One Night Of Love. Sally Wentworth
Dyan took a deep breath, striving to hold in check a temper that went with her hair. Usually she had no trouble; experience and responsibility had taught her self-control, and she was adult enough to know that disappointment was playing a great part in her emotions now. Balling her hands, she said as calmly as she could, ‘No, it was meant to imply that I’ve done this job many times before—but you must already know that; Barney would have told you.’
‘Yes, he did. But he left out one or two very relevant details,’ Oliver said wryly.
‘You mean he didn’t tell you I wasn’t a man.’
‘Or how young you are.’
‘Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about either. You’ll just have to make up your mind what you want to do.’ She opened the door. ‘I’ll leave you to call Barney.’
‘Wait.’ His grey eyes regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Does Starr ever tell the customers that you’re a girl?’
‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘He has a twisted sense of humour,’ she answered flippantly.
Oliver gave her a level look. ‘Now tell me the real reason.’
Dyan met his eyes for a moment, then gave an angry gesture. ‘Why do you think?’ she said on a bitter note. ‘If he did, I’d probably never get any work. Women don’t usually do this kind of job, and men are naturally biased against women who encroach on what they consider to be their world. If I were a subordinate it would be OK, but they neither like nor trust a woman who’s in charge.’
‘You’re talking about the company’s customers?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘What about the men in the crew?’ Oliver said. ‘Do they resent you?’
‘No. We’ve all worked together before. They do their jobs, and I do mine.’
‘But do they trust you?’
She saw what he was getting at. ‘Yes, they trust me. They have to. Their lives are in my hands, are my responsibility.’
Again he gave her a thoughtful look. ‘During dinner—they didn’t seem to treat you as their boss, show you any deference.’
Dyan could see why he was doubtful, but it was difficult to explain to a stranger. Perching on the edge of the desk, she said, gesturing expressively with her hands, ‘It’s different on the sea. When we’re down in the galley we’re all shipmates together. But when Russ is on the bridge, then he’s the captain and the men jump to obey him. And when we’re diving, then Hal is in charge and his orders have to be obeyed. But I’m in overall command of the whole project, and I tell the ship where to go and the men when and where to dive. But they know I’m an expert at my job, that I know the sea. And they respect that. Just as I respect their expertise in their own particular fields.’
She paused, wondering if he understood. Oliver was watching and listening closely, his attention centred on her, and she knew that he did, that he was intelligent enough to imagine how it must be.
Dyan went on, ‘There has to be someone who’s experienced in wet salvage who is in control of the project. I’m that someone because I am experienced, because I’m a professional oceanographer and perfectly capable of undertaking this expedition. That I’m a woman shouldn’t matter,’ she said on a forceful note. But then gave a bitter little laugh. ‘But it does matter, of course. Because all the rest counts for less than nothing where male prejudice is concerned.’
‘I don’t like being made a fool of,’ Oliver said grimly.
‘And I don’t like being treated as a second-class citizen,’ she retorted.
This time when she made for the door Oliver didn’t try to stop her.
Glancing back briefly, she said, ‘I’ll be up on deck when you’ve made your call.’
But once outside the room, out of his sight, Dyan leaned against the wall for a moment, fists clenched, eyes closed, trying to regain some degree of composure. What the hell was the matter with her? she wondered, angry that she’d let it get to her. This had happened to her many times before but she’d seldom felt this uptight about it. But there was nothing more she could do. Oliver would either agree to go on or they would go back. But she had the sick feeling that this was one customer she was going to lose. He had been so convinced a man would be in charge that it hadn’t even occurred to him that it might be her. Oliver had merely marked her down, first as ‘Logan’s wife, then his daughter or sister. What she had thought was open-mindedness was in reality a mind so closed that it hadn’t even contemplated the possibility of her being the boss.
On a sudden surge of anger, Dyan went into her cabin, picked up the parcels of new clothes that she’d bought, and threw them, with as much force as she could find, against the far wall. The boxes burst open, the flowing silk of dresses and underwear, the bright cottons of swimsuits and shirts spilling over the floor and furniture. Feeling a little better, but not much, Dyan went up on deck.
Oliver joined her much sooner than she expected him to. She was standing in the bow of the boat, looking out at the velvety blackness of the night, pinpricked by stars and lights from the distant islands. The wind caught her hair, tendrils of it hiding her face, for which she was glad. Oliver came up to her but she didn’t look round.
‘That didn’t take long,’ she commented wryly. ‘I take it we’re turning back?’
Leaning an arm on the rail, Oliver said, ‘I didn’t make the call.’
Dyan stiffened her shoulders. ‘You had already decided, then,’ she said flatly.
‘Yes—but to go on, not to turn back.’
That brought her swiftly round to face him, an impatient hand going up to push her hair aside. ‘You mean you’re willing to trust me—and without consulting Barney?’ Her voice was full of surprise, and there was a flare of hope in her eyes.
Oliver nodded, and suddenly grinned, the unexpected smile so transforming his face that he seemed like an entirely different man. ‘I thought we’d leave him waiting by the phone, wondering what the hell’s happening.’
‘Thanks,’ Dyan said in husky gratitude. ‘It usually takes Barney about an hour of persuasion before a new customer will give me a try,’ she confided, on a sudden wave of happiness.
Oliver spread his hands. ‘I recognise a fait accompli when I see it. I don’t like the way it was done,’ he paused, his eyes resting on her, ‘but I’m willing to give you a try—Logan.’
Dyan laughed, said goodnight, and went down to her cabin to pick up all the new clothes and carefully hang them in the wardrobe.
THERE was no set time for breakfast on board the ship. Those of the crew who weren’t on watch went to the galley when they felt like it, or when they were no longer able to resist the savoury smells of frying bacon and hash browns. Dyan usually contented herself with fresh orange juice and toast, so often had her breakfast in her cabin, brought to her by Joe. But on their first morning at sea she went down to join the others. Today she was wearing what she described as her working clothes; a pair of shorts and a loose, short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of yellow canvas espadrilles on her feet, but today the clothes were new. Her hair she had woven from the top of her head into one thick plait that she’d fastened with a yellow bow, although ordinarily she would have used just an elastic band. And ordinarily her face would have been clean of make-up, because there was no way she wanted to be seen by the men as a sex object, but today she’d looked at her bare face in the mirror and impulsively added enough make-up to enhance her appearance.