The Latin Affair Page 5

  There would be work at one of the cafés on the main drag or the marina, Nicky thought. She had grown experienced in the finding of casual work on the islands. Even if they did not pay her until the end of the week—which was all too likely—she should be able to beg some food from them at the end of the evening.

  Well, she got the food all right. And a lot more than she had bargained for. Or than she was equipped to deal with.

  There was no work at any of the cafés. But a harassed woman laden with gaping grocery bags stopped her as she came out of the Golden Lobster.

  ‘You looking for a job, kid?’

  Nicky nodded.

  ‘I’m cooking for a party on the Calico Jane. I could do with another pair of hands. Just for tonight. Fifty dollars in your hand.’

  To Nicky it was a fortune. More than that, it was a lifeline. But she was clear-headed enough to remember that casual labour didn’t have guaranteed hours. By the time she got off work tonight the shops could all be shut

  ‘Fifty dollars and the left-overs,’ she said firmly.

  The woman laughed. ‘No way. This lot are on vintage champagne. You’re not waltzing off with two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine.’

  Nicky lifted her chin. ‘No alcohol. Food. I want bread and salad and meat. Oh, and some milk.’

  Her prospective employer stared. Then she shrugged, to the imminent danger of her grocery purchases.

  ‘If that’s what you want. Now take this damned bag and let’s get going.’

  Nicky did.

  The Calico Jane was in the luxury class. Anyone who chartered her had to be well off. Nicky was used to that. There were plenty of the seriously rich who moored yachts on one Caribbean island or another. She and Ben had crewed for several of them.

  But she had never seen anything like the party that greeted her as she climbed aboard Calico Jane in Ruth Demarco’s wake. From their vintage champagne to their caviare snacks, they were behaving as if they had money to burn. They were also surprisingly young.

  ‘More money than brains,’ said Ruth briefly, retrieving three empty champagne bottles as she led the way to the galley.

  ‘Who on earth are they?’ asked Nicky, her head full of wild rumours about the Hollywood brat pack.

  ‘New York money brokers, mainly. The guy who chartered the boat is OK but he’s having dinner with some serious sailors tonight, so it’s just the flotsam.’ Ruth was clearly not impressed. ‘Pushing the good life to the limit. Watch out for Piers. He’s got more arms than an octopus.’

  Nicky found out the truth of that.

  It was much later. The party was over. Ruth was bagging up the last of the trash. She sent Nicky on deck to collect any remaining plates and glasses before she sent her home. The left-overs were already packed into a grocery sack and waiting for her on the countertop.

  It was three in the morning and Nicky’s eyes were closing. Which must have been why she did not see Piers Lane until it was too late. There were plenty of lights on deck. She should have seen him. But when he reached out and took her by the wrist Nicky nearly leaped out of her skin.

  ‘Hey, babe.’ It was not easy to slur on two words but Piers managed it. He leered up at her foggily.

  Nicky stumbled. She had thought all three of the men sprawled on deck were asleep or too drunk to move. But there was a strength in Piers Lane’s grip which told her exactly how wrong she had been.

  She took rapid stock. The other bodies were stirring too, beginning to look interested and not very kind.

  Suppressing alarm, she said in a neutral voice, ‘Is there something you want, sir?’

  Piers grinned and told her exactly what he wanted. In the light of her parents’ philosophical commitment to freedom, Nicky was used to taking care of herself, young though she was. She reviewed the situation rapidly and decided to play down the drama.

  ‘Maybe another time,’ she said with a meaningless smile. ‘I’ve got to clear up now.’

  She pulled at his restraining hand. For a moment, his grip relaxed and she thought she would get away with it. Then one of the other revellers said something mocking in a slurred voice. Nicky did not catch the words but Piers’s head reared up as if his manhood had been insulted.

  He pulled at her wrist. Nicky lost her balance. And that, of course, was when the strain on the elderly buttons of her shirt became too great Two of them shot across the deck, leaving the garment gaping. It revealed a bra that no selfrespecting girl would have been seen dead in: yellow from much washing and three sizes too small.

  There was an astonished silence. Piers stared at her rounded breasts under their inadequate covering. His eyes popped. Then all three of the men began to crow with glee.

  ‘All right,’ Piers said enthusiastically.

  He pulled her down on top of him. Nicky was not experienced enough to curb her alarm in a situation like this. She let out a yell for Ruth that must have been heard all round the marina. She also kicked him hard.

  She was wearing battered deck shoes, hardly younger than her blouse, so she did not make much impact. But she startled him enough to make him loosen his grip on her wrist. She twisted away, falling to her knees in her urgency to get away from him.

  That was when the others decided to join in. They both jumped up. One of them hauled her to her feet but, instead of letting her go, he pushed her back against the side of the boat and knelt down in front of her, pretending to take a photograph with an imaginary camera.

  ‘Nice!’ he said, grinning.

  In an anguish of embarrassment, Nicky hated them all.

  Piers struggled to his feet and lurched towards her, brushing the pretend photographer out of the way, announcing, ‘I saw her first’.

  ‘Stop this,’ said Nicky.

  They did not hear her. Behind them she caught sight of Ruth’s head appearing at the top of the companionway. The woman gave the little tableau one horrified look and darted away over the side.

  Nicky had no time to call her because Piers and his friends were circling, like pre-school children round the class outsider. They were laughing drunkenly. It was as if they were playing a game and had not noticed that she did not want to join in.

  She was afraid. But she was also furious. She backed up against the side of the boat and yelled hard enough to make them blink. And pause.

  Her cry for help was answered.

  There was a sound of running feet, an angry exclamation, then a thud which shook the deck as an athletic body vaulted lightly on to the boat.

  Nicky’s tormentors were confused. They turned to see what was happening. Seizing her chance, Nicky ducked and made a bolt for freedom.

  She cannoned straight into a muscular body travelling just as fast in the opposite direction. Nicky reeled. Strong hands shot out to steady her but it was too late. She fell at his feet in an inelegant sprawl.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ There was a force of anger in the cool voice that made the decks thrum.

  ‘Steve?’ Piers was blearily pleased to see the newcomer. He had clearly not picked up the wild anger that Nicky heard. ‘Now for some fun, mi amigo.’

  ‘What is this?’ Even the surface of his voice was not so cool now.

  Piers picked up the anger this time. He blinked, injured.

  ‘Party time, compadre.’

  ‘You call this is a party?’ The irony was savage.

  They shuffled, sobering. The pretend photographer began to back away. Only Piers threw his arms wide and gave a shout of drunken laughter.

  Nicky was getting her breath back. She looked up at Steve through the curtain of her tumbled hair. Unlike the others in their bright Hawaiian shirts, he wore the minimum—brief shorts, bare chest, bare feet. He was also wearing glasses with reactive lenses. In the light of the bright lanterns on deck, they had darkened to an opaque cinder colour, making it look as if the eye sockets were empty. He looked muscular, competent and—as the eyes behind the reflecting visor brushed Nicky’s semi-clad body for an electric mom
ent—furious. Nicky’s heart gave an unaccountable jolt.

  ‘Where did she—’ Steve nodded at Nicky’s prone form without bothering to look at her again ‘—come from?’

  Nicky went cold. Suddenly she was acutely aware of her sprawled length of tanned leg, torn clothes, and bare shoulder where the disreputable shirt had twisted half off her as she fell.

  It was crazy! By not looking at her the man called Steve was making her more self-conscious than the other idiots had done when they’d leered.

  She writhed inwardly, hating herself. Hating them. But then her pride kicked in and she jumped to her feet.

  ‘Ruth took me on to help out for the evening.’

  She suddenly realised that Ruth was there, hovering at a distance behind Steve. She must have gone to fetch him, Nicky realised. That made her feel worse, knowing that he had been summoned to defend her. And he had: and then he could not bear to look at her. Paradoxically, it fanned her temper to white heat.

  ‘Waitressing and washing up was what I signed on for,’ she snarled. ‘Not—’ she directed a glance at Piers with loathing ‘—wrestling.’

  Steve still did not look at her. His mouth tightened.

  ‘It sounds like you should have asked,’ he told Piers curtly.

  Piers looked hurt ‘It was just a bit of fun.’

  Nicky looked at him incredulously. ‘Not for me it wasn’t.’

  Both Piers and Steve ignored her.

  Steve, whoever he was, said wearily, ‘Don’t you get enough of that at home?’

  Piers grinned. ‘Can’t get enough of it anywhere, old buddy. Why the disapproval? Señoritas fall over themselves for that Latin charm. You’ve had your share.’

  ‘Not of unwilling adolescents,’ snapped Steve, goaded.

  ‘Adolescents?’ Piers looked blank.

  Steve looked at Nicky—briefly but at least he was acknowledging that she was there and had a voice. ‘How old are you?’ he demanded grimly.

  ‘Nearly sixteen.’

  He looked round the group scornfully.

  It startled them. Even Piers looked uneasy.

  Steve pressed the point home.

  ‘See? She isn’t just dressed like your fantasy of a schoolgirl. She is a schoolgirl.’

  Piers was taken aback. It made him truculent. ‘A bloody well-developed schoolgirl’ he muttered.

  Nicky flinched and crossed her arms across her breasts. And found that she had forgotten how wide her shirt was gaping. She grabbed it closed, feeling the colour flood up. Not just into her face—her whole body felt as if it was burning with humiliation. She shook her hair forward, knowing that her eyes were filling with tears and there was not a thing she could do about it.

  And that of course, was the moment that Steve turned his attention full on her at last. Nicky could have screamed. She could not even dash the tears away, with both hands hauling her ruined shirt closed.

  He watched her for a tense moment. Then he ripped off his glasses and said abruptly, ‘Where do you live?’

  Nicky swallowed a large lump in her throat. ‘On a boat.’

  ‘Here? In the marina?’

  The lump was too big to swallow twice. Nicky shook her head.

  His voice gentled, though he still looked as if he could barely contain his anger. ‘In town?’

  She shook her head again. He was obscurely different from the others. Older somehow. Certainly tougher. They were a little afraid of him, she thought. It came to her that she ought to be afraid of him too. And she wasn’t

  The thought was so astounding that she stopped hiding behind her hair and stared full at him. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘You mean it’s a drive to get you home.’

  His reluctance was palpable. Nicky flushed even harder. Pride came to her aid. Her chin rose.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said in a cool little voice. ‘I walked into town. I can walk back.’

  ‘Not alone, you don’t,’ Steve told her.

  He put his glasses on and pushed them up his nose with one forefinger. It was quite final.

  Nicky was genuinely outraged. ‘You can’t stop me.’

  In the act of turning away, he paused.

  ‘You,’ he said evenly, ‘don’t get a vote. You may look like Cleopatra on one of her more voluptuous days, but it’s the urchin’s clothing that tells the true story, isn’t it? You’ve just admitted it.’

  Nicky was lost. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Fifteen-year-olds do what they’re told,’ he told her. ‘Come on.’ He turned back to the gangway, motioning her to follow him with an abrupt gesture. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Ruth met them at the top of the companionway. She pushed Nicky’s grocery bag at her.

  ‘Steve will take care of you,’ she said loudly, and touched Nicky’s shoulder in silent encouragement.

  Steve flashed her an ironic look over his shoulder.

  ‘All right, Ruth. Point taken.’

  Gee, thanks, thought Nicky, confused and annoyed. She stamped after him bad-temperedly.

  Steve looked down at her. ‘Now what’s wrong?’

  ‘I wasn’t doing so badly at taking care of myself,’ she muttered. ‘In spite of the Neanderthal kindergarten back there.’

  He gave a snort of surprised laughter. But he said, ‘Just as well Ruth came to get me, though.’

  She hunched her shoulders sulkily and followed without another word.

  The marina was modern and well lit. Disastrously well lit. About to help Nicky into the Jeep, Steve unthinkingly took the grocery sack from her. Before she could catch them, the edges of her shirt blew wide in the night breeze. Which left him staring straight down onto her inadequately covered breasts. Floodlit.

  She forgot her sulks. ‘Oh, no!’ she shouted, scarlet-faced.

  He froze. The light-sensitive glasses hid his eyes but his mouth looked as if it was etched in stone. Nicky made a small sound of total despair and shut her eyes.

  ‘I guess I’m going to have to find you something to wear,’ he said ruefully. ‘Or neither of us is going to be able to concentrate.’

  Nicky set her teeth and did not answer. He went to the back of the Jeep and began to rummage. She opened her eyes cautiously. The marina was deserted. Heavily rhythmic music blared intermittently down the breeze from one of the beach cafés beyond. But there was no one to be seen on the boats or the brightly lit waterfront. Just Nicky and the man she ought to think of as her rescuer—and was rapidly coming to hate.

  She hauled the shirt round her so hard she heard one of the seams rip. Great. That cut her wardrobe of wearable shirts down to two.

  Steve straightened and came back to her. He held out a rag that smelled noticeably of gasoline. Nicky took it reluctantly.

  ‘Put it on.’

  She hesitated.

  He was impatient. ‘It’s not Chanel but it will keep the cold out’ And, as she still hesitated, he added deliberately, ‘You’re not getting into the Jeep until you do.’

  Nicky pulled it on without a word.

  He opened the passenger door for her but he did not help her to climb up. She tied the corners of the flapping shirt at her waist and then hauled herself up into the Jeep. She did not look at him. Once up, she sat as far away from the driver’s seat as she could manage.

  He got in and drove out of the marina, handling the Jeep with the careless ease of long practice. Nicky watched his hands on the wheel. They were long-fingered and powerful. She saw a man who was so used to being in control of the machinery of his life that he did not even think about it. She shuddered a little and drew even further into her corner.

  Except for a curt request for directions, Steve did not speak at all. Nicky was equally silent. They met nothing on the road. Once away from the marina, there were no lights at all, just the black funnel of the road in their headlights, and the murmuring shadow of the sea to their right. Nicky turned her head towards it and tried not to think about the silent man beside her.

 
It was not easy. She had only to turn her head the slightest and she could see those confident hands. For some reason, they filled her with a strange excitement. In fact the man called Steve made her feel uncertain in a way she had never experienced before.

  It was quite different from the black panic she had felt on the boat. It was half discomfort, half anticipation. Like the evening breeze on sun blasted skin, it was a shock and a pleasure at the same time. It kept her on the edge of her seat

  Above all, she realised, she wanted him to stop the Jeep. She wanted—no, she needed—him to take those sure hands off the steering wheel and touch her. It seemed all wrong that he had not touched her already. He had rescued her, protected her, delivered her home—well, nearly—and yet he stayed at a stranger’s distance.

  Well, he is a stranger, Nicky told herself.

  She took herself to task. She was shaky, jittery, not herself. The events of the evening had taken a toll of her common sense. Just because he had long, beautiful hands and had saved her from an awkward situation that was no reason to feel they were no longer strangers.

  But she was so distracted by her wayward thoughts that she almost missed the turning.

  ‘Here,’ she said, so sharply that he had to brake hard before swinging the Jeep onto the beach track.

  The lurch sent her sideways. Their shoulders touched. Nicky felt her body stop, as if suddenly all its systems had gone on hold, waiting for new instructions. Then her insides seemed to start shivering, as if she had been drenched in ice.

  Steve did not appear to notice anything. He took the Jeep down through the bushes until the beach opened out ahead. He stopped and cut the lights. In front of them the dark sea stretched and rolled like a lazy animal. The sky was frosted with stars. Nicky held her breath.

  ‘Here?’

  Was it her imagination or did his voice sound strained?

  ‘The boat is moored further up.’

  ‘Oh.’ He did not move. Then he said, ‘Have you got a torch?’

  Yes, definitely strained.

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s one in the back. I’ll get it and walk you down the beach.’

  But still he did not move. Nicky detected reluctance. She was consumed with humiliation.