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Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly noticed Patrick studying her with a smile on his tough mouth. Prickling, she gave him a cold, haughty look. He was the kind of man she could read like a book, and she knew precisely what that cynical smile of his meant. He thought all cynical women were available for sex without strings attached. Playboys always thought like that. Well, he could just go and playboy himself to death, if he thought she was that kind of woman.
Emma might have been cynical, but that didn’t mean she was cheap. Far from it. She wanted truth, honesty, integrity. Real emotions, real thoughts, no pretence, no lies…
What was wrong with romantic love was that it wasn’t the truth—any more than money, social position and material success were the truth. There was only one truth worth bothering with in life, and that was the fact that everyone was going to die.
Emma’s eyes glided contemptuously over the handsome playboy, Patrick Kinsella, glided on past him, flickered out to the sea and sky, which were hers as long as she was alive, and far more precious than all the material success or romantic delusion in the world.
The spirit, she thought with a slow, philosophical smile, is something which cannot be bought, and which lives on after death, like a soft sea breeze on that halcyon sky. Now that’s the only romance I’m prepared to believe in.
‘You’re not interested in romance at all?’ Natasha seemed to read her mind. ‘Or gorgeous, sexy men?’
Emma laughed cynically. ‘Gorgeous, sexy men are always a pleasure to look at, but usually inside they’re weak, selfish, vain, conceited and arrogant.’ Her smile flashed contempt at Patrick Kinsella. ‘I’m not interested in packaging. Only in what’s inside.’
‘Worthy sentiments,’ drawled Natasha, ‘but isn’t your life a little dull without romance?’
‘Hardly! I have a wonderful job, a lot of friends, opportunities for travel, and a very interesting future. What more could I ask for?’
‘A man.’ Natasha toyed with her glass in one redtaloned hand.
Emma smiled at her expression. Women like this little man-eater always tried to throw darts at Emma’s confidence in herself, presumably because it rattled them to think that a woman could be quite happy without being obsessed by men, flirtation, romance.
‘Every woman needs a man.’
‘Needs?’ Emma said. ‘I need to eat, I need to breathe, I need to sleep—but need a man? No, I don’t think that’s a statement I can agree with. After all, I’m going to die one day, and I can’t take him with me any more than I can take money or possessions or achievements.’
‘All right, then!’ Natasha’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’d like a man! Someone to love, to kiss, to flirt with.’
‘Well, that’s definitely debatable.’ Emma arched cool dark brows with amusement. ‘If I don’t want to kiss someone, I won’t, and there’s an end to it.’
‘And if you do want to kiss someone?’ Patrick Kinsella suddenly stepped forward, pushed his dark glasses up on to his head, and she saw his eyes. She was so struck by them that she just stared at him in silence for a split-second.
Those eyes were blue—dazzling blue, steely blue, Van Gogh sky-blue, and they seemed to fill the whole deck of the yacht, the whole town of St Tropez. She could no longer see his face or the colour of his hair or even his height or bare chest.
All she could see were those eyes, blazing at her like the brightest lights she had ever seen.
They were so at odds with her initial opinion of him— a handsome, cynical, sex-obsessed playboy—that for a second she was too knocked off balance to speak.
‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Baccarat?’ Patrick drawled.
She quickly pulled her shattered wits together. ‘If I wanted to kiss someone, I would do just that—kiss them!’
He laughed. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never wanted to? How old are you? Twelve?’
‘Well, of course I’ve wanted to!’ she snapped, flushing hotly. ‘But only when I was younger, more naïve, and believed in romance the way every teenager does.’
He was unfazed by her anger. ‘Which do you hate most? Romance or sexual attraction?’
‘What an impertinent question!’
‘Why is it impertinent?’
‘I would have thought that was perfectly obvious!’
‘Because I mentioned sex? Very interesting. I think you’ve answered my question.’
Her face flamed. ‘That’s just the kind of stupid, sexist remark I’d expect from an arrogant playboy!’
‘Resorting to personal insults already?’ He laughed softly. ‘Well, well, well. So it is sex that bothers you.’
‘Don’t you try to Freudian-analyse me, Mr Kinsella!’ Her green eyes flared with temper as she pushed her dark glasses up on to her head, glaring at him. ‘The truth is that I don’t hate either romance or sexual attraction! I just see through them.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘What do you mean—how do I do that?’ She was livid because her anger hadn’t stopped him pushing at her. ‘It must be perfectly obvious!’
‘Not to me.’
‘Then you must be even younger than the twelve you accused me of being!’
He laughed, enjoying her rage. ‘That annoyed you, did it?’
‘Of course it did!’ She was determined to remain lucid and intelligent, not to lose her cool again. ‘And I’m surprised at a man of your obvious experience saying you don’t see through either romance or sexual attraction. I should think you’ve had more than your fair share of relationships based on nothing but plain lust!’
He arched cool dark brows, revealing respect in his blue eyes at the direct honesty of her words. ‘Clearly— so have you.’
‘Of course I have.’ She remained blindingly honest. ‘I’m a young woman, I’m reasonably attractive, and I’ve had more than my fair share of men trying to seduce me.’
‘Trying to?’
‘Yes—trying to!’
‘Obviously you never let them succeed.’
‘Why should I?’ Her face flushed unexpectedly. She felt defensive, lifting her chin. ‘I have no intention of being hoodwinked by romantic delusion in order to let a man get the better of me sexually. That’s what the game is, isn’t it? That’s how playboys reach their goal!’
He smiled, studying her assessingly. ‘True, but not all men are playboys. You must have met at least one decent man since your husband died—surely? Or are you like most women, and find decent men boring?’
‘They’re certainly not as boring and predictable as playboys or fortune-hunters!’
‘Fortune-hunters? A rich woman as well as a cynic, then?’
‘Money and cynicism go hand in hand when everyone you meet just wants to relieve you of both your money and your virtue. And in truth I’d give all my money away to find one honest, decent, trustworthy man!’
‘Then you do believe in love, after all.’
Her face flamed scarlet. ‘No, I do not, and what is this anyway? Twenty questions? My private life is none of your damned business! Get off my back or I’ll leave this yacht immediately!’
‘OK.’ He shrugged coolly, astonishing her while she stood there, bristling, poised for further fury, staring at him, a string of insults on the tip of her tongue—only to be completely outmanoeuvred because he strode mildly past them all, saying over one enormous bare, hard-muscled shoulder, ‘I’m going into town for an hour or so. I’ll see you all tonight. Seven-thirty on deck for cocktails…’
Speechless, furious, Emma stared after him as he picked up a nearby shirt, pulled it on lazily as he strode down the gangplank, and disappeared into the glamorous mêlée of people on the quai of St Tropez.
‘That was Patrick doing the Spanish Inquisition, wasn’t it?’ Liz said as she too stared after Patrick. ‘I wonder why?’
‘He was probably just bored,’ Emma said tersely, loathing him even more, and feeling shaken by the conversation. She decided she detested Patrick Kinsella, and would avoid him like the plague from now on. She turned to Liz, saying, ‘I think I’d like to go down to my cabin now—take a shower, unpack, settle in. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes, of course!’ Liz put her drink down. ‘See you later, Natasha.’
Natasha smiled acidly, said something spiteful, and refilled her glass while Liz led Emma along the hot wooden deck towards the white door which opened on to a long narrow staircase.
As they went down the stairs, Emma said tautly, ‘Sorry about that row with your brother. I felt pinned down by all those questions, and the conversation was getting much too personal.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it.’ Liz waved an airy hand. ‘He was obviously just intrigued to find a woman as cynical as he is.’
‘Yes,’ she said, eyes narrowing, ‘I noticed his mad, bad and dangerous sex appeal before Natasha pointed it out. No doubt he’s used to women falling at his feet in a romantic daydream.’
‘Precisely,’ Liz agreed. ‘He stopped believing in love so long ago that I can’t really remember a time when he wasn’t a cynical swine.’ She laughed, leading the way along a luxurious corridor. ‘Not like me, of course, always rattling on about hearts and flowers.’
Emma smiled, following her past a series of doors. She liked Liz’s preoccupation with romance, found it rather sweet, especially in the way it was expressed in her books—all that passion, faith in love, a belief in the goodness of people, not the bad.
It was a shame she had never married, but then she had had a ten-year blazing love-affair with a man who was married to an insane woman and felt unable to divorce her. ‘All very Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester,’ Liz often remarked with a sigh, but it had ended in tragedy when the man had died in a plane crash, leaving Liz alone in a world with no love but the romance in her beloved novels.
Liz opened the door of Emma’s cabin, and smiled as she heard Emma’s rapid intake of breath.
‘My God, it’s beautiful…!’
‘Yes, my brother’s very stylish in everything he does.’
Emma hated Patrick for being very stylish, but couldn’t deny that he was, because this room was ravishing. It was vast, sunlight pouring in through two long windows, illuminating the sprawling silk-covered double bed, the deep-pile sea-green carpet, the expensive sofas and armchairs, the long low polished mahogany coffee-table, the antique writing-desk, and the exquisite paintings hanging on the silk-wallpapered walls.
‘I’ll leave you to get on with it, then,’ said Liz with a cheery smile. ‘See you at seven-thirty on deck for predinner cocktails.’
As soon as the door was closed, Emma started to unpack, hanging all her clothes in the wardrobe, piling lingerie, T-shirts and jeans into the chest of drawers, and arranging her various shoes neatly.
Then she laid out her cosmetics, perfume and hairstyling appliances on the beautiful dressing-table, enjoying the reflection of that stylish bottle of Ralph Lauren’s Safari in the three-tiered mirror.
Going into the bathroom with her toiletries, she gasped anew at the beauty, luxury and understated style of the room.
Patrick Kinsella really did have exceptional taste.
Taste meant a lot to Emma. Her late husband had had appalling taste, and living with it for the two years of their brief marriage had been very unpleasant. Another symptom of artifice and role-playing: Emma had let Simon indoctrinate her in everything he liked, as though she simply ‘became’ him, and pretended to like all his friends, his hobbies, his bad taste, his selfishness…
She had also, along the way, pretended to forgive him his brutality, violence, infidelity, deceit and vicious spite. All those qualities had only surfaced after the wedding— but then that was what you got, thought Emma, for pretending instead of telling the truth.
She wasn’t bitter about the past, or about her bad marriage, or about the fact that she had been forced to role-play for so many years. She had dealt with it all long ago, accepting it and moving forward to a new life and a new way of dealing with the world.
What was there to do but forgive and, in doing so, forgive herself for the part she had played in her own unhappiness? Her parents had not loved her properly— but they had loved her, and she had loved them. It hadn’t been their fault that they were so incapable of seeing her as she really was, it had simply been a product of their own unhappy childhoods, when their parents had not loved them properly.
As for Simon—well, he fell into the same category. Treated badly as a boy, he had grown up thinking that love meant treating other people badly, and his violence had been a product of long-buried rage.
Horrors.
What a minefield relationships were.
Now she was free of it all, content with her life, and looking back on the past was like looking back on another person. It would have been romantic of her to use the word ‘rebirth’ to describe her new life and, although she detested romance, she rather liked the word ‘rebirth’.
Stripping her clothes off, she stepped into the luxurious shower, and proceeded to luxuriate under the warm needles of water, washing the grime of her long journey from her slender body.
To think she had left her London home at six o’clock this morning! God, that delay at London Heathrow had been a nightmare!
When she had dried herself, styled her hair, and pulled on a pair of pale blue jeans, she slipped a white silk top on, then decided it would be a shame to waste St Tropez if they were sailing out tonight, so she went up on deck with her sunglasses and handbag, and pootled down the gangplank into town.
Hot sunlight assailed her from all angles. Artists stood on the quai in front of their easels, palettes in hand as they stroked hot oil paints on to the canvases, and seagulls cried sharply among the bobbing boats, the glittering blue waters, the freedom-filled glamour of the town.
Emma walked lazily up bleached, winding, ancient streets, until she came to the main square, where old French men played boules among the trees and the dust, watched by glamorous tourists in pretty canopied cafés.
Sitting on a canvas chair, Emma watched the men, and ordered a coffee. Then suddenly, across the square, she saw a pair of blazing blue eyes watching her.
Dazzling blue, she thought again as she stared unsmilingly straight at Patrick Kinsella.
He just stood still, watching her, staring directly at her, and even though he was a long way away she felt the power of that stare, felt it very deeply, like a mirror turned in sudden blazing recognition.
She did not smile either. Nor make any attempt to wave or signal that she had seen him. Flicking her gaze expressionlessly from his, she glanced at the tree beside her as the warm breeze ruffled through its green leaves, and thought, Who the hell does he think he is?
When she glanced back with a cool expression, Patrick had gone. Frowning, she looked to see where he had disappeared to, but there was nothing there save the men playing boules, the trees, the dust, the cafés, and the sudden buzz of a motorbike driving along in the hot afternoon.
Oh, well. She shrugged philosophically, but it was irksome to have been stared at like that by her host, her employer’s brother, as though he had no need to smile or wave or even acknowledge her.
What a sauce, she thought irritably. And after the way he spoke to me, asking me such rapid, personal questions. I may not be the best person he’s ever invited aboard his yacht, but there’s no need to completely ignore me in public, as though we’ve never met.
A second later, Liz appeared on the same side of the square as Emma.
‘Hi!’ Emma waved to her, and Liz waved back, looking hilarious in multi-stripe leggings, a long T-shirt and a bright orange baseball cap perched on her pixieish head.
‘Hello there!’ Liz raced over to her table, sank down in a chair and put her shopping down with a thud. ‘Phew! This shopping is thirsty work! I must have a huge glass of Perrier.’
Emma signalled the waiter and ordered it for her.
‘Settled in all right?’ Liz asked.
‘Yes, wonderfully well. I didn’t want to waste St Tropez, though.’ She hesitated, then, ‘Just saw your brother, by the way, on the other side of the square.’
‘And what did he have to say for himself? Anything interesting?’
‘No, he didn’t speak to me.’ She sipped her coffee, still irritated by Patrick Kinsella’s ignoring her.
‘Didn’t he? Maybe he didn’t see you.’
‘Yes, he did,’ laughed Emma, ‘but he was probably too busy eyeing up the other women in the cafés here to waste a smile on me!’
