A Dangerous Arrangement (15 page)

Someone replied in a low voice.

French accent.

Persuasive tone.

Alain.

Marina frowned, trying to make out what he was saying.

‘You should never have brought Lee on board. You knew the rules.'

Danika again.

Marina grimaced. By the sounds of it, Alain had brought someone called Lee on board and Danika was giving him a piece of her mind.

A girl?

Marina shook her head. Too bad. She was hungry, and she'd come this far. Whatever they were arguing about didn't concern her.

She stepped up to the door and knocked. Danika and Alain swung around and looked in her direction, obviously stunned to see her up so early.

She smiled, opened the door and stuck her head inside. ‘Morning.'

Danika came towards her, hurrying around a stone-topped island bench and wiping her hands on a towel. ‘Bonjour. Come in.'

Marina stepped inside and smiled briefly at Alain. She had a faint memory of him being in her room last night.

His eyes cut to Danika and then back to her.

‘Feeling better?'

‘Much better, thank you.'

‘Glad to hear it.' He nodded, and with one last look at Danika, left the galley.

‘Welcome to my office,' Danika said in a singsong voice. ‘What would you like to eat? I can make you eggs, bacon, pancakes, waffles …'

‘Oh.' Marina's stomach shifted at the thought. ‘No, thank you. Just something light.'

‘Fruit, muesli, berries, yoghurt—whatever you like.'

‘Er …' Marina grimaced. ‘Would you have a croissant?'

Danika raised both hands in the air and her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I'm French! Of course I have a croissant.'

Marina smiled. ‘Perfect.'

Danika opened a cupboard, used tongs to take out a croissant and put it in the warmer. ‘You know you can order breakfast from the console in your cabin. It comes through to my computer. I can bring it up whatever time you prefer to eat.'

‘I did see that. I thought I'd beat everybody down here and just help myself to some toast.'

Danika frowned. ‘Why eat toast when the captain keeps the best of everything? May as well live it up while you can.'

Marina smiled and looked away. It was obvious Danika thought her just another woman in a long line of temporary onboard ‘live-it-uppers'.

‘Are you the entertainment?'

Marina turned to stare at the diminutive chef.

Danika blinked. ‘The violin?'

‘Oh.' Marina closed her eyes for a moment. Of course! Danika had carried her violin down to the stateroom.

She shook her head. ‘No.'

‘I didn't think so.' Danika spoke quickly, her accent so pronounced Marina was having trouble keeping up. ‘Usually the bands stay in the staff quarters.'

Perhaps she should be grateful Dean hadn't put her down here with the staff.

Danika continued to chat as she unfolded a linen napkin and placed it inside a small oval basket in preparation for the croissant.

‘The parties were cut short this year. We were supposed to be in Cannes for the entire week, but Captain Logan flew to the mainland and then we had to go and pick up the helicopter from where he left it.'

Danika chatted on as if this were a commonplace occurrence.

‘Then it was down here to Sorrento at full knots.' The other woman turned away as the warmer beeped. ‘And because of that, I'm worried about the food. I stocked up big for the parties and a lot is going to spoil. I would be pleased if you could eat as much as possible.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘Jam and butter?'

Marina shook her head. ‘Plain will be fine, thanks.'

Danika waved a hand across the stone benchtop. ‘Would you like me to put it on a tray? How about tea, or coffee?'

‘No, that's fine. I can make coffee in my room.'

‘Okay.' Danika handed her the basket. ‘Enjoy. Let me know if I can get you anything else.'

‘Thanks again.'

‘Au revoir.'

Aware of Danika watching, Marina left the kitchen then retraced her steps to her room. Inside, she sat down at the small glass table, switched on CNN and turned the volume to low. She thought about phoning Michelle. Now would be as good a time as any, she always stayed up late watching TV.

Michelle picked up almost immediately. ‘Hello.'

‘Hi, it's me. Sorry to call so late.'

‘That's okay. I was still up.'

‘Did you get my message?'

‘Yes. He's scheduled to have the first operation in a week.'

Marina frowned. ‘The first one?'

‘They do one eye at a time, otherwise they wouldn't be able to see.'

Her sister's mocking tone caused heat to rise in Marina's cheeks. ‘Oh, that makes sense. How is he?'

‘Fine. We thought he was becoming feeble and losing his balance, but it turned out to be his eyes. The specialist said he'll be eighty per cent better afterwards.'

Marina smiled. ‘I'm so glad it turned out to be something routine. What about the diabetes?'

‘Really stable. We only have a problem when I go out and he has to fix himself something to eat. He sneaks food he's not supposed to eat. God knows what he'd be like if I wasn't here.'

Marina closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Not once did Michelle fail to remind her that their father probably wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for her. On occasion Marina was tempted to retaliate, to point out that without her support they wouldn't have been able to stay in the family home.

But she could never bring herself to say it. The put-downs were Michelle's way of feeling better about herself.

‘I'm in Italy at the moment, but keep that to yourself. I'm keeping it quiet. I should be back in Australia sometime next week. You can get me on this number if you need anything.'

‘Italy.' A pause. ‘That'd be nice.'

Marina gritted her teeth at her sister's pointed remark. The strange thing was Michelle didn't want to work, didn't want to leave Boston or the family home she'd grown up in. She was exactly where she wanted to be and yet she resented Marina's life; she couldn't bring herself to be happy for her, though she'd never swap places, even if it were possible.

Marina looked around the stateroom, pleased Michelle couldn't see her luxurious surrounds. ‘Do you need me to transfer the money into your account? I can do it from here.'

‘Okay.'

Marina picked up a fancy black and gold pen with
Orion
embossed on the side. ‘Can you give me the amount?'

She was writing down the figure and mentally tallying her bank balance when a picture of Dean appeared on the screen behind the CNN anchorwoman.

Marina stared, stunned.

‘Michelle, I'll ring you back.' Heart hammering, she disconnected the call and turned up the volume.

‘We cross to the America's Cup where match races are due to begin off the coast of San Francisco in nine days. As we reported yesterday, Dean Logan, skipper of the Australian racing team, the current defender of the America's Cup, has withdrawn from the competition. Details remain sketchy, but our reporter in San Fran once again confirms Mr Logan will not be joining his crew in California as scheduled, but will continue with his plans to return to Australia where it is reported his company is in serious trouble. Just repeating the news out of San Francisco—Dean Logan, the skipper of Australian racing yacht,
Eclipse
, a man who many believe to be the best sailing strategist in the world, is out of the America's Cup.'

Marina sat on the edge of her seat and recalled Rask's words from yesterday.
Mr
Logan's having an emergency skype meeting with his America's Cup crew.

So that's why he'd sent Rask to collect her from the ship.

The female reporter was crossing live to where a press conference was wrapping up. A young man with curly red hair was holding a CNN microphone and trying to file his report from among the media mayhem.

‘
Danny, this is a huge blow, not only for fans of the sport, but for the America's Cup challenge in general.'

‘It sure is, Jessica, a huge blow. As most people in the yachting world are aware, Dean Logan's energies are now concentrated on his design business, creating and building luxury motor yachts. As far as sailing goes, he limits himself to the America's Cup and the difficult Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. Of course, he's considered a hero in Australia for his brave actions during that race some years ago.'

The reporter paused, waiting for the anchorwoman's next question.

‘I'm told he brings excitement to the race, Danny?'

‘Absolutely. He's regarded as a god of the racing world, fearless on the water and a brilliant tactician. And we mustn't forget, he designed the
Eclipse
. No-one knows this yacht better than him. And in another interesting development, Jessica, on the back of this news, money has been pouring into the online betting agencies. The upshot of it all—Australia cannot successfully defend the America's Cup without Logan at the helm.'

The anchorwoman moved onto the next story and Marina switched off the TV. She scrambled onto the bed, grabbed her laptop and hooked into the
Orion
's wi-fi. Balancing the device in her lap, she took a bite of her croissant and typed ‘Dean Logan' into her browser. Immediately the screen filled with articles and images of Dean going back to when he was a teenager.

Marina scrolled down, reading the heading links until she came to one which contained content similar to what the reporter had said.

‘Dean Logan—Ill-fated Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, Boxing Day.'

Marina clicked on the link.

‘A sailor's farewell was recited today at a memorial service for victims of the ill-fated Sydney to Hobart yacht race. Family members, friends, skippers and crews turned out in force to remember those who lost their lives when a severe storm engulfed the race resulting in the biggest-ever maritime rescue in Australian waters.

Present was eighteen-year-old Dean Logan, crew member on board “Huntsman” who risked his life to pull five crewmen to safety after a freak wave washed them overboard. Also present were …'

Marina took another bite of the croissant and continued scrolling through the articles of particular interest. Most held race results and photographs of a triumphant crew either waving or pumping the air as they crossed the finish line ahead of the others.

And then her heart tripped in her chest as a photograph almost jumped off the screen. It accompanied an article posted a few hours ago, though the photograph was over a year old. It showed Dean, clean-shaven, handsome, his white tuxedo a perfect contrast to his dark hair and olive skin. He looked debonair, formal, like some of the men who attended her concerts in Europe. The camera had caught him smiling into the eyes of his blonde female companion.

Marina stared at the happy couple, a gnawing emptiness in the pit of her stomach, and not because she'd barely nibbled at the croissant. Tearing her eyes away from the photograph, she read the article.

‘In news that has rocked the sporting world, yacht designer to the stars, Dean Logan, has withdrawn from this year's America's Cup campaign. Tom Bradley will step into the role of helmsman of the purpose-built Logan
Eclipse
. Rumours abound as to the reason for Logan's sudden withdrawal. Certain sources report his company, Logan Luxury Craft, is in serious financial trouble, while others report a possible reconciliation with Julia Montgomery to be the reason. The Wonder from Down Under has been sailing solo since he split from the jewellery heiress (pictured opposite with Logan) a year ago, ending their eight-month relationship.'

Marina flushed. What had she been thinking, flirting with Dean over the phone and kissing him at Taormina? Of course he would date heiresses, someone on his level.

She shut down the computer, tore off another piece of croissant and forced herself to eat it. How foolish she'd been, mooning about the place, thinking how he'd held her last night, how attentive he'd been. The plain truth was, he'd locked her in the saloon and cast off with her on board. She wouldn't be bouncing around on the ocean half dead from seasickness if it wasn't for him.

Pirate!

As always, when she was nervous, upset or tending towards juvenile, she looked around for her instrument. Practise always settled her. It was cathartic, all-consuming, requiring 100 per cent concentration and leaving room for nothing else.

Elena once said she took refuge in it.

Marina gazed at her left hand, at the slight bruise where Dean had grabbed her yesterday. She knew he felt terrible about it, but it was superficial, nothing compared to the overuse and overstrain of the muscles in her neck, shoulder, arm, wrist and hand.

Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes as the enormity of what she was trying to overcome resurfaced for the first time in days.

The musician's nightmare—
her
nightmare.

The decreased function of nerves and the resulting loss of muscle strength terrified her beyond words.

This is what she did.

It was who she
was
.

She blinked away the tears, steeled herself against the heartache, and like every other day for the last three months began the series of simple exercises specifically designed to warm up her body and bring it back into balance.

She heard the specialist's voice in her head.
There is no cure forRSI. There is only prevention, self-care and body maintenance.

When she finished, she took a deep breath and undid the metal clips on her case.

Then, with great care, she took out her bow and her violin.

Chapter Eighteen

Dean looked up as the haunting strains of the violin rose from the deck below. Across the table, Rask put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth with a napkin.