Читать книгу Who Are You?: A life in danger. A race against time. - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

The trip had turned out to be just what Margo was hoping for. Each morning she would put on a bikini, wrap herself in a pareo, and head for her secret space. She had brought a stack of books in her suitcase and there were three more in the big straw bag she had bought on the pier in Aruba. But so far she hadn’t opened one.

It had seemed enough to lie in the sun and sleep and think and dream. She took her meals alone on the balcony of her stateroom, watching the sky show off its multiple colours. The idea of having a conversation of any sort with anyone was just too much for Margo to contemplate.

She had brought several scrapbooks, mementos of life with a father who, despite his long absences, had done his best to understand a daughter who was nothing like himself. Looking through the photographs, remembering, she was finally able to put away regrets over what they hadn’t had, and celebrate the life they did have together.

The fact that he had left her an immensely wealthy woman was of little consequence to Margo. But she was aware that money would give her freedom to choose how to live the next chapter of her life.

On the sixth day out of Miami, the day everything would change, the ship had sailed from Cartagena just before five. The sky that evening was a vivid blue streaked with pink the colour of flamingos. The wind had gone down and a gentle breeze touched the warm air.

Margo had convinced her steward to set up dinner at her special place on the deck. She had decided on pink champagne to accompany her Dover sole. It felt right, somehow. She felt right too; finally at peace with her memories.

After dinner she lay down on her lounge chair to watch the light leave the sky. She had certainly not intended to fall asleep.

Margo would never be quite sure what had awakened her. Was it the soft ‘clunk’ she heard, or thought she heard? Or was it the rumble of an engine, different, somehow, to the slow thrumming of the cruise ship’s giant turbines? She didn’t move a muscle. Whatever was happening, she sensed she wasn’t supposed to witness it.

Then, suddenly, he was in front of her. It was a toss-up as to which of the two was more startled.

‘Don’t scream!’ he said quietly.

‘I wasn’t going to scream,’ she said indignantly, when she was able to speak.

He smiled at her. ‘You don’t look like the screaming type.’

‘I am, however, thinking of hitting you over the head with this champagne bottle.’

It was hard to sound fierce looking into those intense blue eyes. He was ruggedly handsome and was wearing a very unseasonable trench coat that appeared to have lots of mileage on it.

The man had some hard miles on him as well, she decided.

Also, there was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Pain? Sadness? She wasn’t sure. But she knew immediately there was more to this man than met the eye.

He eyed the champagne bottle she had threatened him with. ‘Is the bottle full?’ he asked.

‘Half.’

‘Using it as a club would be a terrible waste of good champagne.’ The man’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. ‘At least, I would assume everything on this ship is good, given the price of my ticket.’

‘Your ticket?’ she said, eyeing him.

He took her glass from the table, filled it, and handed it to Margo. He emptied her water glass over the rail and poured some champagne for himself. He raised his glass. ‘Bon voyage.’

She never took her eyes off him. ‘Bon voyage.’

He drank down the glass in one gulp. ‘Warm.’

‘Had I known you were coming I would have ordered more ice.’

For some reason she was not the least bit afraid of this man who appeared out of the night in the middle of the sea. ‘And if you actually did buy a ticket, you got cheated on the embarkation. The rest of us boarded via a wood-panelled gangway rather than scaling the side of the ship on a rope. Plus, there were hors d’oeuvres.’

‘I’ll ask for a refund,’ he said, taking off thin leather gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of his coat. He took a lethal-looking knife from another pocket and cut the rope, which was still hooked over the railing. He let it drop to the sea below. Margo heard the splash when it landed.

‘I guess I should introduce myself since I drank most of your champagne. Jack. Jack McCarthy.’

‘Margo,’ she replied. ‘But I’m not telling you my last name until I find out if you’re some sort of a pirate.’

‘Just a scientist, I’m afraid, a dull man with a dull job. I overslept and missed the sailing, so some friends gave me a lift.’

Margo studied him, wondering how much of what he was saying was true.

‘Now, if you’ll allow it, I’d like to buy you a real drink at a proper temperature. How do you feel about Scotch?’

Margo decided she didn’t care if he was telling the truth about himself or not. ‘Crazy about it,’ she said. ‘Single malt, neat.’

‘Done,’ he said.

He removed his raincoat and stuffed it into a lifeboat suspended nearby. Under the coat he was perfectly dressed for an evening in the Caribbean.

He offered his arm. Margo took it with a grin and they headed across the deck toward the lounge.

Jack McCarthy appeared to be another passenger out for a moonlit stroll, not a mysterious stranger who had just scaled the side of a moving ship in the middle of the night.