Bad Influence. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
age is immaterial to me!’ he protested ardently. ‘Besides, you do not look so old.’
‘Thank you,’ she responded with dry amusement ‘But I don’t imagine your father would be very pleased. I’m sure he would prefer for you to marry some nice, sweet girl of your own age, who would adore you and give you lots and lots of beautiful babies.’
‘My father does not dictate to me,’ he protested sulkily. ‘Besides, how could I even think of marrying my stupid cousin, when it is you I adore?’
Georgia smiled in gentle understanding. ‘So he has got someone lined up for you,’ she mused. ‘You wouldn’t be very wise to defy him, you know. What would you do if he cut you off without a penny?’
‘I would not care!’
‘No?’ She lifted one delicately arched eyebrow in cool enquiry. ‘Even though it would then mean that I would be the one to hold the purse-strings? I don’t think you’d like that very much, César.’
He coloured in anger. ‘It would not be so!’ he insisted fiercely. ‘In my household I would be the master. I would teach you to obey me!’
Her eyes flashed him a look of sardonic humour. ‘Oh, really? At the same time as worshipping at my feet?’
Recognising that he was in danger of coming off worst in the argument, the young man retreated into a display of affronted dignity. ‘I will give you a little longer to consider my offer,’ he declared loftily. ‘I am sure you will come to recognise the wisdom of accepting my proposal—as night-time approaches.’ And, sweeping magnificently out of the state-room, he closed the door behind him—and locked it.
Left alone, Georgia sighed with wry impatience. What a ridiculous situation to find herself in, with that silly boy imagining himself to be in love with her—it would be laughable if it wasn’t such a damned nuisance. Oh, she was quite certain that even in his present temper César would stop short of actually assaulting her, but she really didn’t have time to hang around waiting for him to come to his senses.
However well-trained and discreet her staff, her disappearance—in broad daylight, from the deck of her own yacht in the safety of one of Bermuda’s most exclusive hide-away resorts—was not something that could be hushed up for long. There would be all sorts of speculation, which could have a very destabilising effect on Geldard’s shares—it was a risk she couldn’t afford to take.
Over on the starboard beam, she could see that they would soon be rounding Spanish Point, leaving the island-dotted haven of the Great Sound behind; the powerful yacht would be able to pick up speed as they headed out for open water—across the vast, empty miles of the legendary Bermuda Triangle towards South America. If she was going to escape, it was going to have to be right now.
Most of the windows were sealed units, except for two of the rear ones which served as emergency exits. It was typical of César, she reflected with a trace of wry amusement, that in making his dramatic gesture of locking her in he had forgotten such a critical detail. Slanting a swift glance at the locked door, she knocked up the catch of one of the windows and slipped nimbly out onto the narrow gunwale that ran along the side of the boat
The blue water churning beneath her seemed to be racing by awfully fast, and for a brief moment she felt a little giddy. But she quickly regained her balance and edged her way to the stern, crouching low to avoid being seen from the bridge. If she remembered rightly, there was an inflatable tender at the stern of the yacht, similar to her own—if she could launch that without being seen, she ought to be able to paddle ashore. It would be a risk, of course—she wasn’t sure of the currents—but they couldn’t be much more than a thousand yards from land.
To her relief, the tender was where she had expected it to be. Keeping her fingers crossed that no one would be watching aft, she dragged the small dinghy to the rail and swung it over. No one raised the alarm as it bobbed away in the wake, not much bigger than a truck tyre. Stepping carefully over the rail, she launched herself after it in a long dive that took her well clear of the danger of the yacht’s twin propellors.
She was a strong swimmer—a mile in the morning before breakfast in the pool at her Berkshire home was her regular exercise. Striking out in a powerful breast-stroke, she reached the dinghy in a few minutes. It was no easy task to scramble up into the frail craft but she managed it, and then, using the late afternoon sun to give her an estimate of due south, she began to paddle for the shore.
It was hard to guess how deep the water was here—it was so clear that she could see the myriad schools of tiny fish darting across the sandy bottom. But there was coral, too—she would have to be careful to avoid jagging the bottom of the dinghy on its razor-sharp edges. Kneeling up in the bottom of the dinghy, she could only catch an occasional glimpse of the shore as she crested a wave. It seemed to be getting no nearer, but at least there was no sign of pursuit…
A warning horn blared urgently, and a gleaming white hull sheered past almost above her; the helmsman must have taken expert last-minute avoiding action, slewing the yacht around to avoid a collision, but the churning wake chopped into the flimsy dinghy, tossing it aside like so much flotsam.
The paddle flew out of her hand and she hit the water with an impact that knocked all the breath out of her. Half-dazed, she went under, choking as she fought blindly in the swirling undercurrent, desperate to find the surface. Her lungs were hurting and there was a buzzing sound in her ears…She could feel herself growing heavier, her limbs no longer under her control. She wouldn’t let herself drown…She wouldn’t…
‘Relax, Blondie—I’ve got you.’
A strong arm had slipped around her waist, lifting her to the surface, and she gasped thankfully for air, her head tipping back against a broad, solid shoulder. Exhausted, she could only dimly register that it certainly wasn’t César, nor any of his South American crew, who had come to her rescue. The accent was unmistakably, uncompromisingly Australian.
She closed her eyes in relief, letting him tow her through the water to the side of the yacht. As if from a great distance she heard her rescuer giving orders, and then she was hauled unceremoniously up onto the deck and felt the welcome comfort of a blanket being wrapped around her. And then someone lifted her as if she weighed no more than a feather, and carried her along the deck and into a cabin.
She was lowered onto a deep, well-padded sofa and she let her head fall back with a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured with heartfelt gratitude.
A deep, mocking laugh answered her. ‘Don’t mention it. The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine.’
She opened her eyes quickly, regarding her rescuer with some misgiving. He was big, and handsome in a disconcertingly rugged way. His hair, darkened now by the sea, would probably be almost blond, and cut rather longer than convention dictated—at present it curled in damp tendrils over his ears. His eyes were a shade somewhere between brown and hazel, deep-set beneath straight dark brows. And he was wearing only a towel, slung low around his waist.
Her heart gave a thud of alarm; had she escaped from the frying pan only to fall into a very much more dangerous fire? Of course—she tried desperately to rationalise—he had just dragged her out of the water; he would have had to take his wet clothes off…She closed her eyes again swiftly, but the image of that darkly bronzed body, hard-muscled and covered with a smattering of rough, male hair, seemed to have been burned onto her eyelids.
‘Brandy?’ he offered, a sardonic inflection in his voice.
‘Er…No, thank you…’ ‘You’d better drink it.’
Her eyes flew open in angry indignation as he sat down on the edge of the sofa beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders to lift her to a sitting position. A strong whiff of alcohol assailed her nostrils, and as she opened her mouth to protest he deftly tipped the fiery liquid down her throat.
She gasped in shock, choking as she swallowed it. ‘How…dare you?’ she demanded, furious.
‘I don’t want you catching