Cinderella: Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny: Cinderella: Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny. Marion Lennox
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been too long, she thought. No one since…
No. Don’t even think about going there.
‘Can I talk to you? Are you Jenny?’
He had an accent—Spanish maybe, she thought, and seriously sexy. Uh oh. Body of a god, killer smile and a voice that was deep and lilting and gorgeous. Her knees felt wobbly. Any minute now he’d have her clutching the nearest fence for support.
Hey! She was a grown woman, she reminded herself sharply. Where was a bucket of ice when she needed one? Making do as best she could, she tilted her chin, met his gaze square on and fought for composure.
‘I’m Jenny.’ Infuriatingly, her words came out a squeak. She turned them into a cough and tried again. ‘I…sure.’
‘The lady in the café said you were interested in a job,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for help. Can we talk about it?’
He was here to offer her a job?
His eyes were doing this assessing thing while he talked. She was wearing old jeans and an ancient duffel, built for service rather than style. Was he working out where she fitted in the social scale? Was he working out whether she cared what she wore?
Suddenly she found herself wishing she had something else on. Something with a bit of…glamour?
Now that was crazy. She was heading home to put her feet up, watch the telly and go to bed. What would she do with glamour?
He was asking her about a job. Yeah, they all needed deckhands, she thought, trying to ground herself. Lots of big yachts came into harbour here. There’d be one guy in charge—someone like this. There’d also be a couple of deckies, but the guy in charge would be the only one paid reasonable wages by the owners. Deckies were to be found in most ports—kids looking for adventure, willing to work for cheap travel. They’d get to their destination and disappear to more adventure, to be replaced by others.
Did this man seriously think she might be interested in such a job?
‘My friend was having fun at my expense,’ she said, settling now she knew what he wanted. Still trying to firm up her knees, though. ‘Sorry, but I’m a bit old to drop everything and head off into the unknown.’
‘Are you ever too old to do that?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped before she could stop herself—and then caught herself. ‘Sorry. Look, I need to get on.’
‘So you’re not interested.’
‘There’s a noticeboard down at the yacht club,’ she told him. ‘There’s always a list of kids looking for work. I already have a job.’
‘You do have a job.’ His smile had faded. He’d ditched his coat, leaving only his jeans and T-shirt. They were faded and old and…nice. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He looked loose-limbed, casually at ease with himself and quietly confident. His eyes were blue as the sea, though they seemed to darken when he smiled, and the crinkles round his eyes said smiling was what he normally did. But suddenly he was serious.
‘If you made the muffins I ate this morning you’re very, very good at your job,’ he told her. ‘If you’re available as crew, a man’d be crazy not to take you on.’
‘Well, I’m not.’ He had her rattled and she’d snapped again. Why? He was a nice guy offering her a job. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But no.’
‘Do you have a passport?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I’m sailing for Europe just as soon as I can find some company. It’s not safe to do a solo where I’m going.’
‘Round the Horn?’ Despite herself, she was interested.
‘Round the Horn,’ he agreed. ‘It’s fastest.’
That’d be right. The boaties in charge of the expensive yachts were usually at the call of owners. She’d met enough of them to know that. An owner fancied a sailing holiday in Australia? He’d pay a guy like this to bring his boat here and have it ready for him. Maybe he’d join the boat on the interesting bits, flying in and out at will. Now the owner would be back in Europe and it’d be up to the employed skipper—this guy?—to get the boat back there as soon as he could.
With crew. But not with her.
‘Well, good luck,’ she said, and started to walk away, but he wasn’t letting her leave. He walked with her.
‘It’s a serious offer.’
‘It’s a serious rejection.’
‘I don’t take rejection kindly.’
‘That’s too bad,’ she told him. ‘The days of carting your crew on board drugged to the eyeballs is over. Press gangs are illegal.’
‘They’d make my life easier,’ he said morosely.
‘You know I’m very sure they wouldn’t.’ His presence as he fell into step beside her was making her thoroughly disconcerted. ‘Having a press-ganged crew waking up with hangovers a day out to sea surely wouldn’t make for serene sailing.’
‘I don’t look for serenity,’ he said, and it was so much an echo of her day’s thoughts that she stopped dead.
But this was ridiculous. The idea was ridiculous. ‘Serenity’s important,’ she managed, forcing her feet into moving again. ‘So thank you, but I’ve said no. Is there anything else you want?’
‘I pay well.’
‘I know what deckies earn.’
‘You don’t know what I pay. Why don’t you ask?’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Do you really sail?’ he asked curiously.
He wasn’t going away. She was quickening her steps but he was keeping up with ease. She had the feeling if she broke into a run he’d keep striding beside her, effortlessly. ‘Once upon a time, I sailed,’ she said. ‘Before life got serious.’
‘Your life got serious? How?’ Suddenly his eyes were creasing in concern. He paused and, before she could stop him, he lifted her left hand. She knew what he was looking for.
No ring.
‘You have a partner?’ he demanded.
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Yes, but I want to know,’ he said in that gorgeous accent, excellent English but with that fabulous lilt—and there was that smile again, the smile she knew could get him anything he wanted if he tried hard enough. With these looks and that smile and that voice…Whew.
No. He couldn’t get anything from her. She was impervious.
She had to be impervious.
But he was waiting for an answer. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell him enough to get him off her back. ‘I’m happily single,’ she said.
‘Ah, but if you’re saying life’s serious then you’re not so happily single. Maybe sailing away on the next tide could be just what you want.’
‘Look,’ she said, tugging her hand away, exasperated. ‘I’m not a teenager looking for adventure. I have obligations here. So you’re offering me a trip to Europe? Where would that leave me? I’d get on your boat, I’d work my butt off for passage—I know you guys get your money’s worth from the kids you employ—and then I’d end up wherever it is you’re going. That’s it. I know how it works. I wouldn’t even have the fare home. I’m not a backpacker, Mr Whoever-You-Are, and I live here. I don’t know you, I don’t trust you and I’m not interested in your job.’
‘My name’s Ramón Cavellero,’ he said, sounding not in the least perturbed by her outburst. ‘I’m very trustworthy.’ And he smiled in a way that told her he wasn’t