Sally Wentworth - The Sea Master Read online

  Obediently Michelle put the belt round her slender waist, pulled the thong through the buckle and held it in place while he' took a pen from his pocket and marked it. He came very close to her as he did so, casually resting one hand on her hip. Michelle caught the masculine, woody drift of his after-shave, all mixed up with the tangy sea smells of his sweater. He seemed very big up so close, at least six feet two, and his shoulders proportionately broad and well' muscled. He was big, tough and supremely self-confident, and for the first time it occurred to her that she had placed herself in the hands of a complete stranger, an unknown man who would be her sole companion for the next few days. She stirred uneasily, realising that she'd been so caught up in the idea of teaching her parents a lesson that she had looked on Guy Farringdon as just a means to an end, not as a person at all.

  When she moved the hold on her hip tightened. 'Keep still,' he commanded. 'There, that should be about right.' Taking a large pen-knife from his pocket, the type that has about a dozen different blades and tools, he deftly pushed holes through the marks he'd made. Try that.'

  'It's fine,' she assured him, fastening it. 'Thanks.' She went to move away, but he stopped her. .

  'Here, I'll cut off the end for you.' No, don't bother to take it off.' He sawed through the leather with his knife, his head bent so that it was quite close to hers. Michelle moved her head away and he glanced quickly up at her, a slight frown coming between his eyes, but then she gave him a quick, nervous smile and he went on with his task.

  As soon as he'd finished she picked up the clothes.

  'I'll go and change.' Without looking at him, she went into the cabin she'd been using and shut the door, then hesitated a moment before sliding the bolt across. It wasn't that she didn't trust Guy Farringdon, but she had suddenly become aware of him as a member of the opposite sex and somehow felt safer with the door locked.

  The clothes of course were far too big and hung on her like sacks. The tee-shirt wasn't too bad because she could tuck it into the belted waist of the jeans, but the legs were miles too long; she had to-roll them up several times before her feet appeared at the bottom. Looking at herself in the mirror, Michelle groaned aloud; she looked like some barefoot orphan waif dressed in cast-off clothes that she was expected to grow into. She looked terrible! Well, they would have to do. And perhaps it wouldn't be too bad an idea to look terrible anyway; from her limited experience she knew that the more glamorous you looked the more boy-friends tried to make a pass, therefore the reverse must also held good; the uglier you looked the less likely they were to try anything. And somehow she had the feeling that the less attractive she appeared to. Guy Farringdon the better.

  He was nowhere around when she ventured out of the cabin, probably up at the controls again, she guessed, so she took the opportunity to explore the big saloon on the deck above. It was very luxurious with a big soft semi-circular seat set round a fixed coffee table, with a couple more upholstered seats, a built-in stereo system and a large, but empty, cocktail bar. The bookshelves under one window were also empty, as were the cupboards for records and" cassettes. Michelle frowned in puzzlement, wondering why he hadn't bothered to bring any leisure entertainment with him. But the whole boat was obviously very new, perhaps he just hadn't had time to equip it properly since he'd bought it.

  For a while she sat and looked out of the window, but soon became bored by the endless vista of unbroken sea and went below to the galley again. Opening a door she hadn't yet explored, Michelle found herself in yet another sleeping cabin, a large double one, not with bunks in it, but with a large double bed with rounded off corners. There was also a built-in settee under one window as well as a dressing-table-cum-desk and a couple of wardrobes, but what really made Michelle's eyebrows go up was -the small but compact bathroom opening off it, and which she worked out must be alongside the un-windowed wall of the galley. Everything was very luxurious, very beautifully designed and made, with obvious care and attention being lavished on every detail to get it right.

  For several minutes Michelle just stood staring round the room, wondering why on earth Guy Farringdon should choose for himself a small, single cabin right up in the front of the boat when he could use this comparatively huge and airy one instead. After a while she shrugged and gave it up; perhaps he would tell her some time during the voyage.

  Restlessly, she went back to her own cabin, but there was nothing to hold her attention there and she began to feel increasingly bored. There didn't even seem to be anything on the-boat to read. Then she remembered the books she'd seen on a shelf in Guy Farringdon's cabin; perhaps there would be something there that would interest her.

  His cabin backed on to hers and she quickly pushed open the door and went inside. It was as he'd left it, with the clothes partly unpacked from his holdall and left on the bed, Mostly they were

  working clothes, jeans and sweaters, but there were also a couple of pairs of shorts and a pair of brief white swimming trunks, ready for the hotter weather of the West Indies presumably. She looked at the book tides, but then sighed with disappointment; they were all nautical books about boats, sea-lore or sea voyages, nodding to interest her at all. Turning to go, the white trunks again caught her eye. They were really awfully brief, and for a moment she couldn't help imagining what Guy Farringdon's big frame would look like in nothing but them. A strange sensation Bickered through her and she shivered, then suddenly jumped in fright as the door was pulled abruptly open and the real man stood in front of her, a thunderous look on his face.

  'What the hell are you doing in here?'

  'I—I…' Somehow Michelle managed to conquer her fright and stutter, 'I was looking for a book to read.'

  'A book? Just what do you think this is—a leisure cruise?.' he demanded angrily. 'I told you to clean the place up.'

  'I did,' Michelle retorted indignantly. 'I put the food away and wiped down the worktop.'

  'So what happened to the rest of the boat?' Guy pursued, his anger in no way abated. 'I took you on as a member of the crew, remember? And no way are you going to sit about reading when there's work to be done.'

  'AH right,' Michelle retorted, her own temper rising, 'I get the message. If you'll just tell me what you want me to do, then I'll do it.'

  His face hardened. 'Look around you, open your eyes. The bathroom is in a mess, there are several cases of stores in the galley that need stowing away, and the deck in there needs washing down too. Your own cabin needs airing, and while you're in here you can finish unpacking my gear. And when you've done that,' he added curtly, 'you can start cooking some lunch.'

  Michelle glared at him, infuriated by his patronising tone. 'Yes, Captain,' she answered insolently. 'Anything you say, Captain.'

  The grey eyes narrowed dangerously. 'Just watch it,' he warned her softly, and suddenly the anger left her and she was afraid.

  'I—I'm sorry. I didn't know what you wanted me to do.'

  For a few seconds longer he continued to look at her intently, then he nodded. 'All right. But just remember dial I'm not carrying any passengers on this trip, you're going to have to work your passage, one way or the other.'

  'Yes, all right.' She lowered her head and didn't lift it again until he'd gone. To her annoyance she found that she was shaking. The horrible man! How dared he yell at her like that? He'd only got to tell her what he wanted her to do, hadn't he? But all the same she immediately began to unpack the rest of his things and put them away in the drawers and locker, working as quickly as she could. The bathroom she found harder to do, because always there had been maids to clear up after her at home and she'd never had to clean a room before in her life. By the time she'd finished her arms ached and she was hungry again, but she still hadn't even started putting away the stores in the galley, let alone washing down the floor in, there.

  Half an hour later she was on her knees in the galley, a cloth in her hand, giving the floor a cursory wipe over, when she was almost startled out of her wits by a shrill, pierc
ing sound and then Guy's voice, the tone rather echoey and seeming to come from mid-air, demanded, 'Mitch? Are you in there?'

  For a moment Michelle couldn't think what was happening or who he was speaking to, then realised that he must have shortened the false name of June Mitchell that she'd given him to Mitch. But where was his voice coming from? Standing up, she looked wildly round, but then his voice, impatient this time, came again.

  'The communication console is built into the bulkhead on the port side. You press the button marked "SPEAK" and hold it down while you answer.'

  Completely disconcerted and hardly understanding a word of what he'd said, Michelle searched hastily round the cabin. What on earth was a bulkhead? And which was the port side? Then, mercifully, she caught sight of the 'SPEAK' button among several others grouped together under what looked like a small speaker set into the wall above and to the left of the fridge. She'd noticed it before but had thought it was a radio or cassette player. Hastily she pressed the button. 'Yes, I'm here.'

  There was no reply and she looked at the speaker in puzzlement until she realised that she was still pressing the knob. She took her finger off immediately and just caught the last few syllables of what Guy had been saying. Unhappily she pressed the knob again. 'I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that.'

  This time she remembered to remove her finger and his voice came through quite clearly. 'I said I have to radio in ten minutes. Come to the wheel-house on the main deck then and give me the name and address of your boy-friend so that we can have your passport sent on.'

  He stopped speaking and Michelle pressed the button. 'Er—which is the main deck?'

  Even through the communicator she could hear the resigned note in his voice. "The main deck is the one above your head. The wheelhouse is behind the saloon. You get to it from a sliding door on the starboard side of the deck.' He paused, then added, 'How's lunch coming along?'

  'Oh! Oh, fine,' she lied heartily.

  'Good. We'll have it as soon as I've finished on the radio.'

  'Yes, all right.'

  Hurriedly Michelle opened cupboards and pulled out some tins. Potatoes, peas, carrots; yes, they would do. And in the freezer she found a couple of Iamb chops. But then came the difficult part, she had to light the gas and nowhere could she find any matches, no matter how she searched.

  'Oh!' In angry frustration she banged shut Cupboards and drawers, going over the same ground twice in her hurry. There just had to be matches, or how could you light the gas? An idea suddenly occurred to her and she experimentally turned one of the gas taps. The ring immediately popped into blazing life and she saw now that there Was a pilot light on tile cooker. She groaned in annoyance, then hastily put the chops under the grill, turning the gas up high so that they would cook quickly. There was a tin opener in the cutlery drawer, and after several minutes in which she swore more than once, she managed to hack the tins of vegetables open enough to pour out the contents into a saucepan, mixing them all up together. After all, they all went down the same way, didn't they?

  She'd hardly finished before Guy's voice came over the speaker again. 'I said ten minutes. Why ' aren't you up here?'

  Damn the man, did he have to be so impatient? Leaving the food to cook, she ran up the steps to the deck and hurried towards the front of the boat past the windows of the saloon. Now which side had he said? More by luck than judgement she found the sliding door and saw Guy through the window. Pushing the door open, she went inside and found him sitting in front of a wheel similar to that on the open deck above, but here there were far more gadgets and levers, none of which meant a thing to her except what looked like an extremely modern and efficient radio set fixed on to the wall on Guy's left.

  He didn't acknowledge her arrival at all, just picked up a hand microphone and spoke into it. .'This is Ethos calling Farringdon One. Do you receive me? Over.'

  The radio set crackled a little with static and Guy moved the tuner round the dial a fraction. Then an answering voice said, This is Farringdon One to Ethos. Receiving you loud and clear. How's it going? Over.'

  Guy replied, 'Fine, so far. There was quite a storm last night, but she weathered it like a dream.' For a few. moments he gave some technical information including their present position to the voice at the end of the radio waves, then added, 'By the way, I took on a crew member at the last minute who needs a passport sent on. I want you to get in touch with the address I give you and ask them to send the passport for J. Mitchell, repeat J. Mitchell, by airmail to the main post office in Hamilton, Bermuda to await collection. Tell them to address the envelope to me so that I can pick it up. Got that?' He waited for an affirmative, then went on, 'Okay, the address is…' he looked at Michelle enquiringly and she blithely gave him an entirely fictitious name and address which he duly repeated into the microphone.

  She smiled secretly to herself as he did so; to have given the correct address would have meant an immediate end to the game she was playing, but this way she would be safe until they landed in Bermuda and he found that her passport hadn't arrived at the post office. What Guy Farringdon's reaction might be then she decided to put off drinking about, knowing instinctively that he wouldn't like it one little bit.

  He talked for a few moments more, then turned off the radio set.

  'Who were you speaking to?' she asked him curiously.

  'The manager of my boatyard near Gravesend.'

  'Your boatyard?'

  He glanced at her briefly. That's right. I build boats, sea cruisers mainly. And this beauty is the first off the production line of our newest model.' He put out a hand to the spokes of the wooden steering wheel as he said it, and touched them caressingly, lovingly almost, a distinct note of pride in his voice.

  'And this trip—are you testing out the boat?'

  Guy shook his head. 'No, she's already undergone all her sea trials. This voyage is purely business; I hope to get orders from several brokers in the West Indies and also at the Miami boat show next moth.'

  'Will there be many other boats there?'

  'Hundreds, I should think.'

  'How do you know you'll get any orders, then?'

  'I don't,' he answered briefly, only giving her question half his attention as he wrote up the boat's log-book. 'But she's a good boat. We've put everything we've got into her. Everyone in the yard broke their backs to try and-get her ready in time to ship over by cargo boat, but we were held up for one or two vital parts for the steering gear and were just too late, so I decided to sail her over to the States myself.'

  'Aren't the boats usually sailed across, then?' Michelle asked him.

  'No, as I said, they're usually shipped across. Even a boat this size is small for the Atlantic.' He finished writing and put the book down, turning to look at her fully.

  'Scared?'

  Frowning, she shook her head. 'No—I don't know. Should I be?'

  'One should always be in awe of the sea. It can play strange tricks.' He stood up, his head almost brushing the roof of the cabin. 'Let's have lunch.'

  Michelle turned to precede him out on to the deck, then paused. 'Why are there two steering wheels?'

  'The boat has dual controls, so that you can control her from here when the weather is wet or rough or up on the flying bridge when it's fine; Personally I prefer to be out in the open on the flying bridge whenever I can.'

  They began to walk along the deck towards the door leading to the galley, but had only gone a few feet before a strong smell of burning reached their nostrils.

  'What the hell…?' Guy pushed her unceremoniously oat of the way and sprang for the steps.

  Michelle went to run after him, but stopped precipitately as his bellow of rage from the galley made her suddenly realise what the smell was. Oh, God, she'd forgotten the chops! For a moment she hesitated, afraid to face- him and ready to make herself scarce until he'd cooled off, but before she could do so, Guy reached up through the doorway and pulled her willy-nilly down the steps.

  'Y
ou crazy idiot! Look what you've done!'

  He'd turned the gas taps off, but the galley and the corridor leading to the front cabins were full of smoke from the chops which had burnt to a cinder. The water in the vegetables, too, had evaporated and there was just a burnt, driedup mess in the bottom of the brand new saucepan. Disgustedly he slid open the window above the cooker and stuck the saucepan in the sink to fill it with water.

  He looked at Michelle, his jaw tight with anger, and she found herself quaking with fright, 'clean it up,' he gritted. 'But first make me a sandwich and some coffee and bring it up to the bridge. You can make coffee?' he tacked on, his tone infinitely sarcastic.

  'Yes, of course I can. It's just that I'm not used to a gas cooker. I didn't know it would cook so quickly,'she added defensively.

  His eyebrows rose rather sceptically, but he didn't say anything else, just left her to clean up the mess.

  It took her ages, working away with the pot-scourer up to her elbows in filthy water until both the grill and the saucepan were shining clean again.

  Afterwards she looked ruefully at her nails which had been long and beautifully manicured only a few hours ago; now the pink nail-varnish was chipped and flaking and there was a catch in one of them that needed filing. Ugh! Tiredly she sat down with a cup of coffee, but hadn't even finished it before Guy was calling her over the intercom with more jobs fear her to do. All afternoon she worked, moving some stores from one side of the boat to the other because he said the trim wasn't right, or something equally stupid, and then it was time to cook another meal which she managed not to burn only by standing by and watching it anxiously. That she'd managed it at all gave her quite a sense of achievement and in no way prepared her for the derisory look Guy gave to the meal when she placed his plate in front of him.

  'Is that it?' he demanded after, taking in the small boil-in-the-bag piece of fish in mushroom sauce, the few tinned potatoes and tablespoonful of peas.

  'Why, yes.' Michelle looked at him in surprise. Now what was the matter?