Читать книгу Cinderella And The Billionaire - Marion Lennox - Страница 12

‘YOU EMPLOYED ME to act as a fishing guide. Now you want me to act as a glorified taxi driver? And in Bertha? Four hours out and four hours back, with overnight stays? Is she even safe?’

‘She’s safe as houses.’ Charlie’s voice was smooth as silk as he patted the reservation book with satisfaction. ‘This is a last-minute booking, Bertha’s the only boat available and Jeff’s rung in sick. Have you any idea how much this guy’s prepared to pay? Never mind,’ he added hastily, no doubt figuring Meg would up her wage demands if she knew. ‘But it’s enough to give you a decent bonus.’

‘Charlie, I’ve been out since dawn on a fishing charter. I’m filthy. I’m off for the next three days. I have five acres of grass to slash and it’s almost fire season. If I don’t get it done now the council will be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Sell that place and move into town,’ Charlie said easily. ‘I know it was your grandpa’s, but sentimentality gets you nowhere. Look,’ he said placatingly. ‘You do this job, and I’ll send Graham out to slash the place for you.’

Charlie’s son. Not in a million years.

‘You’re kidding. Knowing Graham, he’d slash the house before he touched the grass. Charlie, I’m not about to drop everything and spend the next three days ferrying some cashed-up tourist with more money than sense. Why does he want to go to Garnett Island anyway? No one goes there.’

‘I do.’

The voice made her jump.

She’d been leaning over the counter of Rowan Bay’s only charter boat company, focusing on Charlie. Not that Charlie was anything to focus on. He was flabby, florid, and he smelled of fish.

The guy who’d walked in was hitting six feet, maybe even more, lean, ripped, tanned. Sleek? The word seemed to fit. In the circles Meg O’Hara moved in, this guy was...well, a fish out of water.

Or a shark? His smart chinos, his butter-soft leather jacket, his brogues all screamed money. His hair looked as if it had been cut yesterday, conservative and classy, every jet-black wave knowing its place.

And his eyes...

Dark as deep water, they were watching her and asking questions. She found herself getting flustered just looking into those eyes.

‘I’m Matt McLellan,’ he said softly, but there was a growl underneath, an inherent threat. Was it...don’t mess with me? ‘You’re booked to take me to Garnett Island. Is there a problem?’

Charlie stood up so fast his chair fell over behind him. He grabbed a grubby notepad from beside the phone, wrote a figure on it and shoved it across the desk at Meg.

She glanced down at it and turned bug-eyed.

‘That’d be my cut?’ she asked incredulously. What had this guy offered Charlie?

‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly and surged around the desk to take the stranger’s hand. ‘There’s no problem, Mr. McLellan. This is Meg O’Hara, your skipper. She’ll take you out, anchor until you have the little one settled and then bring you back.’

‘Little one?’ Meg asked.

‘He’s taking a boy out to his grandmother,’ Charlie said, talking too fast. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, sir?’

‘That’s right.’ The man dropped Charlie’s hand and glanced at his own. She saw an almost-instinctive urge to wipe it.

She didn’t blame him. Charlie’s hands... Ugh.

Though she glanced down at herself and thought... I’m almost as bad.

‘But you have reservations?’ he said. He’d obviously overheard. ‘The boat?’

‘We had the boat in dry dock just last week,’ Charlie said. ‘I checked her personally. And Meg here is one of our most experienced skippers. Ten years of commercial fishing and another two years taking fishing charters. There’s nothing about the sea she doesn’t know.’

‘She doesn’t look old enough to have done any of those things.’

‘Is that a compliment or what?’ It was time she was part of this conversation, Meg decided. She knew she looked young, and her jeans, baggy windcheater, short copper curls and no make-up wouldn’t be helping. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I started fishing with my grandfather when I was sixteen. He got sick when I was twenty-five so we sold the boat and I took a part-time job helping Charlie with fishing charters. My granddad died six months ago, so I can now take longer charters.’ She glanced at the note Charlie had given her. This amount... She could even get the leak over the washhouse fixed. ‘The boy... Is he your son?’

‘I don’t have a son.’

Hmm. If she was going to be forthcoming, so was he.

‘I’m not about to let you take a kid I know nothing about and dump him on Garnett Island.’ She planted her feet square and met him eye to eye. ‘Garnett Island’s four hours off the mainland. As far as I know, Peggy Lakey lives there and no one else.’

‘Peggy’s Henry’s grandmother.’

‘Really?’ Local lore said Peggy had no relatives at all. ‘How old’s Henry?’

‘Seven.’

‘He’s going on a holiday?’

‘To stay.’

‘Is that right? Are you his legal guardian?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘If you want my help it’s very much my business.’ Behind her she could see Charlie almost weep. The figure he’d scrawled represented a month’s takings and that was only her cut. But she had to ignore the money. This was a kid. ‘You’re American, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Henry’s American, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must have had documentation allowing you to bring him out of the country. Giving you authority. Can I see?’

‘Meg!’ Charlie was almost wringing his hands but Charlie wasn’t the one being asked to leave a child on an almost-deserted island.

‘You can see,’ he said and flipped a wad of documents from an inside pocket and laid them on the desk. Then he glanced outside, as if checking. For the child?

‘Where’s Henry now?’ she asked.

‘We just had fish and chips. He’s feeding the leftovers to the seagulls.’

‘Greasy food before heading to sea? Does he get seasick?’

That brought a frown. ‘I didn’t think...’

She was flipping through the documents. ‘These say you’re not even related.’

‘I’m not related,’ he said and then obviously decided the easiest way to get past her belligerence was to be forthcoming.

‘I’m a lawyer and financial analyst in Manhattan,’ he said. ‘Henry’s mother, Amanda, is...was...a lawyer in my company. She was a single mother and no one’s ever been told who Henry’s father is. Henry’s quiet. When he’s not in school he sits in her office or out in the reception area. He reads or watches his notepad. Then two weeks ago, Amanda was killed. She was on her phone, she walked into traffic and suddenly there was no one for Henry.’

‘Oh...’ And her head switched from distrust to distress, just like that. Her own parents... A car crash. She’d been eleven.

Her grandparents had been with her from the moment she’d woken in the hospital. She had a sudden vision of a seven-year-old who sat in a reception area and read.

There was no one for Henry.

But she wasn’t paid to be emotional. She was paid to get the job done.

‘So...your relationship with him?’ She was leafing through the documents, trying to get a grip.

‘I’m no relation.’ His voice was suddenly bleak. ‘Sometimes he sits in my office while I work. It was term break, so he was with me when we heard of his mother’s death. The birth certificate names the father as Steven Walker but gives no details. We haven’t been able to track him down and no one else seems to care. Apart from Peggy.’

And just like that, her bristles turned to fluff.

‘Garnett Island?’ she said, hauling herself—with difficulty—away from the image she was starting to have of a bereft seven-year-old sitting in a lawyer’s office when someone came to tell him his mum was dead.

‘As far as we can find out, Peggy Lakey’s now Henry’s only living relative,’ he told her. ‘Peggy’s his maternal grandmother. Unless we can find his father, she has full say in his upbringing.’

‘So why didn’t she get straight on a plane?’ The solitude of Henry was still all around her.

‘She says she turns into a whimpering heap at the sight of a plane. I’ve talked to her via her radio set-up. She sounds sensible, but flying’s not an option. She made arrangements for an escort service to collect Henry and bring him to her, but, at the last minute, I...’

‘You couldn’t let him travel alone.’

The last of her bristles disintegrated. For some stupid reason she felt her eyes fill. She swiped a hand across her cheek—and felt an oil streak land where the tear had been. Good one, Meg.

‘So is that enough?’ Matt McLellan’s tone turned acerbic, moving on. ‘Can we leave?’

‘After I’ve double-checked Bertha,’ she told him with a sideways glance at Charlie. He’d checked her personally? Yeah, and she was a monkey’s uncle. She could at least give the engine a quick once-over. ‘And when you and Henry have taken seasickness tablets and let them settle. Bass Strait, Mr McLellan, is not for pussies.’

* * *

What was he doing here?

The Cartland case was nearing closure. He had to trust his staff not to mess things up.

He checked his phone and almost groaned. No reception.

‘There’s not a lot of connectivity in the Southern Ocean.’ The skipper—if you could call this slip of a kid a skipper—was being helpful. ‘You can use the radio if it’s urgent.’

He’d heard her on the radio. It was a static-filled jumble. Besides, the boat was lurching. A lot.

The boat he was on was a rusty thirty-foot tub. ‘She’s all that’s available,’ Charlie had told him. ‘You want any better, you’ll have to wait until Monday.’

He needed to be back in New York by Monday, so he was stuck.

At least his instinct to distrust everyone in this tinpot hire company hadn’t gone so far as to refuse the pills Meg had insisted on. For which he was now incredibly grateful. His arm was around Henry, holding him close. Henry was almost deathly silent, completely withdrawn, but at least he wasn’t throwing up.

They were almost an hour out of Rowan Bay. Three hours to go before they reached Garnett Island.

He thought, not for the first time, how much better a helicopter would have been.

There’d been no helicopters. Apparently there were bush fires inland. Any available chopper had been diverted to firefighting or surveillance, and the ones remaining had been booked up well before he’d decided to come.

Beside him, Henry whimpered and huddled closer. There had been no choice. The thought of sending him here with an unknown travel escort had left him cold.

Dumping him on an isolated island left him cold.

He had no choice.

‘Boof!’

He glanced up. Meg had turned to look at Henry, but she was calling her dog?

They’d met Boof as they’d boarded. He was a rangy red-brown springer spaniel, turning grey in the dignified way of elderly dogs. He’d given them a courteous dog greeting as they’d boarded but Henry had cringed. Taking the hint, the dog had headed to the bow and acted like the carvings Matt had seen on ancient boats in the movies. Nose to the wind, ears flying, he looked fantastic.

Now...one word from Meg and he was by her side.

Meg was fishing deep in the pocket of what looked a truly disgusting oilskin jacket. She produced a plastic packet. Then she lashed the wheel and came over and knelt before Henry.

‘Henry,’ she said.

Henry didn’t respond. Matt felt his little body shake, and with that came the familiar surge of anger on the child’s behalf.

In anyone’s books, Amanda had been an appalling mother.

Henry had been lonely when Amanda was alive and he was even more alone now.

Meg had obviously decided to join the list of those who felt sorry for the little boy. Now she knelt with her dog beside her, her bag in her hand, and she waited.

‘Henry?’ she said again.

There was a muffled sniff. There’d been a lot of those lately. Matt’s hold on him tightened and slowly the kid’s face emerged.

They were both wearing sou’westers Meg had given them. Henry’s wan face emerging from a sea of yellow made Matt’s heart lurch. He was helpless with this kid. He had no rights at all and now he was taking him...who knew where?

‘Henry, Boof hasn’t had dinner,’ Meg said and waited.

The lashed wheel was doing its job. They were heading into the wind. The boat’s action had settled a little.

The sea was all around them. They seemed cocooned, an island of humanity and dog in the middle of nowhere.

‘Boof needs to be fed,’ Meg said, as if it didn’t matter too much. ‘He loves being fed one doggy bit at a time, and I have to go back to the wheel. Do you think you could feed Boof for me?’

There was an almost-imperceptible shake of the head.

Unperturbed, Meg opened the packet. ‘I guess I can do the first bit. Boof, sit.’

Boof sat right before her.

‘Ask,’ Meg said.

Boof dropped to the deck, looked imploringly up at Meg, then went back to sitting. He raised a paw. Please?

Matt almost laughed.

That was saying something. There hadn’t been any laughter in the last two weeks.

But Meg’s face was solemn. ‘Great job, Boof,’ she told him and offered one doggy bit. Boof appeared to consider, then delicately accepted.

And Henry was transfixed.

‘Does he do that all the time?’ he whispered.

‘His table manners are perfect,’ Meg said, giving Boof a hug. ‘Boof, would you like another one? Ask.’

The performance was repeated, with the addition of a sweep of wagging tail. This was obviously a performance Boof enjoyed.

There were quite a few doggy bits.

But Meg glanced back at the wheel. ‘Boof, sorry, you’ll have to wait.’ She headed back to the wheel, and Boof dropped to the deck, dejection in every fibre of his being.

‘Can’t you give him the rest?’ Henry ventured, and Matt could have cheered.

‘If I have time later.’ Meg’s attention was back on the ocean.

And Matt could feel Henry’s tension.

From the time he’d heard of his mother’s death, he’d been almost rigid. With shock? Fear? Who knew? He’d accepted the news without a word.

Social Services had been there early. Talking to Matt. If there’s no one, we’ll take care of him until we can contact his grandmother.

Matt hardly had the time or the skills to care for a child, but in the face of Henry’s stoic acceptance his voice had seemed to come from nowhere.

I’ll take care of him, he’d said.

Almost immediately he’d thought, What have I done?

To say Matt McLellan wasn’t a family man was to put it mildly. He’d been an only child with distant parents. He’d had a few longer-term lovers, but they’d been women who followed his rules. Career and independence came first.

Matt had been raised pretty much the same as Henry. Care had been paid for by money. But he hadn’t been deserted when he was seven. His almost-visceral reaction to Henry’s loss had shocked him.

So Henry had come home to Matt’s apartment. The place had great views overlooking the Hudson. It had the best that money could buy when it came to furnishings and art, but Matt pretty much used it as a place to crash. In terms of comfort for a seven-year-old there was nothing.

They’d gone back to Amanda’s apartment to fetch what Henry needed and found almost a carbon copy of Matt’s place. The apartment was spotless. Henry’s room had designer children’s prints on the walls but it still spoke sterile. His toys were arranged almost as if they were supposed to be part of the artwork.

Henry had taken a battered teddy and a scrapbook that Matt had had the privilege to see.

He’d wanted nothing else.

The scrapbook was in his backpack now. There was panic when it was out of reach, so the backpack had pretty much stayed on for the entire trip. And Teddy... When Matt had put on his oversized sou’wester, Henry had tucked Teddy deep in the pocket, almost as if he expected someone to snatch it away.

A kid. A scrapbook. A teddy.

There’d been nothing else. And Matt had had no idea how to comfort him.

‘Maybe we could feed the dog,’ Matt said and waited some more.

‘Boof likes boys more than grown-ups,’ Meg said from the wheel. ‘Though he likes me best. The same as your teddy, Henry. I bet your teddy likes you best.’

So she’d seen. His respect for her went up a notch.

Actually, his respect was mounting.

Even though it had annoyed him at the time, he’d accepted—even appreciated—her checking his authority to take Henry to the island. And her skill now... The way she turned the boat to the wind, her concentration on each swell... They combined to provide the most comfortable and safe passage possible.

She was small and thin. Her copper curls looked as if they’d been attacked by scissors rather than a decent hairdresser. She’d ditched her oilskin and was now wearing faded jeans and a windcheater with the words Here, Fishy on the back. Her feet were bare and she seemed totally oblivious to the wind.

Her tanned face, her crinkled eyes... This woman was about as far from the women he mixed with as it was possible to get.

And now she was focused on Henry. He saw Henry’s surprise as Meg mentioned Teddy. Henry’s hand slipped into his pocket as if he was reassuring himself that Ted was still there.

‘Ted likes me.’

‘Of course,’ Meg agreed. ‘Like Boof likes me. But Boof does love friends giving him his dinner.’

She went back to concentrating on the wheel. Boof sat beside her but looked back at Henry. As if he knew what was expected of him. As if he knew how to draw a scared child into his orbit.

Had there been kids in the past, scared kids on this woman’s fishing charters? He couldn’t fault the performance.

But there was no pressure. Maybe it was only Matt who was holding his breath.

Boof walked back over to Henry, gazed into his face, gave a gentle whine and raised a paw. Matt glanced up at Meg and saw the faintest of smiles.

Yep, this was a class act, specifically geared to draw a sucker in. And Henry was that sucker and Matt wasn’t complaining one bit.

‘Can I have the doggy bits?’ Henry quavered.

Meg said, ‘Sure,’ and tossed the bag. Matt caught it but she’d already turned back to the wheel.

No pressure...

He could have kissed her.

He needed to follow Meg’s lead. He dropped the bag on Henry’s knee. ‘You might get your fingers dirty,’ he said, as if he almost disapproved of what Henry might do.

‘I can wipe them,’ Henry said.

‘I guess.’

Henry nodded. Cautiously, he opened the bag.

‘Sit,’ he said to Boof, and Boof, who’d stood with alacrity the moment the bag opened, sat.

‘Ask,’ Henry said and the plan went swimmingly. A doggy bit went down the hatch. Boof’s tail waved and then he raised a paw again. His plea was obvious. Repeat.

It was such a minor act, but for Matt, who’d cared for an apathetic bundle of misery for two weeks without knowing how to break through, it felt like gold. He glanced up at Meg, expecting her to be still focusing on the sea, but she wasn’t. Her smile was almost as wide as his.

Did she know how important this was? She’d seen the legal documents. He’d told her the gist of the tragedy.

Her smile met his. He mouthed a silent thank you with his smile, and her smile said, You’re welcome.

And that smile...

Back at the boatshed she’d said she was twenty-eight. He’d hardy believed her, but now, seeing the depth of understanding behind her smile...

It held maturity, compassion and understanding. And it made him feel...

That was hardly appropriate.

She turned back to the wheel and his gaze dropped to her feet. The soles were stained and the skin was cracked.

She’d said she’d been fishing since she was sixteen. She was so far out of his range of experience she might as well have come from another planet. There was no reason—and no way—he could even consider getting to know her better. That flash of...whatever it was...was weird.

He went back to watching Henry feed Boof, one doggy bit at a time. The little boy was relaxing with every wag of the dog’s tail. Finally the bits were gone. He expected Meg to call Boof back, or that the dog would resume his stance at the bow. Instead, the dog leaped onto the seat beside Henry and laid his big, boofy head on Henry’s lap.

Matt glanced up at Meg and, surprised, saw the end of a doggy command—the gesture of clicked fingers.

Part of the service?

She grinned at him and winked. Winked?

Henry was feeling Boof’s soft ears. He wiggled his fingers, and the dog rolled his head, almost in ecstasy.

Henry giggled.

Not such a big thing?

Huge.

His hold on him tightened. This kid was the child of a business connection. Nothing more, but that giggle almost did him in.

He glanced back at Meg and found her watching him. Him. Not Henry. His face. Seeing his reaction.

For some reason that made him feel...exposed?

That was nuts. He was here to deliver a child to his grandmother and move on. There was no need for emotion.

He didn’t do emotion. He hardly knew how. That Meg had somehow made Henry smile, that she’d figured how to make him feel secure... How did she know how to do it?

Matt McLellan was a man in charge of his world. He knew how to keep it ordered, but for some reason this woman was making him feel as if there was a world out there he knew nothing about.

And when Henry snuggled even closer, when Henry’s hands stilled on the big dog’s head, when Henry’s eyes fluttered closed... When he fell asleep against Matt with all the trust in the world, the feeling intensified.

Once again he glanced at Meg and found her watching. And the way she looked at him...

It was as if she saw all the way through and out the other side.

* * *

She shouldn’t be here. She should be home, slashing her grass, doing something about Grandpa’s veggie patch. If he could see the mess it was in, he’d turn in his grave. That veggie patch had been his pride and joy.

She’d let it run down. She’d had no choice. The last months of her grandfather’s life he’d been almost totally dependent. She didn’t begrudge it one bit but she’d come out the other side deep in debt. She now had to take every fishing charter she could get.

The veggie patch was almost mocking her.

She should sell the whole place and move on. It’d cover her debts. She could go north, get a job in a charter company that wasn’t as dodgy as Charlie’s, make herself a new life.

Except the house was all she had left of Grandpa. All she had left of her parents.

Stop it. There was nothing she could do to solve her problems now, so there was no use thinking about them. She was heading out to Garnett Island. The money would help. That was all that mattered.

Except, as the hours wore on, as Bertha shovelled her way inexorably through the waves, she found herself inexplicably drawn to the man and child seated in the stern.

They’d exchanged niceties when they’d first boarded: the weather, her spiel about the history of this coast, the dolphins, the birds they might see. The guy... Matt...had asked a few desultory questions. Other than that, they’d hardly talked. The child had seemed bereft and the guy seemed as if he didn’t want to be here.

And then she’d convinced Henry to feed Boof and something had happened. She’d seen them both change. She’d seen the kid light up. She’d seen him pat Boof and then snuggle into the side of the man beside him.

And she’d seen Matt look as if he was about to cry.

What was it between the pair of them? What was a Manhattan financier doing carting a kid down into the Southern Ocean to dump him on Garnett Island?

Except the guy now looked as if he’d cracked wide open. He cared. Something had shifted inside him, and when he’d smiled at her...

Um...not. Let’s not go there. This was a seriously good-looking guy being nice to an orphan, and if that wasn’t a cliché for hearts and violins nothing was.

But that smile...

Was nothing to do with her. She was doing a job, nothing else.

They were getting close to Garnett now. She could see its bulk in the distance. There were a couple of uninhabited rocky outcrops in between, the result of some long-ago volcanic disturbance. She needed to watch her charts, watch the depth sounder. Not think about the pair behind her.

And then, suddenly, she had something else to think about. Bertha coughed.

Or that was what it sounded like, and after a lifetime spent at sea Meg was nuanced to every changing engine sound. She checked the dials.

Heat?

What the...? She’d checked everything obvious. How could the engine be heating? And almost as she thought it, she caught her first faint whiff.

Smoke.