Cinderella: Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny. Marion Lennox
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up and once again falling into step beside her.
‘How much do you owe him?’ he asked bluntly.
She looked across at him, startled. ‘Sorry?’
‘You heard. How much?’
‘I don’t believe that it’s…’
‘Any of my business,’ he finished for her. ‘Your boss just told me that. But, as your future employer, I can make it my business.’
‘You’re not my future employer.’
‘Just tell me, Jenny,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly so concerned, so warm, so laced with caring that, to her astonishment, she found herself telling him. Just blurting out the figure, almost as if it didn’t matter.
He thought about it for a moment as they kept walking. ‘That’s not so much,’ he said cautiously.
‘To you, maybe,’ she retorted. ‘But to me…My best friend signed over her apartment as security. If I don’t pay, then she loses her home.’
‘You could get another job. You don’t have to be beholden to this swine-bag. You could transfer the whole loan to the bank.’
‘I don’t think you realise just how broke I am,’ she snapped and then she shook her head, still astounded at how she was reacting to him. ‘Sorry. There’s no need for me to be angry with you when you’re being nice. I’m tired and I’m upset and I’ve got myself into a financial mess. The truth is that I don’t even have enough funds to miss a week’s work while I look for something else, and no bank will take me on. Or Cathy either, for that matter—she’s a struggling painter and has nothing but her apartment. So there you go. That’s why I work for Charlie. It’s also why I can’t drop everything and sail away with you. If you knew how much I’d love to…’
‘Would you love to?’ He was studying her intently. The concern was still there but there was something more. It was as if he was trying to make her out. His brow was furrowed in concentration. ‘Would you really? How good a sailor are you?’
That was a weird question but it was better than talking about her debts. So she told him that, too. Why not? ‘I was born and bred on the water,’ she told him. ‘My dad built a yacht and we sailed it together until he died. In the last few years of his life we lived on board. My legs are more at home at sea than on land.’
‘Yet you’re a cook.’
‘There’s nothing like spending your life in a cramped galley to make you lust after proper cooking.’ She gave a wry smile, temporarily distracted from her bleakness. ‘My mum died early so she couldn’t teach me, but I longed to cook. When I was seventeen I got an apprenticeship with the local baker. I had to force Dad to keep the boat in port during my shifts.’
‘And your boat? What was she?’
‘A twenty-five footer, fibreglass, called Wind Trader. Flamingo, if you know that class. She wasn’t anything special but we loved her.’
‘Sold now to pay debts?’ he asked bluntly.
‘How did you know?’ she said, crashing back to earth. ‘And, before you ask, I have a gambling problem.’
‘Now why don’t I believe that?’
‘Why would you believe anything I tell you?’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, this is dumb. I’m wrecked and I need to go home. Can we forget we had this conversation? It was crazy to tell you my troubles and I surely don’t expect you to do anything about them. But thank you for letting me talk.’
She hesitated then. For some reason, it was really hard to walk away from this man, but she had no choice. ‘Goodbye, Mr Cavellero,’ she managed. ‘Thank you for thinking of me as a potential deckhand. It was very nice of you, and you know what? If I didn’t have this debt I’d be half tempted to take it on.’
Once more she turned away. She walked about ten steps, but then his voice called her back.
‘Jenny?’
She should have just kept on walking, but there was something in his voice that stopped her. It was the concern again. He sounded as if he really cared.
That was crazy, but the sensation was insidious, like a siren song forcing her to turn around.
‘Yes?’
He was standing where she’d left him. Just standing. Behind him, down the end of the street, she could see the harbour. That was where he belonged, she thought. He was a man of the sea. He looked a man from the sea. Whereas she…
‘Jenny, I’ll pay your debts,’ he said.
She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t know what to say.
‘This isn’t charity,’ he said quickly as she felt her colour rise. ‘It’s a proposition.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a very sketchy proposition,’ he told her. ‘I’ve not had time to work out the details so we may have to smooth it off round the edges. But, essentially, I’ll pay your boss out if you promise to come and work with me for a year. You’ll be two deckies instead of one—crew when I need it and cook for the rest of the time. Sometimes you’ll be run off your feet but mostly not. I’ll also add a living allowance,’he said and he mentioned a sum that made her feel winded.
‘You’ll be living on the boat so that should be sufficient,’ he told her, seemingly ignoring her amazement. ‘Then, at the end of the year, I’ll organise you a flight home, from wherever Marquita ends up. So how about it, Jenny?’ And there was that smile again, flashing out to warm parts of her she hadn’t known had been cold. ‘Will you stay here as Charlie’s unpaid slave, or will you come with me, cook your cakes on my boat and see the world? What do you say? Marquita’s waiting, Jenny. Come sail away.’
‘It’s three years’ debt,’ she gasped finally. Was he mad?
‘Not to me. It’s one year’s salary for a competent cook and sailor, and it’s what I’m offering.’
‘Your owner could never give the authority to pay those kind of wages.’
He hesitated for a moment—for just a moment—but then he smiled. ‘My owner doesn’t interfere with how I run my boat,’ he told her. ‘My owner knows if I…if he pays peanuts, he gets monkeys. I want good and loyal crew and with you I believe I’d be getting it.’
‘You don’t even know me. And you’re out of your mind. Do you know how many deckies you could get with that money?’
‘I don’t want deckies. I want you.’ And then, as she kept right on staring, he amended what had been a really forceful statement. ‘If you can cook the muffins I had this morning you’ll make my life—and everyone else who comes onto the boat—a lot more pleasant.’
‘Who does the cooking now?’ She was still fighting for breath. What an offer!
‘Me or a deckie,’ he said ruefully. ‘Not a lot of class.’
‘I’d…I’d be expected to cook for the owner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dinner parties?’
‘There’s not a lot of dinner parties on board the Marquita,’he said, sounding a bit more rueful. ‘The owner’s pretty much like me. A retiring soul.’
‘You don’t look like a retiring soul,’ she retorted, caught by the sudden flash of laughter in those blue eyes.
‘Retiring or not, I still need a cook.’
Whoa…To be a cook on a boat…With this man…
Then she caught herself. For a moment she’d allowed herself to be sucked in. To think