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
