was just as well she hadn’t accepted, he told himself. Move on.
It was time to eat. Maybe he could go out to one of the dockside hotels.
He didn’t feel like it. His encounter with Jenny had left him feeling strangely flat—as if he’d seen something he wanted but he couldn’t have it.
That made him sound like his Uncle Iván, he thought ruefully. Iván, Crown Prince of Cepheus, arrogance personified.
Why was he thinking of Iván now? He was really off balance.
He gave himself a fast mental shake and forced himself to go back to considering dinner. Even if he didn’t go out to eat he should eat fresh food while in port. He retrieved steak, a tomato and lettuce from the refrigerator. A representation of the height of his culinary skill.
Dinner. Then bed?
Or he could wander up to the yacht club and check the noticeboard for deckies. The sooner he found a crew, the sooner he could leave, and suddenly he was eager to leave.
Why had the woman disturbed him? She had nothing to do with him. He didn’t need to regard Jenny’s refusal as a loss.
‘Hello?’
For a moment he thought he was imagining things, but his black mood lifted, just like that, as he abandoned his steak and made his way swiftly up to the deck.
He wasn’t imagining things. Jenny was on the jetty, looking almost as he’d last seen her but cleaner. She was still in her battered coat and jeans, but the flour was gone and her curls were damp from washing.
She looked nervous.
‘Jenny,’ he said and he couldn’t disguise the pleasure in his voice. Nor did he want to. Something inside him was very pleased to see her again. Extremely pleased.
‘I just…I just came out for a walk,’ she said.
‘Great,’ he said.
‘Charlie was arrested for drink-driving.’
‘Really?’
‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with you?’
‘Who, me?’ he demanded, innocence personified. ‘Would you like to come on board?’
‘I…yes,’ she said, and stepped quickly onto the deck as if she was afraid he might rescind his invitation. And suddenly her nerves seemed to be gone. She gazed around in unmistakable awe. ‘Wow!’
‘Wow’ was right. Ramón had no trouble agreeing with Jenny there. Marquita was a gracious old lady of the sea, built sixty years ago, a wooden schooner crafted by boat builders who knew their trade and loved what they were doing.
Her hull and cabins were painted white but the timbers of her deck and her trimmings were left unpainted, oiled to a warm honey sheen. Brass fittings glittered in the evening light and, above their heads, Marquita’s vast oak masts swayed majestically, matching the faint swell of the incoming tide.
Marquita was a hundred feet of tradition and pure unashamed luxury. Ramón had fallen in love with her the moment he’d seen her, and he watched Jenny’s face now and saw exactly the same response.
‘What a restoration,’ she breathed. ‘She’s exquisite.’
Now that was different. Almost everyone who saw this boat looked at Ramón and said: ‘She must have cost a fortune.’
Jenny wasn’t thinking money. She was thinking beauty.
Beauty…There was a word worth lingering on. He watched the delight in Jenny’s eyes as she gazed around the deck, taking in every detail, and he thought it wasn’t only his boat that was beautiful.
Jenny was almost as golden-skinned as he was; indeed, she could be mistaken for having the same Mediterranean heritage. She was small and compact. Neat, he thought and then thought, no, make that cute. Exceedingly cute. And smart. Her green eyes were bright with intelligence and interest. He thought he was right about the humour as well. She looked like a woman who could smile.
But she wasn’t smiling now. She was too awed.
‘Can I see below?’ she breathed.
‘Of course,’ he said, and he’d hardly got the words out before she was heading down. He smiled and followed. A man could get jealous. This was one beautiful woman, taking not the slightest interest in him. She was totally entranced by his boat.
He followed her down into the main salon, but was brought up short. She’d stopped on the bottom step, drawing breath, seemingly awed into silence.
He didn’t say anything; just waited.
This was the moment for people to gush. In truth, there was much to gush about. The rich oak wainscoting, the burnished timber, the soft worn leather of the deep settees. The wonderful colours and fabrics of the furnishing, the silks and velvets of the cushions and curtains, deep crimsons and dark blues, splashed with touches of bright sunlit gold.
When Ramón had bought this boat, just after the accident that had claimed his mother and sister, she’d been little more than a hull. He’d spent time, care and love on her renovation and his Aunt Sofía had helped as well. In truth, maybe Sofía’s additions were a little over the top, but he loved Sofía and he wasn’t about to reject her offerings. The result was pure comfort, pure luxury. He loved the Marquita—and right now he loved Jenny’s reaction.
She was totally entranced, moving slowly around the salon, taking in every detail. This was the main room. The bedrooms were beyond. If she was interested, he’d show her those too, but she wasn’t finished here yet.
She prowled, like a small cat inspecting each tiny part of a new territory. Her fingers brushed the burnished timber, lightly, almost reverently. She crossed to the galley and examined the taps, the sink, the stove, the attachments used to hold things steady in a storm. She bent to examine the additional safety features on the stove. Gas stoves on boats could be lethal. Not his. She opened the cupboard below the sink and proceeded to check out the plumbing.
He found he was smiling, enjoying her awe. Enjoying her eye for detail. She glanced up from where she was inspecting the valves below the sink and caught him smiling. And flushed.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s just so interesting. Is it okay to look?’
‘It’s more than okay,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve never had someone gasp at my plumbing before.’
She didn’t return his smile. ‘This pump,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve seen one in a catalogue. You’ve got them all through the boat?’
‘There are three bathrooms,’ he told her, trying not to sound smug. ‘All pumped on the same system.’
‘You have three bathrooms?’ She almost choked. ‘My father didn’t hold with plumbing. He said real sailors used buckets. I gather your owner isn’t a bucket man.’
‘No,’ he agreed gravely. ‘My owner definitely isn’t a bucket man.’
She
