt for one minute more than I must? I’ve read about you on the Internet now. It doesn’t matter whether anyone died or not. You were a prince already.’

‘Does that make a difference?’ he asked, still watchful, and his very calmness added to her distress.

‘Of course it does. I’ve been going to bed with a prince,’ she wailed, and the couple on board their cruiser in the next berth choked on their lunch time Martinis.

But Ramón didn’t notice. He had eyes only for her. ‘You went to bed with me,’ he said softly. ‘Not with a prince.’

‘You are a prince.’

‘I’m just Ramón, Gianetta.’

‘Don’t Gianetta me,’ she snapped. ‘That’s your bedroom we slept in. Not the owner’s. Here I was thinking we were doing something illicit…’

‘Weren’t we?’ he demanded and a glint of humour returned to his dark eyes.

‘It was your bed all along,’ she wailed and then, finally, she made a grab at composure. The couple on the next boat were likely to lose their eyes; they were out on stalks. Dignity, she told herself desperately. Please.

‘So I own the boat,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m a prince. What more do you know of me?’

‘Apparently very little,’ she said bitterly. ‘I seem to have told you my whole life story. It appears you’ve only told me about two minutes of yours. Apparently you’re wealthy, fabulously wealthy, and you’re royal. The Internet bio was sketchy, but you spend your time either on this boat or fronting some charity organisation.’

‘I do more than that.’

But she was past hearing. She was past wanting to hear. She felt humiliated to her socks, and one fact stood out above all the rest. She’d never really known him.

‘So when you saw me you thought here’s a little more charity,’ she threw at him, anger making her almost incoherent. ‘I’ll take this poverty-stricken, flour-streaked muffin-maker and show her a nice time.’

‘A flour-streaked muffin-maker?’ he said and, infuriatingly, the laughter was back. ‘I guess if you want to describe yourself as that…Okay, fine, I rescued the muffin-maker. And we did have a nice time. No?’

But she wasn’t going there. She was not being sucked into that smile ever again. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said, and she swung herself down onto the deck. She was heading below, but Ramón was before her, blocking her path.

‘Jenny, you’re still contracted to take my boat to Cepheus.’

‘You don’t need me…’

‘You signed a contract. Yesterday, as I remember—and it was you who wanted it signed before we came into port.’ His hands were on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze, and her anger was suddenly matched with his. ‘So you’ve been on the Internet. Do you understand why I have to return?’

And she did understand. Sort of. She’d read and read and read. ‘It seems your uncle and cousin are dead,’ she said flatly. ‘There’s a huge scandal because it seems your cousin wasn’t married after all, so his little son can’t inherit. So you get to be Crown Prince.’ Even now, she couldn’t believe she was saying it. Crown Prince. It was like some appalling twisted fairy tale. Kiss a frog, have him turn into a prince.

She wanted her frog back.

‘I don’t have a choice in this,’ he said harshly. ‘You need to believe that.’ Before she could stop him, he put the back of his hand against her cheek and ran it down to her lips, a touch so sensuous that it made a shiver run right down to her toes. But there was anger behind the touch—and there was also…Regret? ‘Gianetta, for you to go…’

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