Читать книгу Beyond Reach - Sandra Field - Страница 7

LUCY hurried below, changed back into her skirt, and five minutes later was driving west out of Road Town. Troy drove the Jeep as competently as he drove a boat; she couldn’t help noticing that the muscles in his thighs were every bit as impressive as those in his arms, and forcibly reminded herself of her vow. Fortunately, in her opinion, to be truly sexy a man had to be able to laugh…

They braked for a herd of goats trotting along the road, and then for a speed bump. ‘The turnoff’s not far from here,’ Lucy said, her pulses quickening.

The driveway to the villa wound up the hill in a series of hairpin turns; all too clearly she remembered running down them, glancing back over her shoulder in fear of pursuit. It seemed like another lifetime, another woman, so much had happened since then. And then the Spanishstyle stucco villa came in sight and her heart gave an uneasy lurch. It looked very peaceful, the bougainvillaea hanging in fuchsia clouds over the stone wall, the blinds drawn against the glare of the sun.

Troy drew up in front of the door and pocketed his keys. ‘Why don’t you stay here?’

She had an obscure need to confront Raymond Blogden again. ‘I know where the case is,’ she murmured, and slid to the ground.

Troy pushed the doorbell.

The chimes rang deep in the house. A bee buzzed past Lucy’s ear, and from the breadfruit trees behind the house a dove cooed monotonously. Troy leaned hard on the bell, and from inside a man’s voice said irritably, ‘Hold on, I’m on my way.’

Lucy recognized the voice all too well, and unconsciously moved a little closer to Troy. The door swung open, Troy stepped inside without being asked and Lucy,

perforce, followed. ‘What the? Who are you?’

Raymond Blogden blustered. ‘Get out of my—’ And

then he caught sight of Lucy. His recovery was instant. ‘Well, well… I’m glad you came back, Miss Barnes,’ he sneered. ‘I was about to call the police. Breach of contract and destruction of personal property should cover it, don’t you think?’

He was a big man, his black hair slicked back in the heat, his expensive white linen suit dealing as best it could with a figure whose musculature had long ago been subsumed by fat. Rings flashed on his fingers. Lucy remembered how they had dug into her arm and shivered.

Troy said with icy precision, ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Blogden—you should be thankful Miss Barnes isn’t at the police station charging you with assault… Go get your case, Lucy. You’re quite safe this time.’

The house was shaded and cool and very quiet. Lucy scurried down the hall to the bedroom that was to have been hers, finding her blue duffel bag exactly where she had left it on the tiled floor. She picked it up and ran back to the foyer. Raymond Blogden’s complexion was several shades redder than when she had left. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me your name, young man?’ he was saying, and to her horror Lucy saw his right hand inching toward his pocket.

‘Troy, he’s got a weapon!’ she cried.

In a blur of movement Troy went on the offensive. Three seconds later Raymond Blogden’s arm was twisted behind his back and Troy was saying calmly, ‘Search his pocket, would you, Lucy?’

As gingerly as if a tarantula inhabited Raymond Blogden’s pocket, Lucy inserted her fingers and came up with a pearl-handled knife that was disconcertingly heavy. ‘We’ll take that,’ Troy said cheerfully. ‘And since I’m rather fussy about those with whom I associate, Mr Blogden, I think I’ll keep my name to myself.’

‘She’s nothing but a hooker,’ Raymond Blogden spat. ‘She dresses it up with fancy words, but that’s all she is.’

‘Shut up,’ Troy said, very softly, ‘or I’ll have your hide for a car seat… Ready, Lucy?’

She was more than ready. She opened the door and heard Troy say, in a voice all the more effective for its lack of emphasis, ‘If I ever see you within fifty feet of Miss Barnes again, I’ll wipe the floor with that pretty white suit of yours… Goodbye, Mr Blogden.’

The sunlight almost blinded Lucy. Troy gunned the motor and surged down the driveway. He was whistling between his teeth and looked extremely pleased with himself. ‘You enjoyed that,’ Lucy said shakily.

‘Damn right I did.’ With casual skill he took the first of the turns. ‘What in heaven’s name made you think you could work for a man like that?’

‘I never met him,’ she said defensively. ‘The interview was in Toronto, with his personnel adviser.’

‘And what do you do that led him to call you a prostitute?’

‘I’m a massage therapist,’ she said. ‘There are certain people who seem to think that massage has everything to do with sex and nothing to do with healing—I get so tired of all the innuendoes and off-color jokes.’

‘It’s a very useful profession,’ Troy said mildly.

She shot him a suspicious glance. ‘Do you really mean that?’

‘Kindly don’t equate me with the likes of that creep up in the villa!’

Only wanting to change the subject, Lucy looked distastefully at the knife in her lap. ‘What am I going to do with this?’

‘Keep it. In case you’re ever silly enough to work for someone like him again. Naivete doesn’t pay in any job, but particularly not in yours, I would have thought.’

Troy had spoken with a casual contempt that cut Lucy to the quick. I won’t cry, she thought, I won’t. If I didn’t cry when it happened, why would I cry now?

But the hibiscus blooms that bordered the driveway were running together in big red blobs, as red as Raymond Blogden’s face. She stared fiercely out of the side window of the Jeep and felt Troy slow to a halt as they reached the highway. Then his hand touched her bare elbow. ‘Don’t!’ she muttered, and yanked it away.

‘Look at me, Lucy.’

‘No!’

‘Lucy…’ His fingers closed on her shoulder.

She turned to face him, her eyes brimming with fury and unshed tears, her mouth a mutinous line. ‘You’re only the skipper when you’re on the boat,’ she choked. ‘Let go of me!’

If anything, his hold tightened. Lines of tension scoring his cheeks, his gray eyes bleak, he said, ‘I owe you another apology, don’t I? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m—out of touch with the female sex. You did well to get away from him; he’s as nasty a piece of work as I’ve come across in a long time.’

A tear dripped from her lashes to fall on his wrist. ‘I—I was so f-frightened.’

‘Of course you were, and rightly so. That charming little object in your lap is a switchblade.’ As she regarded it with horror, Troy asked, ‘How did you get away from him?’

‘He has a collection of jade in the hallway. I picked two pieces up and told him I’d drop them if he didn’t stay where he was. I g-guess he didn’t believe me. So I dropped one on the floor and it s-smashed. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do.’ She gave a faint giggle. ‘You should have seen the look on his face. He said he’d paid nine thousand five hundred and forty dollars for it. Once I’d climbed out the window I put the other piece on the sill and ran for my life.’

The look on Troy’s face was one she hadn’t seen before. Admiration had mingled with laughter, and with something else she couldn’t name but that sent a shiver along her nerves. She said fretfully, ‘Let’s get out of here—I want to go back to Seawind.’

Troy checked for traffic and turned left. ‘The supermarket’s going to be an anticlimax after this.’

Knowing her lack of culinary skills, Lucy wasn’t so sure that he was right. Although wrestling with menus would certainly beat wrestling with Raymond Blogden. ‘I need to blow my nose,’ she mumbled.

Troy fumbled in the pocket of his shorts and produced a small wad of tissues. He checked them out, then said, grinning at her, ‘No engine grease—I thing they’re okay.’

It would be a great deal safer to dislike Troy Donovan, Lucy thought, swiping at her wet cheeks then burying her nose in the tissues and blowing hard. When he grinned like that it not only took years off his age, it put his sexual quotient right up there with Robert Redford’s. She blew again, reminding herself that violence was what had put the grin there in the first place. A physical confrontation with another man. She’d do well to remember that.

She put the tissues in her skirt pocket and said, before she could lose her nerve, ‘Thank you for going with me, Troy. I was dreading having to explain the whole situation to the police.’

‘You’re entirely welcome,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t had as much fun in months.’

‘You’d have made a good pirate,’ she snapped.

‘Blondbeard?’ he hazarded.

Smothering a smile, she went on severely, ‘You like violence?’

‘Come on, Lucy—that was a situation straight out of a Walt Disney movie. He was the bad guy, I was the good guy coming to the rescue of the beautiful maiden, and because I was bigger than him and, I flatter myself, in better condition, right triumphed. How often in these days of moral ambiguities do we have the chance to participate in something so straightforward?’

She frowned. ‘You haven’t answered the question, and I don’t think the grin on your face is quite as easily explained as all that.’

‘Of course it’s not,’ he said shortly. ‘Mind your own business.’

So she wasn’t to be told why Troy hadn’t had as much fun in months. And his tone of voice had pushed her away as decisively as if he’d strong-armed her.

Women must be after him in droves, she thought, her lips compressed. So, didn’t he like women? Certainly he hadn’t answered her when she’d asked if he was married or living with someone.

All her warning signals came on alert. Keep your distance. So what if he’s a handsome blond? You know your weakness for them and you’re not going to fall into that trap again. You’re not!

But the sunlight through the windshield was glancing on the blond hair on Troy’s arms, shadowing the hollow in the crook of his elbow where the veins stood out blue, and his fingers gripped the wheel with an unsettling combination of sensitivity and strength. Lucy remembered the speed with which he’d pinioned Raymond Blogden’s arm behind his back, the strength with which he’d almost lifted the other man off the floor.

The knight in shining armor. The villain. And she herself cast as the beautiful maiden.

A hackneyed story. But—she knew from the languorous throb of blood through her veins—a primitive and still powerful story, nevertheless.

She’d better bring her mind back to the menus. She could handle Seawind; she had no fears on that score. But meals for several days for four people, one of them the steel-eyed Troy Donovan? Now that was a challenge.

Not nearly the challenge of keeping her distance from that same steel-eyed Troy Donovan.

An hour later, after paying ten dollars for a driver’s license, and having been given Troy’s account number at the supermarket and strict instructions to drive on the left, Lucy was on her own. All she had to do was get the supplies for tonight’s dinner and come up with ideas for the next few days.

That was all, she thought wryly, standing in front of the meat counter and wishing she’d paid more attention in her grade nine home economics classes. But home economics had taken third place to sailing and the captain of the basketball team: six feet tall, blond and—by the not very demanding standards of a fourteen-year-old— incredibly sexy.

Tom Bentham. Who’d dated her, Lucy, twice and then gone steady for the next two years with petite and pretty Tanya Holiday.

Someone jostled her and Lucy brought her mind back to the present with a bump. She roamed the store, cudgeling her brain for some of her mother’s recipes. Her mother combined a career as a forensic pathologist with a reputation as one of the city’s most elegant hostesses, whereas Lucy’s idea of fun on a Saturday night was a group of friends, a case of beer and pizza ordered from the neighborhood Italian restaurant.

She began putting things in the cart. The couple from New York no doubt had very sophisticated tastes, and Troy, she’d be willing to bet, was on a par with them. A man didn’t acquire the kind of confidence he wore like a second skin by doing nothing but chartering yachts in Tortola. She’d got to impress him. She didn’t think he’d fire her—he needed her too much for that—but he could make life very unpleasant for her if he chose.

Another forty-five minutes had passed before she was lugging the brown paper bags of food on board. Troy, stripped to the waist, his hands coated with grease, had the various components of a pump spread over the table in the cockpit. He gave her a preoccupied nod as she eased past him. ‘I ran the engine while you were gone— so the refrigerator’s cold.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and disappeared into the cabin as fast as she could. His image had burned into her brain: the dent in his chin, the entrancing hollow of his collarbone, the tangled blond hair on his deep chest. It’s not fair, she thought wildly. No man should look that gorgeous.

Not only gorgeous, but oblivious to his own appeal. Because Troy, she was quite sure, wasn’t trying to impress her with his physique. Troy was merely oiling the pump and didn’t want to get his shirt dirty.

He wasn’t interested in her enough to try and impress her.

Scowling, Lucy stepped down into the galley. It was past six o’clock already. She’d better get moving. She’d decided to make a crab and cream cheese dip, chicken Wellington, a sweet potato casserole, broccoli with a hollandaise sauce, and a chocolate fondue with fruit. All of these were tried and true recipes of her mother’s that she herself had made at least once. She’d mix the pastry first and put it in the refrigerator to set, then do the two sauces and get the dip in the oven.

An hour later Troy came down the stairs, shrugging into his shirt. ‘How’re you doing? I’m getting hungry.’

The hollandaise sauce had curdled, so she’d had to resuscitate it in the blender; she’d forgotten to get cream for the chocolate sauce and every inch of counterspace was cluttered with dirty dishes and partially cooked food. ‘Fine,’ she said, trying to look cool and collected when she could feel the heat scorching her cheeks and wisps of damp hair clinging to her neck.

‘I wouldn’t want the guests seeing the galley in such a mess,’ he commented.

‘Troy,’ Lucy snapped, ‘I haven’t figured out where everything is yet, I’ve had a long and difficult day, and chaos is a sign of creativity. Didn’t you know that?’

The anger that was so integral to him flared in response. ‘Chaos can also be a sign of disorganization. Didn’t you know that?’

It had been a more than difficult day, and Lucy suddenly realized she was spoiling for a fight. Making a valiant effort to control her temper, she said, ‘The crab dip will be done in fifteen minutes, and I’ll serve it to you in the cockpit.’

‘I’m serious, Lucy… People come on these cruises to relax, to get away from it all. The state the galley’s in is totally unacceptable.’

She should count to ten. She should smile politely and ask him if he’d like a drink. Lucy banged a saucepan on the plastic counter and cried, ‘You may be the skipper—but I’m the cook! The galley’s my territory. Not yours. I’d appreciate your keeping that in mind.’

He leaned forward, his voice honed to an edge as deadly as the pearl-handled switchblade. ‘Don’t think I’m so desperate for crew that I can’t fire you.’

‘Go ahead!’ she stormed. ‘I dare you.’

Her eyes, fueled by rage, were the turbulent blue of the sea under gray skies. In her free hand she was clutching a butcher-knife she’d been using to chop onions; her breast was heaving under her blue knit shirt, her whole body taut with defiance.

Troy said scathingly, ‘You’re behaving like a ten-year-old.’

‘At least I’m capable of emotion!’

‘Just what do you mean by that?’

‘I mean you’re as cold as the refrigerator. You’re frozen, solid as the block of ice in the—’

A man’s voice floated down the companionway. ‘Ahoy, Seawind… Anyone on board?’

Troy’s muttered profanity made Lucy blink. He said furiously, ‘Don’t think we’re through with this—because we’re not. I’m the boss on this boat, Lucy, and you’d better remember it.’ Then he turned on his heel and took the steps two at a time. She heard a stranger’s jovial laugh and then the murmur of masculine conversation.

For two cents she’d follow Troy up those steps, march down the dock and leave him in the lurch. Let him find another crew-member! What did she care? One of the reasons she’d become self-employed was so she wouldn’t have to deal with dictatorial male bosses. Because one thing was clear to her: what she had earlier labeled as Troy’s confidence wasn’t confidence at all. It was arrogance. Downright arrogance.

High-handedness. Despotism. Tyranny.

The buzzer rang on the stove. The crab dip was as perfectly browned as any her mother had ever made, and smelled delicious. Balancing it on top of one of the gas elements on the stove, Lucy heaved a heavy sigh. Tyrant though Troy was, she still wanted to sail out of the harbor the day after tomorrow. She wanted to hear the slap of waves under the prow and feel the helm quiver with responsiveness. She wanted to swim in the turquoise waters of a coral reef…

She reached for the packages of crackers she’d bought, and five minutes later was climbing the steps with a platter on which the crackers and some celery stalks were artistically arranged around the dip. ‘Hello,’ she said, with a friendly smile at the man sitting across from Troy.

‘Jack Nevil,’ he said bluffly, getting to his feet. ‘Skipper of Lady Jane… Is this for us? You’ve lucked out, Troy.’

Lucy smothered a smile. Troy said with a dryness that wasn’t lost on her, ‘I sure have… Want a beer, Jack? Or something stronger?’

‘A beer’d be great… and one for the lady?’

‘The name’s Lucy,’ she said limpidly. ‘I’d love one; it’s been pretty hot in the galley.’

Her eyes, wide with innocence, met Troy’s. He was quite aware of her double meaning, she saw with some satisfaction. He said blandly, ‘Jack, who was that chemist who won the Nobel prize—Prigogine? His thesis was that at a state of maximum disequilibrium, a system will spontaneously create its own order—I think that’s Lucy’s theory of cooking.’

‘If this dip is anything to go by, the theory works,’ Jack said enthusiastically. ‘Have a seat, Lucy.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said sweetly, ‘I’d better get back to work. Troy’s a hard taskmaster.’

‘Only that I have a preference for eating before midnight,’ Troy responded equally amiably. ‘Thanks, Lucy…see you later.’

And who had won that round? Lucy wondered as she went back to the steaming-hot galley. If she were an optimist she could call it a tie.

But Jack Nevil and her mother’s crab dip had probably saved her from being fired.

Two hours later Lucy twirled the last strawberry in the chocolate sauce and took another sip of the German dessert wine in her glass. She’d drunk rather more wine than was good for her in the course of the meal. Maybe to hide the fact that Troy had spoken very little as they ate. Or maybe so she’d have the strength to face all the dirty dishes stashed below. ‘What a glorious night,’ she said soulfully.

Jack had left before dinner, having demolished the crab dip and three beers. She and Troy were eating on deck, where the smooth black water was illumined by a three-quarter moon and stars glimmered in the blackness overhead. It was blissfully, blessedly cool.

‘That was an excellent meal, Lucy,’ Troy said brusquely. ‘But entirely too elaborate—I can’t have you spending all day in the galley when you’ll be needed out on deck.’

She took a gulp of wine. ‘Is that what’s called damning with faint praise?’ she said provocatively.

His eye-sockets were sunk in shadow, his irises reflecting the harbor’s obsidian surface. ‘And that’s another thing,’ he said, in the same hard voice. ‘You and I can fight like a couple of tomcats from sun-up till sundown tomorrow. But when the Merritts come on board there’ll be no more fighting. We’ll get along even if it kills us.’

To her horror she heard herself say, ‘You mean you’ll actually be nice to me?’

He banged his clenched fist so hard on the table that the cutlery jumped. ‘I’ve never in my life met a woman as contentious as you! Don’t you ever let up?’

‘I wouldn’t be so cranky if you’d act like a human being,’ she retorted. ‘It’s because you’re so—so unreachable.’

‘Unreachable is exactly what I am, and what I intend to remain,’ he answered grimly. ‘I said no male-female stuff and I meant it. And don’t, if you value living, ask why.’

Any flip reply Lucy might have made died on her lips, because there was genuine pain underlying Troy’s voice and the moonlight lay cold along his tightly held jaw and compressed lips. He had a beautiful mouth, she thought unwillingly. Strongly carved yet with the potential for tenderness. What had made him so unreachable? Had filled him to the brim with suppressed rage?

Whatever it was, it was his secret. Nothing to do with her.

Swallowing the strange bitterness this conclusion caused her, Lucy let her thoughts march on. There was more than an element of truth in everything Troy had said. The meal had been too elaborate. And people didn’t pay high rates for a charter to spend their time listening to the crew fight all day. She downed the last of her wine and said forthrightly, ‘I’ll prepare simpler meals from now on. And I’ll do my best not to lose my temper again.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘Or at least not more than once a day.’

His mouth softened infinitesimally. ‘I should have told you there’s a very good delicatessen on one of the backstreets—you can buy a lot of stuff already prepared and freeze it. Quite a lot of it’s West Indian style, so the guests enjoy it. Plus, it would make life much easier for you.’

‘Oh. That’s a good idea.’ And because Troy’s voice, like his face, had gentled, and because she was alone on the deck of a yacht in the tropics by moonlight with a handsome blond man, she babbled, ‘I’m going to give the galley a good cleaning tomorrow before I bring in the supplies. The brass lamps and fittings are tarnished, so I’ll polish them, and then I’ll—’

‘It’s okay, Lucy… If there’s one thing I’ve learned today it’s that you’re a hard worker. Why don’t you go to bed now? You must be exhausted. You can take one of the cabins downstairs and I’ll sleep up at the bow.’

‘I think you just gave me a compliment,’ Lucy said dazedly. ‘A real one.’

‘I believe I did. Off you go.’

Struggling to collect her wits, Lucy muttered, ‘I’m going to do the dishes first, they won’t take long.’

He stood up. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

As he stretched lazily, a bare strip of skin showed itself between his waistband and his T-shirt. She dragged her gaze away. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Two confrontations with Raymond Blogden today, along with a yelling match with me, is more than enough for one woman. Come on, let’s get at them.’

‘You can be so darn nice when you forget about being angry,’ Lucy blurted, then, before he could reply, ran on, ‘I know—I shouldn’t have said that. My sisters always tell me I speak before I think, and they’re right. They’re right about nearly everything,’ she added gloomily, ‘it’s very depressing. But it seems such a waste when you could be nice all the time.’

‘You’d be bored,’ Troy said. Then he raised one brow in mockery as he gathered the dessert dishes from the table. ‘Besides, I was just practising for when our guests arrive.’

And that, thought Lucy, was that. After picking up the leftover chocolate sauce, which now looked sickeningly sweet, she followed Troy down the stairs.