Dark Pirate. Angela Devine

       CHAPTER ONE

      ROSE had never seen a man who looked quite so dangerous as the fisherman lounging at the table opposite her. At least, she presumed he was a fisherman because the snatches of conversation that drifted to her above the hubbub of the bar were all concerned with fishing. Yet he might just as well have been a Cornish smuggler right out of the past with that thick, glossy black hair, chocolate-brown eyes and brooding features. He must have been in his mid-thirties and he had the tough, lawless look of a smuggler. In this village where time stood still it was easy to imagine a man like that striding ashore by the fitful light of the moon with a brandy barrel slung carelessly over one powerful shoulder. Or leading a lusty brawl against the Excise men, striking out with his clenched fists and revelling in the danger and the excitement. It was also easy to imagine him in a darkened doorway, hauling a village girl into a fierce embrace and kissing her until she was dizzy with longing. There was something about the feral glint in his eyes and the lurking sensuality about the comers of his mouth that told Rose he knew a lot about women. Even his old clothes could not diminish his air of power and sensuality. He wore faded blue jeans and a red checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms covered in coarse, dark hair. Not de-signer elegance by any stretch of the imagination, yet the aura of confidence and vibrant animal magnetism that radiated out from him was almost indecent in its intensity.

      I wonder if he’s married, thought Rose. Suddenly she became aware that his chocolate-brown eyes were fixed on her and that the sardonic smile on his lips was growing a little wider. Horrified at being caught staring so rudely, Rose dropped her gaze, but she could not restrain the tide of colour that flushed hotly into her cheeks. There was the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back, light, prowling footsteps approached and then he was standing beside her. So close that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body in waves, smell the clean, masculine scent of him, compounded of salt air and a soap that reminded her of leather, could see the thrust of his hard, muscular thighs against the fabric of his jeans.

      ‘Can I get you a drink, my love?’ he murmured and the voice was as devastating as the rest of him—a deep, soft, Cornish burr with that alarming intimacy that all Cornish speech seemed to hold, a slow, confiding cadence that made her feel as if even total strangers were welcoming her as their closest friend. ‘I’m just getting another beer for Charlie and me, so it’ll be no trouble if you’d like something.’

      Was it an attempt to pick her up or merely a sociable gesture, natural in such a small village? Rose darted a swift glance of alarm at him, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. Close up, he was even more disturbing with his even white teeth and those tiny pale lines around his eyes contrasting with his tan. She had seen men like that in Australia, men who spent long hours outdoors, screwing up their eyes in bright sunlight and gazing keenly through immense distances. He looked down at her with a mocking, unhurried manner as if he could read every thought in her head and was vastly amused by them. Then he transferred the second beer mug into his left hand and held out his other hand for her glass. Rose, who had been staring at him in a frozen way, suddenly came to life and clapped both her hands protectively over it.

      ‘No! Really. It’s all right. Thank you very much, it’s awfully kind of you, but I must be going soon. I’ll just finish this and then…’ Her voice trailed away.

      ‘Just as you like,’ he agreed amiably and turned away towards the bar.

      Rose gazed after his broad back with the feeling that she had just made an appalling fool of herself. A small, unsteady sigh escaped her and she poured the last inch or so of sparkling apple cider into her glass and sipped it slowly in an attempt to calm her nerves. What was wrong with her? After all, she was twenty-seven years old, not some giggling teenager. And with several years’ experience as a highly paid and respected computer programmer, she was used to dealing with tough male executives, men who didn’t respect any woman unless she proved she could hold her own. And Rose could. Not only was she good at her job, but she had also learnt all the social skills that went with it: the cool, poised manner, the power dressing, the hairstyles that confined her long, unruly chestnut curls in a neat chignon or a smooth braid. Above all, she had learnt to feel as if she was in control of her life.

      So how could this flamboyant Cornish fisherman simply offer to buy her a drink and give her palpitations as if she were a silly schoolgirl? It must be because she was still upset about Martin’s betrayal and therefore acting totally out