But, seemingly unaware of any roaring on deck, he left her and dropped down into the galley. In minutes the smell of steak wafted up. Nothing else. Just steak.
Not my choice for a lovely night at sea, she thought, but she wasn’t complaining. The rolling swell was coming in from the east. She nosed the boat into the swell and the boat steadied on course.
She was the most beautiful boat.
Could she really be crew? She was starting to feel as if, when Ramón had made the offer, she should have signed a contract on the spot. Then, as he emerged from the galley bearing two plates and smiling, she knew why she hadn’t. That smile gave her so many misgivings.
‘I cooked some for you, too,’ he said, looking dubiously down at his plates. ‘If you really aren’t seasick…’
‘I have to eat something to prove it?’
‘It’s a true test of grit,’ he said. ‘You eat my cooking, then I know you have a cast iron stomach.’ He sat down beside her and handed her a plate.
She looked down at it. Supermarket steak, she thought, and not a good cut.
She poked it with a fork and it didn’t give.
‘You have to be polite,’ he said. ‘Otherwise my feelings will be hurt.’
‘Get ready for your feelings to be hurt.’
‘Taste it at least.’
She released the wheel, fought the steak for a bit and then said, ‘Can we put her on automatic pilot? This is going to take some work.’
‘Hey, I’m your host,’ he said, sounding offended.
‘And I’m a cook. How long did you fry this?’
‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes, maybe? I needed to check the charts to remind myself of the lights for harbour re-entry.’
‘So your steak cooked away on its own while you concentrated on other things.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I’d tell you,’ she said darkly, stabbing at her steak and finally managing to saw off a piece. Manfully chewing and then swallowing. ‘Only you’re right; you’re my host.’
‘I’d like to be your employer. Will you be cook on the Marquita?’
Whoa. So much for concentrating on steak. This, then, was when she had to commit. To craziness or not.
To life—or not.
‘You mean…you really were serious with your offer?’
‘I’m always serious. It was a serious offer. It is a serious offer.’
‘You’d only have to pay me a year’s salary. I could maybe organise something…’ But she knew she couldn’t, and he knew it, too. His response was immediate.
‘The offer is to settle your debts and sail away with you, debt free. That or nothing.’
‘That sounds like something out of a romance novel. Hero on white charger, rescuing heroine from villain. I’m no wimpy heroine.’
He grinned. ‘You sound just like my Aunt Sofía. She reads them, too. But no, I never said you were wimpy. I never thought you were wimpy.’
‘I’d repay…’
‘No,’ he said strongly and took her plate away from her and set it down. He took her hands then, strong hands gripping hers so she felt the strength of him, the sureness and the authority. Authority? This was a man used to getting his own way, she thought, suddenly breathless, and once more came the fleeting thought, I should run.
There was nowhere to run. If she said yes there’d be nowhere to run for a year.
‘You will not repay,’ he growled. ‘A deal’s a deal, Jenny. You will be my crew. You will be my cook. I’ll ask nothing more.’
This was serious. Too serious. She didn’t want to think about the implications behind those words.
And maybe she didn’t want that promise. I’ll ask nothing more…
He’d said her debt was insignificant. Maybe it was to him. To her it was an insurmountable burden. She had her pride, but maybe it was time to swallow it, stand aside and let him play hero.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound meek.
‘Jenny?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m captain,’ he said. ‘But I will not tolerate subordination.’
‘Subordination?’
‘It’s my English,’ he apologised, sounding suddenly very Spanish. ‘As in captains say to their crew, “I will not tolerate insubordination!” just before they give them a hundred lashes and toss them in the brink.’
‘What’s the brink?’
‘I have no idea,’ he confessed. ‘I’m sure the Marquita doesn’t have one, which is what I’m telling you. Whereas most captains won’t tolerate insubordination, I am the opposite. If you’d like to argue all the way around the Horn, it’s fine by me.’
‘You want me to argue?’ She was too close to him, she thought, and he was still holding her hands. The sensation was worrying.
Worryingly good, though. Not worryingly bad. Arguing with this guy all the way round the Horn…
‘Yes. I will also expect muffins,’ he said and she almost groaned.
‘Really?’
‘Take it or leave it,’ he said. ‘Muffins and insubordination. Yes or no?’
She stared up at him in the moonlight. He stared straight back at her and she felt her heart do this strange surge, as if her fuel-lines had just been doubled.
What am I getting into, she demanded of herself, but suddenly she didn’t care. The night was warm, the boat was lovely and this man was holding her hands, looking down at her in the moonlight and his hands were imparting strength and sureness and promise.
Promise? What was he promising? She was being fanciful.
But she had to be careful, she told herself fiercely. She must.
It was too late.
‘Yes,’ she said before she could change her mind—and she was committed.
She was heading to the other side of the world with a man she’d met less than a day ago.
Was she out of her mind?
What had he done? What was he getting himself into?
