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of a real family St. John Electronics was because they were all going to be witnesses at his shipboard marriage to Simon St. John’s only daughter, Margaret Sydney St. John.
Her!
He had taken marriage—her marriage—and turned it into a business deal.
And then he’d had the temerity to meet her gaze and smile at her! As if she would approve!
Sydney had gone cold. And white. Stunned and speechless.
Which is probably exactly what he’d been counting on. And when she finally got her voice back, as he came over and put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, she still couldn’t say what she was thinking.
Because she knew better. Simon St. John had taught her well. The company always came first.
So there was no chance that Syd would undermine her father’s firm or his representatives in public. She always did what was “best for the company.” Corporate from her head to her toes, Syd would never gainsay his claim.
And Roland knew that. He’d played upon it, had counted on her agreement and on her going through with it because their marriage would be in the best interests of St. John Electronics.
But even though she might believe that, she couldn’t do it.
Not like this.
His announcement had shocked her to her core. Only years of social conditioning had prevented her from showing it on her face. But whether she was more shocked by his announcement or by her own reaction to it was something she was going to have to think about.
If he’d asked her to marry him, if he’d wooed her, charmed her, pretended to love her, Syd had the sneaking suspicion she might have said yes.
But he hadn’t. He’d presumed and simply expected her to go along with it—for the good of the company. Not because he loved her. Roland had never ever pretended to love her. They were business associates.
And yet he would have married her!
If she had been willing, Syd realized, she’d be Mrs. Roland Carruthers right now. No, she corrected herself, Roland would have been Mr. St. John Electronics.
Because it was all about business. Nothing else.
Yet if he had pretended—Syd shuddered to think about how close she might have come to agreeing, if he’d gone about it in a less manipulative fashion—she might have done it.
Thank God Roland dared to assume! Now she knew there was a line across which she wouldn’t go.
No matter how good it would be for St. John Electronics, no matter how happy their marriage would make her father, she would not marry for the company.
She would only marry for love.
But she couldn’t have said that in front of the guests!
She’d tried talking him out of it as he’d escorted her below to change into the silvery beaded dress. “This is crazy, Roland,” she’d said. “You’ve had too much sun.”
“On the contrary,” he’d assured her, “it’s exactly right. For everyone.” He’d turned a deaf ear to all her objections. “You know it’s for the best, Margaret.” He always called her Margaret because her father did. “Don’t act missish, my dear,” he’d said, steering her toward her stateroom. “It’s not like you.”
No. It wasn’t. But neither was just mindlessly doing what she was bullied into. And so she had shut the stateroom door on him.
“Hurry and change, Margaret,” he’d said. “Everyone is waiting.”
“I am not marrying you, Roland,” she’d said through the door.
“Oh, Margaret, for goodness’ sake,” he’d said with irritating good humor. “Stop fussing and get a move on. I’ll be on deck waiting for my bride.”
He’d had a long wait.
Syd had changed into the party dress so she could give the impression of cooperating if anyone saw her, then she’d gone back out and along the passage to the stern. She’d climbed the ladder to the deck, then stayed out of sight until no one was looking.
And she’d jumped.
“I’m a strong swimmer,” she told her sceptical rescuer firmly now. “I knew I could make it. And it was better than causing a fuss.”
“Getting eaten by a shark wouldn’t have caused a fuss?” He sounded furious. She didn’t understand why. He wasn’t the one who would have been fish food. But he was cracking his knuckles furiously and giving a sharp shake of his head.
“I didn’t think there were any fish around,” she said lamely.
His eyes flashed. “This is the ocean, sweetheart! Why the hell wouldn’t there be any fish?”
“You weren’t catching any,” she pointed out.
He made a strangled sound, yanked off his ugly faded baseball cap and shoved his hand through shaggy dark hair that could have used cutting. “How could I catch any damn fish,” he demanded, “with you kicking and floundering around out there? You were scaring them all away!”
“Even the sharks,” she added.
The glower was mutual this time. And who knew how long it would have lasted if his dog hadn’t nudged her way between them. Obviously a peacemaker. The dog—a border collie, Syd thought—grinned at her, looking much more reputable and a good deal friendlier than the fisherman.
Venturing a hand out to scratch the dog’s ears, Syd asked, “What’s her name?”
For a minute she didn’t think he was going to tell her. He pressed his lips together, then shrugged. “Belle.”
The dog wagged her tail at the sound of her name.
“Hello, Belle,” Syd crooned, rubbing the soft ears and getting rewarded with a lick of her hands. “You’re beautiful. I’m Syd.”
“Sid?” Belle’s owner echoed in disbelief.
“Syd with a Y. Sydney.” She hesitated, too, then told him her full name, “Margaret Sydney St. John,” and waited for the jolt of recognition.
He looked at her with no recognition at all. No awareness that he was talking to the woman whose father had invented one of the most important telecommunications networks in the world, a woman whose name had been all over the Bahamian papers in recent days as she and Roland Carruthers had been negotiating a buyout of a high-profile Bahamian firm. No clue that, according to people in the know, he was talking to one of the most eligible women in America.
He just looked blank, then reluctantly stuck out a fishy-smelling hand and said, “Hugh McGillivray.”
McGillivray. It figured.
He had that raw Scottish warrior look to him. Syd could imagine him with his face painted blue. She wondered how he’d look in a kilt and was surprised at the direction of her thoughts.
Abruptly she jerked them back to the moment and, reluctantly, took his offered hand. It was every bit as unnerving as she’d imagined it would be.
Used to shaking the soft hands of boardroom execs, she felt the difference immediately. Hugh McGillivray’s palm was hard and rough. There was a ragged bloody scratch on the back of his hand.
“Shark bite?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed. A corner of his mouth twitched. But then he shook his head solemnly. “Barracuda.”
She jerked and blinked in surprise, then swallowed hastily. “Really?”
Hugh McGillivray gave her an unholy grin. “Gotcha.”
HE DIDN’T believe a word of it.
Nobody jumped overboard to avoid getting married. It