One Night Of Love. Sally Wentworth
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she knew full well that if she’d been a man her proficiency would have been accepted without question. It was a matter of pride that every customer for whom she’d worked had asked for her by name if they’d needed to use the company again. But Oliver Balfour, of course, was a new customer and she fully expected to encounter the usual problems.
Picking up the jacket of the short-skirted linen suit she was wearing, Dyan hooked it over her shoulder and made her way down to where she was to meet Mr Balfour. A great many beautiful, long-legged girls passed through Nassau airport on their way to or from the holiday resorts, but even so Dyan attracted attention. It wasn’t only her legs and that flaming hair; there was an air of cool confidence about her, in her walk and the proud set of her shoulders. It told anyone who cared to look that at twenty-six she had already made it, had got to where she wanted to be, and— apart from chauvinistic customers—no longer had to prove anything to anyone.
Dyan supposed that she could have dressed more conservatively for this meeting, made it less of a shock for the customer, but she didn’t see why she should; it was her work that was supposed to be important, not her appearance. So she perched her sunspecs on the top of her head, fished the small sign saying ‘STARR MARINE’ from her bag and held it up in front of her as she waited for the passengers to come through.
She didn’t expect to have to wait too long; the Club and Business Class passengers always came ahead, and she was quite sure her customer would be among them. A man was already emerging into the concourse, tall and carrying his one large bag himself. Dyan put him down as a returning local and looked past him for someone pushing a trolley loaded with enough luggage to last several weeks. But then she did a double-take as the man stopped in front of her and said, ‘Are you looking for me? I’m Oliver Balfour.’
It wasn’t often that Dyan had to tilt her head to look at a man, but she had to now, which must make him about six foot three, she judged. And so very English-looking in his well-cut dark business suit, worn regardless of West Indies heat. But what surprised her most about him was his youth. As he was a director of his company she had naturally expected him to be at least middle-aged, but this man looked quite young, only in his early thirties, his features still lean and clear-cut. And it was a good-looking face, which she also hadn’t bargained for.
Taken aback by surprise, she hadn’t answered, and he said on an impatient note, ‘Well? Are you waiting for me or not?’
She gave him a hasty smile. ‘Yes, I am. Welcome to Nassau, Mr Balfour.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Dyan Logan.’
Dyan looked at his face expectantly, waiting for realisation to dawn, for anger to take the place of shock, but to her surprise his brows merely drew together slightly for a moment and then cleared. Taking her hand, he shook it briefly. ‘How do you do?’ She blinked, expecting him to say more, but he merely added, ‘Shall we go?’
‘Er—yes, of course.’ She smiled in genuine warmth, thinking in amazed pleasure that for once in her life she’d found a man who accepted women on equal terms. ‘Is that all your luggage?’
‘Yes.’
‘You travel light,’ she remarked.
‘I try to.’
‘I have a car waiting.’ She started to lead the way, but paused to say, ‘Do you need to change any money or anything while we’re here at the airport?’
‘No, thank you; that’s all taken care of.’
She glanced at him with keen but hidden curiosity. He gave the impression of efficiency in that beautiful dark suit, and he looked very clean and neat, his dark hair trimmed to just the right length above his collar, his firm chin clean-shaven despite the long flight, and his nails newly manicured. With anyone else she would probably have reminded them that they wouldn’t be near a bank or anything for some weeks, but with Oliver Balfour Dyan felt that it would be quite unnecessary; if he said it was taken care of, then that was it. Fleetingly she wondered how someone who looked so fastidious—there was no other word for itwould manage on board the salvage ship for a month or more. It was a fairly new vessel but definitely not in the luxury class.
They emerged from the airport into the heat of the day. It was May and the temperature was already up into the seventies. Dyan automatically slipped her sunspecs on and her companion crinkled his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun but made no move to put on any glasses. He strode along beside her, carrying his bag easily, a briefcase in his other hand. He was, Dyan realised, a big man, his shoulders correspondingly broad for his height, but the dark suit played down his size, was so well cut that at first glance he seemed merely lean and athletic.
In deference to his being the customer, Dyan had brought an open-topped car rather than the pick-up. He put his bag in the back and opened the door on the driver’s side. For a moment Dyan thought he intended to drive, but it seemed it was merely good manners, because he looked at her expectantly as he held it open.
In that short skirt, Dyan showed a lot of leg as she got into the low car. She gave Oliver a quick glance under her lashes, interested to see whether it would have any effect on him. He saw all right; he blinked, but apart from that his face betrayed no emotion. The typical cool Englishman, Dyan thought, her lips twisting in intrigued amusement.
‘Where are we going, Mrs Logan?’ Oliver asked as they set off.
‘Well, you said in your letter that you were in a hurry, so I thought we’d go straight to the boat. And it’s Miss not Mrs. But please, call me Dyan.’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘Thank you.’ And added after a moment, ‘Do you live in Nassau?’
‘No. I’m only here because of your project.’ Glancing at him, she saw him frown a little, so said, ‘Unless you’d like to drive round the island for a while first? Have you ever been here before?’
‘Yes, I have—and I’d rather go straight to the boat.’
‘OK. Fine.’ They fell silent and to break it she said, ‘I hope you’re pleased with the speed that we’ve got the boat ready for you…Er—do you prefer to be called Ollie or Oliver?’
There was a second of silence in which she could almost hear him saying that he’d prefer Mr Balfour, but then he said, ‘Oliver will be fine.’ Adding, ‘I didn’t realise that the boat had been organised with any special speed; I expected it to be ready by now.’
Dyan choked a little, thinking of the endless hours she’d spent organising crew, provisions and equipment. ‘Oh, quite,’ she said faintly.
‘When will we actually leave?’ Oliver asked.
‘On tonight’s tide. After dark, when there are fewer people around. To maintain as much secrecy as possible,’ she explained.
‘You seem to be fully informed about this expedition, Miss—Dyan?’
‘Oh, yes, I am,’ she hastened to assure him because she’d detected a questioning note in his tone. ‘Fully informed on the whole project.’
‘I see.’
She glanced at him again, wondering at the coldness of his tone, but Oliver was looking out of the window at one of the island policemen directing traffic in his uniform of white shorts, shirt and helmet, and she could learn nothing from his hard profile. They were nearing the waterfront now and the streets were busy with people and cars. Dyan concentrated on where she was going and had no time to worry about Oliver until she eventually drew up in the car park near the dock where the boat was moored.
‘This way,’ she told him, and pointed down to the end of the dock. ‘The boat is called Guiding Starr. Starr spelt with a double R, after Barney Starr, the company head.’
‘The salvage boat belongs to the company, then? You haven’t hired it?’
‘No. The company owns all its own salvage vessels. This one was being used to help recover part of an oil-rig that had sunk in the North Atlantic, and had to be brought here and re-equipped for your project.’ Dyan let that