Dark Pirate Page 9

  'I was out.'

  'Yes, that's all very well. But she had an important fax from Copenhagen to do with some shipping plans that needed your attention urgently. Now I've told you before, Greg, and I'll tell you again. It's ridiculous for a man in your position to shut yourself away like this every weekend out of the reach of a telephone and a fax machine. You can't go on living this way when you've got a business to run.'

  'I like living this way,' insisted Greg stubbornly.

  Hugh gave a snort of bitter laughter. 'Perhaps you do, but you put your friends and your employees to a lot of trouble tracking you down. Not to mention your faithful old bank manager. But that's not all I want to talk to you about. What I want to know is what you're up to with young Ingrid.'

  'I'm not up to anything!' snapped Greg.

  'Well, that's not what she tells me,' retorted Hugh suspiciously. 'The poor kid's in love with you, Greg, and if you've been taking advantage of her I'll horsewhip you, you black-hearted bastard.'

  'I have not taken advantage of her!' hissed Greg, slamming his fist down on the table. 'And I'll thank you to mind your own business, Hugh Thomas.'

  'Humph,' sniffed Hugh. 'Well, that may be true, and it may not. But I've seen you playing fast and loose with women for years, Greg Trelawney, and I've got another bone to pick with you. What kind of game are you playing with that young Australian lass?'

  'Mind your own business,' growled Greg.

  'You know what a village is like, Greg,' warned Hugh. 'Everyone's business is common knowledge. And you're up to something with that girl. Why else would you offer to guarantee a bank loan for her, when you know I could never have given it to her otherwise? And why all the play-acting? I've heard all about you, paying Charlie Polglaze to lend you his awful old wreck of a car when you've got a perfectly good Rolls sitting there in your garage untouched. What I want to know is this: why are you trying to convince that poor girl that you're nothing but a simple fisherman, when all the time you're one of the richest men in England?'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ROSE reeled with shock at Hugh's words as all her ideas about Greg were suddenly turned upside-down. What did Hugh mean? Could Greg really be one of the richest men in England, and why on earth hadn't he told her? But before she could sort out the tumult of questions that whirled frantically in her mind, Greg began to speak.

  'Look, Hugh, you've been a damned good friend to me and an honest, reliable bank manager, but my private life is none of your business and I don't intend to discuss it with you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I was very busy when you arrived and I've got urgent matters to deal with, so can I catch up with you in the office later in the week?'

  Urgent matters? thought Rose, beginning to simmer furiously. He makes me sound like a business deal he wants to get rid of as soon as possible! Well, I've got a few questions I want answered first. How dare he? How dare he deceive me like that?

  The sound of voices receded down the hall and out into the conservatory.

  Rose heard the distant slamming of a door and the sound of a car engine starting up, then Greg came back into the hall.

  'Rose?' he shouted up the stairs.

  Deliberately she opened the laundry door and stood there with eyes flashing.

  'I'm right here!' she called in a dangerous voice.

  Greg came back into the kitchen wearing a baffled frown. 'In the laundry?'

  he said. 'What are you doing there?' 'Nothing. Just thinking about a certain simple fisherman.'

  Greg looked as if his dentist had just hit a raw nerve. 'Oh, you heard that, did you?' he asked uneasily. 'I was afraid you might. Listen, my love, seeing that you're in there anyway, did my blue jeans come through the tumble-drier?'

  'Don't you "my love" me!' hissed Rose. 'You brute! You lying, unscrupulous, double-dealing brute! Are you really rich?'

  Greg's face wore a hunted look. 'Yes,' he agreed apologetically.

  'Then why didn't you tell me before?' demanded Rose.

  'I was trying to impress you.'

  Rose gave a gasp of half-hysterical laughter. 'Trying to impress me? By driving around in a car full of lobster pots and gumboots? By pretending that you didn't have enough money to lend me for a taxi fare? Trying to impress me?'

  'Yes.'

  'Could I ask why?'

  'I thought it was what you wanted,' said Greg. 'A simple, honest fisherman.'

  'Honest? Honest! That's a laugh!'

  'A simple, honest fisherman,' continued Greg, turning the full power of his brooding dark eyes on her. 'Who would share the romance of Cornwall with you, someone who wasn't obsessed with money like the last man you were involved with. Someone whose motives towards you were honorable.'

  'Honourable?' croaked Rose. 'Oh, sure!'

  'My motives were honourable,' insisted Greg. 'Well, fairly honourable.

  Anyway, I thought I was doing you a favour, playing things the way you wanted them. Smugglers, fishermen, ye olde Englande, that sort of thing.'

  'A favour! You patronising--! And to think I actually believed all that guff about your leaving school when you were fifteen, being apprenticed to a boat builder, going off to work in the North Sea fishing fleet.'

  'It's all true,' protested Greg. 'I just didn't tell you what happened next.'

  Rose snorted. 'Well, what did happen next?' she demanded.

  'Oh, I bought a second fishing boat and then a third. Then I took out a huge loan and bought the shipyard. And I really made it pay.'

  'And now?' asked Rose with grudging interest. 'What are you now?'

  Greg shrugged impatiently. 'I'm a simple fisherman and boat builder, just as I always was. The only difference is that now I own a shipyard and a fishing fleet. But that doesn't matter, Rose. It's never mattered much to me and it shouldn't matter to you. What happened between us was real enough. All right, I admit I lied to you, but it was harmless. Just a crazy impulse.'

  'Impulse nothing!' said Rose through her teeth. 'It was calculated deceit! Just the way it was with that shirt.'

  'Shirt?' echoed Greg in bewilderment.

  'Yes!' she blazed. "The shirt that mysteriously changed colour after you came ashore at my cottage. It had a navy stripe when you left the boat and a green stripe the following morning, which suggests to my simple mind that there were two shirts. It also suggests that you intended to stay the night with me right from the very beginning.'

  'Oh, so you noticed that, did you?' asked Greg in an admiring voice.

  'Yes, and I should have realised then how scheming you were. I also noticed how the Cornish accent got stronger once I told you how much I liked the simple village life. And now that I come to think of it, I noticed how you didn't want me to talk to Joan about you. I suppose you were afraid she'd spill the beans, weren't you? Oh, God, I was a fool to trust you!'

  'Don't say that,' protested Greg. 'I was going to tell you the truth, Rose, honestly.'

  'Oh, yes? When?'

  'After--' Greg began. Then he stopped abruptly and stared reflectively at the ceiling.

  'After you'd got me into bed with you and had what you wanted?' demanded Rose in derision. 'And then you would have said thanks very much and pushed off, wouldn't you? Because you'd be far too rich and important to stick around with someone like me!'

  Suddenly Greg seized her by the shoulders.

  'Rose, no!' he cried in an appalled voice. 'It wasn't like that, believe me!'

  'Believe you?' shouted Rose. 'I'll never believe another word you say to me!'

  She twisted out of his grip and as she did so her sweater pulled out of shape.

  She stared down at it as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  "That's another thing,' she gasped. 'I thought you were so nice buying me this when you really couldn't afford it, but it was all just a game to you, wasn't it? A little more bait in the trap. Well, you can just have it back!' With a swift, angry movement she hauled the garment over her head and flung it in Greg's face.

  'Are you goi
ng to throw the skirt at me too?' he asked hopefully.

  But instead of laughing Rose let out a low groan and burst suddenly and noisily into tears. Her whole body shook and she had to clutch hold of the washing-machine for support, for in that appalling moment she had suddenly discovered how much this meant to her. She had been on the brink of falling in love with Greg and yet he had betrayed her, just like Martin.

  Except that this time it was worse, far worse, this time she felt as if the whole world was breaking up around her. Not even bothering to hide her misery, she closed her eyes, bit her Up and let the scalding tears flow unchecked down her cheeks. Looking exasperated, Greg hauled her into his arms and hugged her. She tried to struggle but he was too strong for her.

  There was nothing overtly sexual in that contact, just a warm, reassuring closeness. And even now, fool that she was, Rose ached to remain in his arms. But she mustn't! She must break away, fight this insidious attraction, remind herself of how he had used and deceived her. Her chin came up and she blinked back the tears, thrusting him away from her with a savage push.

  As she did so, a fresh grievance came to her mind.

  'Just as a matter of interest,' she said in a hostile voice, 'who's Ingrid?'

  'Nobody,' growled Greg impatiently. 'Nobody important. A girl who works for me.'

  And if I were fool enough to give in to him, that's what I'd be before very long, thought Rose dully, as soon as the next girl comes along and takes his eye. Who's Rose? Oh, nobody important, a girl who lives in my cottage or used to. I'll get rid of her for you, my love.

  'Is she blonde? Does she drive a pink sports car?' she asked with barely suppressed venom.

  'Yes, but how did you know?'

  'I saw you with her in Polperro on Tuesday when you were supposedly fetching my bags from Pisky Bay.'

  'I did fetch them. And I'd just come ashore at the harbour and put them in Charlie's car when Ingrid arrived in search of me. She claimed she had something urgent to tell me, so I let her drive me around Polperro while we talked. But it wasn't genuinely urgent. It never is with Ingrid.'

  'Oh, what does it matter?' cried Rose irritably. 'No, don't touch me, Greg, I'm all right now.' Snatching her handkerchief out of the clean laundry basket, she scrubbed her eyes and blew her nose. Then, flashing Greg a look of burning contempt, she made a move towards the kitchen but found he was barring her way.

  'Where are you going?'

  'To pack.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I'm leaving!'

  'You can't do that, Rose!'

  'I can do anything I damn well like, Greg. I'm a grown woman and I don't have to stay here and let you take advantage of me.'

  'I'm sorry,' he muttered, looking more disgruntled than repentant. 'But why do you have to make such a fuss about it? I wasn't lying to you just so I could get you into bed. I have very strong feelings for you, Rose, and that's the truth, my love.'

  'Nice line, Greg,' she said scornfully. 'Try it on the next girl who comes along. Perhaps you should take her into a smuggler's cellar too and give her a real thrill.'

  'Rose, you can't go! We have too much to discuss.'

  'We have nothing to discuss except how I'm getting out of this place. Would you be kind enough to call me a taxi? Oh, of course, you can't, can you?

  Simple fishermen don't have telephones.'

  'Cut it out!' growled Greg. 'I'll deliver you to your cottage.'

  'All right,' she agreed coldly. 'Since the alternative seems to be carrying my suitcases several miles along the cliff path, I accept, but I hope you don't expect me to thank you.'

  'Rose, please--'

  'No.'

  Her mouth hardened again ten minutes later when they came out of the house and Greg unlocked the garage and reversed a gleaming Rolls-Royce into the driveway.

  'Is this the old bomb that's forever breaking down?' she demanded tartly.

  His eyes narrowed stormily, but he said nothing and the drive to Aunt Em's cottage passed in tense silence. When they arrived Rose met with another unexpected setback. By now it was dark but in the moonlight she could see that the old claw-footed bath and the fuel stove had already been ripped out

  and were lying on the front lawn. Evidently John Gleeson had lost no time in getting to work! Rose groaned inwardly as the complications of the whole disaster dawned on her—the building contract, the bank loan, Greg as her guarantor...

  'Look, please change your mind, Rose,' he wheedled. 'You can see for yourself this place won't be fit to live in for weeks.'

  Her mouth set in a stubborn line and a fighting light came into her eyes. 'I don't care! I'll go and stay at Joan Penwithick's cottage until I can start trading with the bed-and-breakfast place. And don't worry. I'll pay the bank loan back if it kills me. I wouldn't want my guarantor going into debt for me.'

  Greg swore under his breath. 'I don't give a stuff about the bank loan. It's you I'm concerned about. When can I see you again, Rose?'

  'Never!'

  Luckily Joan had been as good as her word and Rose found the door key under the flowerpot just as she had promised. With trembling fingers she inserted it into the door and let herself inside the cottage. Greg stayed just long enough to see that she was safe and then drove away with a scream of tyres that made her wince. Switching on the light, she looked about her, but apart from noticing that Joan's cottage had all the modern comforts that her own lacked, she was too upset to take much notice of her surroundings.

  Even now she could not believe that Greg could have made such a fool of her. She felt hurt and angry at the mere thought of the conversation she had overheard between him and Hugh. Yet what might have happened if Hugh hadn't arrived? In the mood she had been in, she might well have ended up making love with Greg and she ought to be grateful that at least she had escaped that final humiliation! Yet strangely even that thought did not bring her the relief it should have done. Although she was boiling with resentment against Greg, some treacherous part of her still yearned for his touch, still wanted to go after him and beg him to explain, beg him to come out with a few more lies that would make it all right for her to go on seeing him. Her

  own weakness and foolishness appalled her. I must be more careful in future, she told herself bitterly. I've had a narrow escape and I don't want to go through something like that again. Well, it's not likely, replied another part of her mind wryly. There aren't many men as dangerously attractive as Greg Trelawney...

  Rose groaned, set down her suitcases and went to explore the rest of Joan's cottage, feeling rather uncomfortable about poking around somebody else's territory in her absence. Fortunately it didn't take her long to find what was obviously the spare bedroom and dump her possessions there. But what was she going to do now? She didn't want to be a burden to Joan and she would obviously have to do some serious thinking about her plans for the future.

  Even when her own cottage was ready, she was by no means sure that she wanted to stay in it now. Not with Greg Trelawney just across the headland in Polperro every weekend! But what could she do? For two pins she would leave Cornwall forever, but her mother was arriving soon and she couldn't just leave her in the lurch. Her tired brain whirled with possible solutions.

  Perhaps she should just stay long enough to get her mother established and then move to London and look for a job? Well, there was no use thinking about it any more tonight. The best thing she could do was get into bed, bury her head in the covers and try to forget that she had ever met Greg...

  During the next few days Rose tried to bury her turbulent feelings in a flurry of activity on the cottage. There wasn't much she could do in the daytime while the builders were there amid the whine of power tools and clouds of plaster dust, but in the evenings she did go in and measure up the windows so that she could plan for new curtains. A day's shopping in Plymouth was followed by another pleasurable day at'Joan's sewing- machine. On the Friday evening at sunset, when the builders had finished work for the week, she went over to ins
pect their progress. If anything, the house looked worse than before. The kitchen and bathroom were gutted and the whole place was covered in a thick blanket of plaster dust, but as she went from room to room a faint excitement began to stir in her. Yes, it would be a beautiful little house once it was finished and all the money spent on it would be well worthwhile. She left the sitting-room till last, haunted by memories of the way she had sat there in the firelight with Greg and of that electrifying kiss that had plunged her into this whole crazy situation, but when she pushed open the creaking door the room did not look frightening at all.

  The builders had left the window open and the scent of honeysuckle drifted in from outside. Rose stood for a minute, listening to the distant shrieking of the gulls and the booming waves on the beach and rather enjoying the peaceful quality of the dying gold light that filled the room with lengthy shadows. Then something caught her eye on the old coffee-table next to the battered sofa. A splash of dark red colour above a white lace doily.

  Mystified, Rose crossed the room and let out a soft gasp. It was a bunch of roses, deep red, velvety roses, with a strong, sweet scent. She picked them up and pressed them to her face, inhaling their fresh, moist perfume. As she did so, a plain white card fluttered to the floor. Rose bent and picked it up and her heart almost stopped as she read the words.

  'Forgive me.'

  Nothing more, just those two, simple words, but she felt as if a stiletto had pierced her. A poignant wave of memories rushed over her. Greg in the inn in Polperro, Greg at the wheel of his yacht with the blood-red sail curved out in the wind, Greg kissing her in the firelight here in this very room. Greg urging her to trust him...but she couldn't, she couldn't trust him! Never again. And she couldn't keep these roses, although she didn't know what to do with them, either. Should she just leave them here to wither and die and be found by the builders on Monday morning? Suddenly the need for some violent action took over her and, gripping the bouquet as tightly as if she wanted to strangle it, she marched out of the back door, down the garden and along the road to the beach. There, on the silvery sands where Greg had drawn up the dinghy, she hurled the flowers in a violent arc into the sea. But a lazy wave brought them curling back towards her and she had to watch as they bobbed, grew sodden and ruined and were finally carried away by the waves. It wasn't her fault, and yet it made her feel oddly destructive, oddly guilty, as if she had destroyed something infinitely precious and special to her. As she strode stormily back to Joan's house, her teeth were gritted in a hard line.