Dark Pirate

Rose was silent for a moment, drumming her fingers on the red and white checked tablecloth and then fiddling restlessly with a geranium in a glass vase. She felt an unwelcome stir of interest in Greg’s proposition, but events were moving far too fast for her. In the past she had always thought of herself as cautious, sensible, slow to take risks or tackle new relationships. It had been several months before she had even let Martin kiss her, much less talk her into sleeping with him. And she had never really enjoyed it, which only confirmed her dismal certainty that she was more aloof than most women. Yet Greg Trelawney seemed to crash through her reserve without any effort at all. In fact, his brooding dark eyes and crooked smile were beginning to hold an almost hypnotic fascination for her. With a tremulous leap of the heart, she realised exactly what she feared if she went to stay with him. Not Greg. Herself. A fiery, aching sweetness throbbed through her as she remembered how he had kissed her in the firelight. What would she do if he did that again? Order him to stop or…? A shudder thrilled through her body and her eyes flashed up to his in a swift, tormented glance. It was madness even to think of such things! Madness. No. She liked Greg and trusted him, but she wasn’t going to invite heartbreak a second time.

‘It’s impossible—’ she began urgently.

‘It’s sensible,’ he cut in. ‘Look, Rose, your great-aunt’s house is going to be uninhabitable and you know it. You haven’t got any money to spend on a hotel and my cottage is standing empty. Why not take advantage of it? Are you going to let your stupid pride stand in the way?’

Rose’s tempestuous feelings found vent in anger. ‘That’s a very sneakily worded question,’ she snapped. ‘If I say yes, it’s like admitting that I’m proud and stupid, and if I say no, I’ve played right into your hands.’

‘Touché,’ murmured Greg admiringly. ‘You’re no fool, are you, Rose?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she retorted. ‘And I’m not going to be sweet-talked into this. I’m sorry, Greg, I’m genuinely grateful for all you’ve done for me, but enough is enough. I don’t want to be so much in your debt. And anyway, what about the weekends? What would we do then?’

‘We slept together last night,’ pointed out Greg.

Several newspapers rustled and there was a discreet turning of heads on other parts of the balcony. ,

‘No, we did not!’ hissed Rose, wishing passionately that she could manage to shout and whisper at the same time. ‘You slept in the spare room and nothing happened between us!’

‘Nothing?’ taunted Greg.

Rose’s face flamed at the reminder of that kiss in the firelight. She tossed her head angrily and her blue eyes shot sparks.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a tense, rapid voice. ‘But I am not going to come and live in your cottage.’

Greg sighed and shook his head. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said soberly, looking straight into her eyes. ‘I didn’t think you really cared about convention. When I first saw you, I thought to myself, Now there’s a woman who looks conventional, but isn’t. She’s just on the brink of dis-covering who she is and she’s got the courage to find out. Well, it seems I was wrong.’

Rose flinched at the unmistakable sarcasm in his voice, then she glanced around the balcony and noticed how the other customers’ eyes shifted hastily away from her. Her eyes came back to Greg’s with a proud, defiant ex-pression. In that instant she reached a hard decision. She knew he was intentionally goading her, but there was enough truth in his words to touch her on the raw. Was she always going to hang back from challenges or was she going to find out what she really wanted from life?

‘You’re not going to give up at the first sign of difficulty, are you?’ she demanded in a deliberate echo of his words the previous day. ‘You don’t have the look of a coward, my dear.’

A gleam of admiration illuminated Greg’s face. He reached across and gripped her hand so hard that it hurt

‘Let’s go home,’ he urged hoarsely.

Greg’s cottage was as spacious as Aunt Em’s, but in far better condition. It stood high on the cliff-top just to the west of Polperro, with a dry-stone wall around it, a ship’s wheel set in its sparkling teal-blue gate, a garden full of lavender and roses in the front and a paved terrace and dazzling view of the ocean in the rear. He led her round to the back of the house and opened an unlocked glass door which led into a Victorian-style conservatory.