Bad Influence

‘No?’ She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow in cool enquiry. ‘Even though it would then mean that I would be the one to hold the purse-strings? I don’t think you’d like that very much, César.’

He coloured in anger. ‘It would not be so!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘In my household I would be the master. I would teach you to obey me!’

Her eyes flashed him a look of sardonic humour. ‘Oh, really? At the same time as worshipping at my feet?’

Recognising that he was in danger of coming off worst in the argument, the young man retreated into a display of affronted dignity. ‘I will give you a little longer to consider my offer,’ he declared loftily. ‘I am sure you will come to recognise the wisdom of accepting my proposal—as night-time approaches.’ And, sweeping magnificently out of the state-room, he closed the door behind him—and locked it.

Left alone, Georgia sighed with wry impatience. What a ridiculous situation to find herself in, with that silly boy imagining himself to be in love with her—it would be laughable if it wasn’t such a damned nuisance. Oh, she was quite certain that even in his present temper César would stop short of actually assaulting her, but she really didn’t have time to hang around waiting for him to come to his senses.

However well-trained and discreet her staff, her disappearance—in broad daylight, from the deck of her own yacht in the safety of one of Bermuda’s most exclusive hide-away resorts—was not something that could be hushed up for long. There would be all sorts of speculation, which could have a very destabilising effect on Geldard’s shares—it was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.

Over on the starboard beam, she could see that they would soon be rounding Spanish Point, leaving the island-dotted haven of the Great Sound behind; the powerful yacht would be able to pick up speed as they headed out for open water—across the vast, empty miles of the legendary Bermuda Triangle towards South America. If she was going to escape, it was going to have to be right now.

Most of the windows were sealed units, except for two of the rear ones which served as emergency exits. It was typical of César, she reflected with a trace of wry amusement, that in making his dramatic gesture of locking her in he had forgotten such a critical detail. Slanting a swift glance at the locked door, she knocked up the catch of one of the windows and slipped nimbly out onto the narrow gunwale that ran along the side of the boat

The blue water churning beneath her seemed to be racing by awfully fast, and for a brief moment she felt a little giddy. But she quickly regained her balance and edged her way to the stern, crouching low to avoid being seen from the bridge. If she remembered rightly, there was an inflatable tender at the stern of the yacht, similar to her own—if she could launch that without being seen, she ought to be able to paddle ashore. It would be a risk, of course—she wasn’t sure of the currents—but they couldn’t be much more than a thousand yards from land.

To her relief, the tender was where she had expected it to be. Keeping her fingers crossed that no one would be watching aft, she dragged the small dinghy to the rail and swung it over. No one raised the alarm as it bobbed away in the wake, not much bigger than a truck tyre. Stepping carefully over the rail, she launched herself after it in a long dive that took her well clear of the danger of the yacht’s twin propellors.

She was a strong swimmer—a mile in the morning before breakfast in the pool at her Berkshire home was her regular exercise. Striking out in a powerful breast-stroke, she reached the dinghy in a few minutes. It was no easy task to scramble up into the frail craft but she managed it, and then, using the late afternoon sun to give her an estimate of due south, she began to paddle for the shore.

It was hard to guess how deep the water was here—it was so clear that she could see the myriad schools of tiny fish darting across the sandy bottom. But there was coral, too—she would have to be careful to avoid jagging the bottom of the dinghy on its razor-sharp edges. Kneeling up in the bottom of the dinghy, she could only catch an occasional glimpse of the shore as she crested a wave. It seemed to be getting no nearer, but at least there was no sign of pursuit…

A warning horn blared urgently, and a gleaming white hull sheered past almost above her; the helmsman must have taken expert last-minute avoiding action, slewing the yacht around to avoid a collision, but the churning wake chopped into the flimsy dinghy, tossing it aside like so much flotsam.

The paddle flew out of her hand and she hit the water with an impact that knocked all the breath out of her. Half-dazed, she went under, choking as she fought blindly in the swirling undercurrent, desperate to find the surface. Her lungs were hurting and there was a buzzing sound in her ears…She could feel herself growing heavier, her limbs no longer under her control. She wouldn’t let herself drown…She wouldn’t…

‘Relax, Blondie—I’ve got you.’

A strong arm had slipped around her waist, lifting her to the surface, and she gasped thankfully for air, her head tipping back against a broad, solid shoulder. Exhausted, she could only dimly register that it certainly wasn’t César, nor any of his South American crew, who had come to her rescue. The accent was unmistakably, uncompromisingly Australian.

She closed her eyes in relief, letting him tow her through the water to the side of the yacht. As if from a great distance she heard her rescuer giving orders, and then she was hauled unceremoniously up onto the deck and felt the welcome comfort of a blanket being wrapped around her. And then someone lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her along the deck and into a cabin.

She was lowered onto a deep, well-padded sofa and she let her head fall back with a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured with heartfelt gratitude.

A deep, mocking laugh answered her. ‘Don’t mention it. The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.’

She opened her eyes quickly, regarding her rescuer with some misgiving. He was big, and handsome in a disconcertingly rugged way. His hair, darkened now by the sea, would probably be almost blond, and cut rather longer than convention dictated—at present it curled in damp tendrils over his ears. His eyes were a shade somewhere between brown and hazel, deep-set beneath straight dark brows. And he was wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist.

Her heart gave a thud of alarm; had she escaped from the frying pan only to fall into a very much more dangerous fire? Of course—she tried desperately to rationalise—he had just dragged her out of the water; he would have had to take his wet clothes off…She closed her eyes again swiftly, but the image of that darkly bronzed body, hard-muscled and covered with a smattering of rough, male hair, seemed to have been burned onto her eyelids.

‘Brandy?’ he offered, a sardonic inflection in his voice.

‘Er…No, thank you…’ ‘You’d better drink it.’

Her eyes flew open in angry indignation as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to lift her to a sitting position. A strong whiff of alcohol assailed her nostrils, and as she opened her mouth to protest he deftly tipped the fiery liquid down her throat.

She gasped in shock, choking as she swallowed it. ‘How…dare you?’ she demanded, furious.

‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia on me,’ he taunted in that laconic Australian drawl. “That would rather spoil the game.’

She glared up at him, the heat of the unfamiliar brandy coursing through her veins and doing odd things to the rate of her heartbeat. This was clearly a man who was accustomed to having his every word unquestioningly obeyed; there was an arrogance in that strongly carved face that would make poor César look positively meek.

He lifted one questioning eyebrow. ‘What’s wrong, Blondie? Aren’t I playing it to the right script?’

She hesitated, struggling to get a grip on the situation. She wasn’t accustomed to being treated with such off-hand familiarity. Brought up by her grandfather with the knowledge of the substantial fortune she was to inherit, she had been taught from her cradle to keep any hint of emotion under the strictest control, and the image of chilling reserve she projected was usually enough to keep the world at arm’s length.

‘I…appreciate your rescuing me,’ she managed, her voice stiff with dignity. ‘However, I would prefer it if you didn’t call me Blondie.’

He shrugged those wide shoulders in a gesture of casual unconcern. ‘OK—so what do you want me to call you?’

She slanted him a measured glance from beneath her lashes. He didn’t know who she was. That wasn’t surprising, really—she was usually quite successful in avoiding having her picture in the papers, and even if he had seen it he was unlikely to recognise her with her hair soaking wet and slicked to her head.

Well, that suited her. She had no idea who he was either—she might easily find herself in a far more dangerous position than with César. ‘I…there’s no need for you to call me any-thing, ’ she responded as coolly as she could. ‘If you would just be so kind as to take me back to Mangrove Bay…’

He laughed that lazy, mocking laugh. ‘Don’t put on that haughty act with me,’ he advised drily. ‘You’re not the first pretty mermaid to get herself washed up alongside my boat. Though I have to admit,’ he added, slanting her a look of insolent approval, ‘you’re the best looker of the bunch so far.’

She stared up at him in shocked amazement. ‘You surely don’t believe I did that deliberately?’

‘Either that or you’re plumb crazy,’ he returned, a glint of amusement in those dark, deep-set eyes. ‘You don’t look stupid enough to take a flimsy thing like that out for a pleasure cruise, and it’d be a pretty bizarre way to commit suicide.’

‘I certainly wasn’t trying to commit suicide!’ she protested hotly.

‘Then what were you doing?’

‘I—’ She stopped herself abruptly; she couldn’t tell him the truth without revealing who she was—and worse, revealing details of the awkward episode with César. ‘I don’t even know who you are,’ she countered, injecting several degrees of frost into her voice.

‘No?’ He was laughing at her! ‘You mean any old yacht would have done? Provided it was big enough and swanky enough, of course. Well, I guess that puts me in my place.’

She glanced around, for the first time properly taking stock of her surroundings. The yacht certainly was ‘swanky’, although the style was as uncompromisingly masculine as the owner. The saloon was easily as large as her own. Rich dark mahogany lined the walls, and the huge, comfortable sofa she was lying on was one of four, upholstered in pale cow-hide, surrounding a heavy brass-edged coffee-table. Beyond, she could see a dining area that would easily seat twelve around a large oval table.

‘Who are you?’ she queried, frowning up at him.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ A disturbingly sensual smile was curving that sardonic mouth. ‘Jackson Morgan—at your service. My friends call me Jake.’

Jake Morgan—oh, damn, that was all she needed! Jake Morgan was known as one of the most predatory sharks of the southern hemisphere. His name had first hit the financial pages only about five or six years ago, but in that short time he had earned himself a reputation for gobbling up smaller fry apparently just for the sake of it.

And he was as famous in the tabloids as he was in the serious financial press, she had heard—his reputation with women was deadly. She had been inclined to doubt a good many of the stories about him, knowing how fond the newspapers could be of exaggeration—but now that she had met him she could believe every one.

‘Ah, so the name does mean something to you after all?’ he taunted, his eyes glinting with dark humour. ‘Are those dollar signs I see lighting up those great big beautiful eyes? What were you hoping for? A couple of weeks cruising in the sun and a few pretty diamonds to take home with you afterwards? Or something more? I wonder if you’d be worth it…?’

Before she had time to realise what he was going to do, he had bent his head and his mouth had brushed lightly over hers. She felt the heat, and her lips parted in shock; only once before had anyone ever presumed to kiss her like this—she had been seventeen years old, and he had got her riding crop across his cheek for his insolence.

But this was alarmingly different. As the moist tip of his tongue flickered into the sensitive corners of her lips she felt an odd little shimmer of heat run through her veins. The musky scent of his skin, mingled with the salt tang of the sea, was somehow drugging her senses, making her heart beat so fast that it was difficult to breathe.

She closed her eyes, a strange melting sensation flowing through her as he pinned her back against the warm leather upholstery, yielding helplessly as he plundered the soft sweetness of her mouth in a flagrantly sensual exploration. Maybe it was just the brandy that was making her head float like this…

He lifted his head, and she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her in quizzical amusement. ‘That’s quite an act, Blondie,’ he commented, a mocking edge in his voice. ‘Shiver, then sizzle—you could make a man catch something far worse than pneumonia.’