there it was impossible to concentrate on her book. She hardly dared breathe as she listened to the two people talking. She couldn’t make out the words but one of them was getting quite irate and the other frustrated. Darn it and now she really wanted to pee. The more she tried not to think about it, the more she wanted to go. It was psychosomatic; she didn’t need to go. Her bladder disagreed. Oh, why, oh, why hadn’t she brought out her T-shirt to cover herself up? That would teach her for being so cocky at having sole run of the yacht.
Could she slide onto the floor and commando crawl her way across the deck to get to the stairs? The Mission Impossible tune unhelpfully played in her head. But then she’d have to slide down each step head first on her stomach. It was no good; she had to go to the loo. Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the wooden deck and, like a caterpillar, inched her way towards the stairs. How would Tom Cruise manage this? She regretted her initial decision to manoeuvre down the stairs on her stomach. Now she’d started, there wasn’t enough room for her to stand back up again.
Thankful to reach the bottom, she kept herself pressed up against the stairs. If she could see the pile of matching, very flash luggage, could they see her? She stiffened and then stared. Lord, was it really Louis Vuitton? Having spent enough time in Paris, she knew that was seriously expensive stuff and just how many cases did they have between them? She didn’t own that many clothes. Leaning forward just a touch, she held her breath, although why she did that she had no clue – did she think she was some sort of spy or something?
She could just see the tops of two people’s heads. Neither were looking up, so she risked another peek. The taller man had sandy blond hair and, beside him, looking like a delicate waif, was a teeny, tiny petite woman with lots of blonde hair glistening with golden lights, wearing white jeans, which looked considerably more expensive than Maddie’s Tesco numbers and a floaty silk top that had designer written all over it. From here, she couldn’t tell if they were famous or not, but they were certainly wealthy.
But, wealth or not, this ship was not yet open for business, so they could sit tight. Hugging the walls, she inched her way along until she reached the next stairwell that would allow her to cross to the other side of the yacht, where there was no chance they could see her.
She was going to use one of the cabin bathrooms on the lower deck. Creeping along, she froze when she felt the boat dip slightly as if someone had jumped on board.
The cheeky bastards. Ivan had been quite clear. Check-in was five-thirty. And she’d planned her day so that she’d have this last hour uninterrupted to make the most of the sundeck. Who did these people think they were? Just because they had money it didn’t mean that they could do what they liked.
She listened hard. No! Someone was winching down the gangplank.
Throwing back her shoulders, the pressing engagement to relieve her bladder forgotten, she marched along the corridor and mounted the short flight of stairs to the bow and flung open the wooden door, only then remembering she was in nothing more than a very small bikini.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, quickly taking in the scene.
The blond man turned guiltily, the gangplank now lowered into position onto the jetty.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
His face flared red and he opened his mouth but, before he could say anything, an aristocratic drawl interrupted.
‘We’ve been waiting ages. Didn’t you hear us? Who are you?’
On six, maybe even seven-inch heels, the woman marched across the gangplank with the ease of a mountain goat, a feat that had Maddie gawping in surprise, as well as at her sheer effrontery. Flipping heck, the woman was take-your-breath-away stunning. Maddie stared, unable to help herself – this was the sort of person you saw in magazines or in films. She had to be famous or something.
Just the sight of her and her imperious, entitled manner had Maddie’s confidence leaking away with every second, horribly aware of her semi-nudity and less than perfect body.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Are you going to let us in or not?’
Maddie clenched a fist behind her back. Remember, she told herself, paying customer. Remember the manual. It had been quite specific about the treatment of guests. Basically, suck up to them or else.
‘I’m terribly sorry but check-in isn’t until five-thirty. You’re supposed to wait at the main reception and everyone is brought over by the skipper.’
‘Well, what are you doing here?’ The woman arched a scathing eyebrow.
‘I … I’m one of the crew.’
‘Oh.’ In the one word, the woman managed to capture a wealth of disapproval and disdain.
‘No one is supposed to come on board before check-in.’
‘Well, we’re here now and I am not trooping all the way back over there, not in this heat and not in these shoes.’ She eyed Maddie’s bikini with a sneering look, her eyebrows raising as if in surprise as she focused on the swell of flesh just above her hips. ‘It’s not as if you appear to be terribly busy at the moment.’ The clear implication being that Maddie was just being lazy. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and held out her hand to the man, with mute, winsome appeal, who took it to help her over the last half metre of the gangplank, even though she’d been perfectly capable for the previous few metres.
Maddie swallowed. There’d been nothing in the manual about this.
Nick was feeling fed up and, if he were completely honest, slightly embarrassed at being caught out by someone on the boat. Since arriving at the airport Tara had been quite demanding, insisting that they got a taxi into Split in case she was recognised, and he still couldn’t believe that she’d brought three suitcases with her. He’d brought one piece of hand luggage. Shorts, that was all you needed on holiday, although he still wasn’t sure about the shorts Tara had persuaded him to buy or the cap-sleeved T-shirt. If his brothers had caught sight of them, he’d never have heard the end of it. The words big girl’s blouse sprang to mind, but Tara seemed to like them and their shopping trip had gone much more smoothly once he’d acquiesced to her taste. After all, she worked in fashion, she knew what she was talking about and shopping was his least favourite thing.
Since they’d arrived in the baking heat at the marina Tara had been quite piteous and he’d been really quite worried she might faint or something. But now they were here, what was the harm in going up on deck? It seemed entirely reasonable. They could just dump their luggage in the bow and at least have a cold drink or something. Surely Douglas, who had chartered the boat, could do the check-in stuff.
‘Look, I don’t make the rules, but the skipper made it quite clear,’ said the girl in the bikini, looking red and flushed in the face. He frowned. They’d clearly interrupted her important work – sunbathing.
‘Why don’t you leave your luggage here and go back to the marina to wait to be checked-in properly?’
‘Because, as Tara pointed out, we are here, we are hot, the boat has been paid for and we’d like to sit down somewhere cool and wait for the rest of our party,’ said Nick firmly, deciding to take no nonsense. He wasn’t at home now. This was Tara’s world and he’d seen how her friends acted. Imperious and direct. That was how you got things done in this world. ‘Is it going to inconvenience you hugely?’ He gave a pointed look at her bikini, immediately regretting it when the girl glared at him, her face turning pink.
Now
