Lisa was aware of Rorke’s deliberate exclusion of her as he shrugged powerfully.
‘A couple of days—no longer. It depends on how quickly Helen is ready to leave.’
Helen! A pain like red-hot knives bit into her skin, and it was all she could do not to cry out loud. So this was jealousy; this searing, tearing agony destroying her.
Once again Rorke excused himself the moment the meal was over. Some of Lisa’s dismay must have shown in her face, because she realised that Leigh was watching her with some concern.
‘Don’t worry about Rorke,’ he told her gruffly. ‘He’s going through a difficult time at the moment. I remember when I first met your mother…’
Lisa stared at him. What did he mean? Surely Rorke wasn’t planning to marry Helen? She reminded herself that it was no business of hers if he was, and then wondered why she was weak enough to allow herself to be persuaded into going with Rorke when all the trip to St Lucia was likely to bring her was the pain of seeing him with Helen.
But of course, she couldn’t disappoint Leigh, and she knew he would be disappointed and hurt if she refused to go. She glanced down at her skimpy cotton dress and suppressed a grimace. Her clothes were getting shabby. Strange how all at once she had become aware of it, mentally comparing herself to Helen, seeing herself with the sophisticated eyes of a man used to elegance and sensuality in a woman.
Mama Case fussed round her at breakfast, complaining under her breath until Rorke said sardonically, ‘She’ll be safe enough, Mama Case—we’re leaving Dr Peters behind!’
Lisa’s cheeks stung at the implied suggestion, but somehow she managed to repress the hot words clamouring for utterance. Why should Rorke disapprove of Mike so much? She enjoyed his company. They were on the same wavelength, he was kind and friendly, his manner very evocative of that of her friends’ brothers towards her. It came to her with a sudden sense of shock that Mike was more like a brother to her than Rorke. Her feelings for Rorke had never been sisterly, she acknowledged on a sudden wave of self-awareness; there had always been beneath the surface a fine thread of tension making it impossible for her to relax in his company the way she could with Mike.
‘Daydreaming about Peters?’
She came to with a start, realising that Rorke was propped up against the wall watching her, and her face coloured again as she worried about what he might have read in her expression.
‘And if I was?’ she challenged, tilting her chin, determined not to allow him to guess that he had been the subject of her thoughts.
‘Forget it,’ Rorke warned her grimly. ‘He might be a young girl’s dream, Lisa, but you won’t be a young girl for ever. One day you’re going to be a woman, and when you are,’ he said softly, ‘you’re going to want a man, not a boy.’
He was gone before she could retort; before she could demand that he explain what he meant.
Half an hour later, she was waiting for Leon to row her out to where Rorke’s schooner lay anchored in the bay below the house. He had bought it three years earlier, and Lisa had watched adoringly while he lovingly restored what had originally been no more than a shell. Now the graceful vessel swung lazily at anchor, sails furled, paintwork gleaming. Lisa had been aboard her several times during her visits home, and was completely at home on the elegant craft. Leigh himself had taught her to sail, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion Rorke had actually allowed her to crew for him when he raced the schooner in a local regatta.
‘You can take the for’ard bunk,’ Rorke told her grittily, bending to grip her wrist and help her on board. ‘Leon’s already stowed your stuff. Not that there was much.’
For a moment the brilliance of the sun on the white paintwork dazzled Lisa, and then her vision cleared and she became aware of Rorke standing barefoot on the deck, his denim shorts almost as disreputable as her own, the rest of his body burned a warm teak by the sun and salt.
‘Leigh wants me to get some new clothes while we’re in St Lucia,’ Lisa reminded him, frowning a little as she glanced down at her bare legs and frayed shorts.
‘So he told me,’ Rorke agreed. ‘He seems to think Helen might take you in hand. Quite a challenge, I should think,’ he said insultingly, adding, ‘I’m going on deck to cast off.’
‘Want any help?’ Lisa called after him, trying to swallow her hurt, but he barely paused in the narrow doorway to her cabin.
‘No, thanks,’ he told her curtly. ‘I can handle Lady on my own—in fact sometimes it’s easier that way.’
‘Meaning you want me to stay in my cabin until we reach St Lucia?’ Lisa demanded, disappointment and pain suddenly overwhelming caution. ‘Is that what you’re trying to say, Rorke?’
‘It might make things easier all round,’ he agreed, apparently unaware of the pain he was causing her.
The morning passed slowly for Lisa, cooped up in the small cabin, watching the waves through the porthole and mentally chafing at her imprisonment.
By lunchtime she decided that nothing, but nothing was going to keep her in her cabin any longer. She had originally decided that Rorke would have to get down on his knees and beg her before she would so much as put one foot on the deck, but boredom and hunger had overcome her resolution. Even Rorke had to eat, she reminded herself, and he could hardly do that and sail the schooner as well.
Her rubber-soled sneakers made no sound on the seasoned timbers of the deck as she went in search of Rorke to ask him what he wanted for lunch, but there was no sign of him, and she realised that the schooner was rocking gently at anchor. Where was he?
Tiny shivers of apprehension shuddered down her spine. Surely it was stupid to imagine that an experienced sailor like Rorke could fall overboard in a calm sea? Of course it was. He was probably resting himself! She was just on the point of going down to his cabin to check and had turned away from the deck when a shadow fell across her path.
‘Rorke!’ She swung round, relief in her voice, and saw Rorke straightening up on the deck, his skin sleek and damp, his hair plastered to his skull, and shock coursed through her, rooting her to the spot as she realised that he was naked, his body glistening tautly brown under the salt water spray.
‘Lisa!’ She saw his teeth snap together in anger. ‘I thought you were going to stay in your cabin?’
‘I came to see if you wanted any lunch.’
She had to drag her eyes away from the male perfection of his body, shocking in its masculinity and yet, at the same time, undoubtedly exciting. Tremors of reaction were pulsing through her own skin, a cramping delirium in the pit of her stomach.
‘Later, when I’ve showered and changed. What’s the matter?’ he demanded tautly when she didn’t move, adding impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, Lisa, get below, before I do something that will really shock you!’
They made St Lucia earlier than Lisa had anticipated, and she had a shrewd suspicion that Rorke had deliberately cut the journey short.
Castries, the main harbour, was busy. A cruise ship had come into port and the town’s narrow streets were thronged with trippers. Lisa was forced to fall behind as Rorke’s long legs propelled him swiftly through the crowd. At one busy intersection he waited for her to catch up with him, grimacing as he took her arm. His fingers were rough against her skin, and she could see the faint salt bloom on his chest and throat. A wave of faintness came over her as she remembered seeing him step on to the deck after his swim. That it wasn’t the first time he had swum nude had been very evident in the depth and extent of his tan, and the faintness increased tormentingly as she wondered if, on those occasions, he had always swum alone, or if, perhaps, someone had joined him—Helen, for instance.
Just for a moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to float motionless beside him in the blue-green depths of the Caribbean, the silky water her only covering.
‘Lisa!’