CHAPTER ONE

The thunder had been muttering in the hills all afternoon, but Nicolette had gazed up into the blue African sky before setting out, and had decided that the storm was miles away yet.

But it wasn't.

The ominous thunderclouds, heaped up like vast bales of dirty wool in the sky, had gathered with incredible swiftness over the violet hills of Serengeti. And the thunder was no longer a distant mutter, but had become a harsh boom that was beginning to frighten Nicolette. Somewhere ahead, the sky leaked a vivid dribble of lightning, and the angry response rolled around the iron hills and across the dry yellow bush. She shivered, and twisted the key futilely in the Ford's dashboard. The starter-motor whined feebly, and choked into silence. Breathing a prayer, she tried again. And again. The middle of an extensive game reserve—which counted lions and hyenas amongst its denizens—was not the best place for a breakdown.

Twisting the key now only produced a few plaintive clicks. The battery was obviously exhausted. Nicolette thumped the steering wheel in frustration. What awful, what awfully typical bad luck! Some jinx was on her lately, that was for sure. She peered around the dense, khaki-coloured bush, a sea of dry grass dotted here and there with thorn trees and acacias, as if expecting to meet a

lion's tawny eyes. What the devil was she going to do? There was little humour in being stuck on a dirt track in the middle of Serengeti, ten miles from camp, with a non-functioning car, and a rapidly-brewing thunderstorm. She must have been mad to set out on her own that afternoon. She had left the five others behind, playing cards in the rest camp, because she was unwilling to waste her last day in the game reserve. To-morrow they were driving back to Mombasa, back to the Elsie, Julian's big motor-launch, to sail back to Britain. She looked up at the sky. It had not escaped her attention that the time-space between the lightning and the thunder was growing steadily shorter. The storm was coming her way. Could she make it back to the camp before it broke? She twisted in her seat to stare at the road behind her. Nothing. No comforting shape of another car on the little dirt track. No grey shapes of wildebeest. Nothing but the rolling savannah. And what was more, Nicolette realised bitterly, nobody was likely to be setting off in this weather, either. There was going to be no traffic on the roads this afternoon. In fact, nobody but a mad fool would have left camp anyway.

'Damn!' she muttered.

She recalled the game warden's strict warning never to set foot outside the car in the confines of the reserve. 'Serengeti is not a zoo,' he had told them, his pale blue eyes grim. 'The bush is filled with animals which can— and do—attack humans. Never get out of your car, no matter what the reason.'

'And if you break down?' someone had asked.

'Then you wind up your windows and sit tight J he had replied. 'Help will arrive sooner or later—we patrol all the

roads in the reserve regularly, so you'll have nothing to worry about. But if you get out of your car, and try to make it on foot, all they're likely to find of you will be a few chewed bones.' At the time, Nicolette had made appropriate noises of horror. But now, as she sweltered in her car, the elderly game warden's injunction was beginning to sound rather theatrical. After all, she had not seen a single animal on her drive this afternoon.

Admittedly, her thoughts had been on Mark, as usual. And other gloomy topics. So she was probably not paying very much attention anyway. But apart from a few birds and the odd lizard, the bush had seemed as empty as though she were the last living creature on the dusty face of the earth. The thunder rumbled hugely, and she wiped sweat from her upper lip.

How regularly did they patrol the roads? Once a day? Once a year? Nicolette sighed in frustration. The idea of an African holiday (Kenya welcomes you with its fabulous game reserves, its beautiful beaches) had seemed such a perfect escape from her heartache over Mark Macmillan. And his uncertainties and doubts that were making her life a misery. She had envisaged palm-trees and long cool drinks, somewhere comfortable, where you could sit and watch the animals grazing, and listen to the tom-toms or whatever. Not this —this arid landscape overshadowed by thunderclouds and unbearably hot, and certainly not being stuck in a hired car, miles from any damned where, with no prospect of rescue, no water, and no—she rummaged in the glove compartment—no liquorice allsorts! She wiped her forehead, and surveyed the savannah with troubled brown eyes.

The thought of baking here like a lobster for two or

three days—or starving to death, or being struck by lightning within the next few minutes, was beginning to make the prospect of meeting something wild and hungry in the bush seem almost attractive. Ten miles was a long walk; but the route was simple enough. And she was a fit young woman of twenty-three. Well, twenty-two and three quarters. And being drenched in the rain would at least be an improvement on the intolerable muggy heat that was building up in the car. Besides, no one would even know where to look for her.

Her mind made up, Nicolette swung her long legs out of the car, locked the doors, and began to trudge along the red dirt road towards the rest camp. It was cooler in the open air. Just. She looked back at the blue Ford, feeling that she had made the right decision. She smiled, a gentle smile that transformed a pretty face into a lovely one, and stretched her arms out. Imagine sitting in that car for a day! The picture of a skeleton sitting patiently behind the wheel crossed her mind. What an ironic end that would have been for twentieth-century woman, starving to death, trapped in her little technological cage, too timid to step out into the big, bad world. It was an amusing thought. And after all, there was considerable glamour in a ten-mile hike through a lion-ridden game reserve. She would tell the story quite casually, of course. She could see the grizzled game warden's eyes widening with amazement and admiration as she coolly told him that his precious reserve was not nearly as dangerous as he liked to think!

But when the red dirt road took her around a little hill, and the blue Ford disappeared from sight, and she found herself utterly alone in an unhospitable African land-

scape, her heart unaccountably sank. The journey ahead suddenly seemed an extremely long and possibly unpleasant one. Ten miles! And all those lions! She had patched them basking in the sun by the shores of the big lake. They had looked like big house-cats. Very big house-cats. She stopped and looked back, ready to run as fast as she could back to her little technological cage, with its lockable doors, its rainproof roof, and its comfortable vinyl seats. The thunder rumbled again. She shook the cowardly thought away, and strode on bravely.

Her mind soon returned to the subject which never seemed far away—Mark Macmillan. Handsome, clever Mark, with his slow smile. Rich Mark, who could never quite make his mind up whether their engagement was on or off. 'It's not that I don't care for you, Nicky,' he had said, patting her cheek. 'I do. It's just that—well, I'm not sure of myself. I'm not sure of anything any more. You go and enjoy your safari, and I'll think things over here in London. We'll talk about it when you get back. Okay?'

Dumbly, she had nodded, trying not to show him how miserable she felt inside. Mark might not be sure about her, but she was certainly sure about Mark. She had never met anyone like him before, clever, sophisticated, successful. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. They shared a common interest in painting and music—that was how they had met in the first place. He was so right for her.

And what was more, she was forced to admit, Mark's kisses had introduced her to a new world of experience. She had been so innocent before she met him, knowing so little about herself or the world. That night—when they

had lain together on the couch, and she had allowed his hands and lips to explore her body for the first time—still haunted her. He had aroused feelings in her, confusing, delicious feelings, which she never knew could exist. She had discovered a hunger, a puzzling, quickening desire that was new to her. And Mark was responsible for it. She had stopped him, somewhat to his disgust, long before anything serious could happen. But she had realised that there was a limit, and beyond that limit she would lose her self-control, sliding with pounding heart and fluttering stomach over the waterfall of passion.

She glanced absently around the flat hills and the thorn trees, lost to the world around her. Mark seemed to know so much about—that sort of thing. She had wondered where he had acquired that knowledge, and then had bitten the jealous thought back. That was all in the past now. Because he loved her, and she—did she love him? Of course she did. And when they had discussed getting engaged, Mark had been eager, holding her hand and looking deep into her brown eyes. In the absence of her parents—she was so sure they would have loved Mark— there was no one to impede the arrangement.

Mark's parents, of course, had rather looked down on her. In the nicest possible way. Mrs Macmillan was actually the Honourable Cynthia, and Mr Macmillan was Lord Someone's son. Or was he Sir Something Someone's son? Anyway, a prospective daughter-in-law who was in trade (art restoring) had not thrilled them to bits. But she had felt she was winning them slowly round. Until things had begun to go wrong with Mark. He had begun to look at her with doubt in his blue eyes, to sigh with boredom in her company, to want to make love to her, and then to get

bitter when she said no. To say that he wasn't sure of himself, he wasn't sure of anything any more. For the thousandth time, she wondered what had come between them. Was it something that she had done? Something that—

Nicolette spun round with thumping heart, her thoughts whirling from London to the still heat of the bush. Something had crossed the road behind her—she was sure of that. She stood tensely, straining her ears for a repetition of the sound. Paws or hooves? It was probably some small antelope, she told herself. The overcast sky rumbled distantly, then louder. The silence that followed was eerie. The bush was waiting. Even the incessant shrilling of the cicadas had stopped. Nicolette walked onwards, feeling very small against the vastness of the bush. She had chosen to wear cowboy boots; beautifully-tooled things that she had bought in Mombasa. But the high heels twisted awkwardly in the red sand. She brushed the sweat off her upper lip again, wondering absently whether her smell was carrying on the tiny breeze. Was some black snout somewhere sniffing curiously at this strange smell, composed of hot human, assorted textiles, leather, sweat, and Diorissimo?

The landscape brooded around her. She tried to think of Mark again. And so. So, they had agreed to part for three weeks. She was going to take her leave in Africa, and he was going to work through the silly season at home. What would be waiting for her when she got back? A loving reconciliation? I'm sorry, darling, but I can't go through with it? And was there, she wondered unhappily, a strain of cynicism creeping into the way she thought about Mark?

What was that noise? Surely nothing could hear her heels in the soft sand? Everything would be sheltering under a tree now, waiting for the coming storm. The bush jacket she wore was beginning to stain black under the armpits now. How far had she come? Perhaps a mile. Maybe less. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, pulled ofT the jacket, and slung it wearily over her shoulder. It was going to be good to get back to the sea. She had been going to fly to Kenya at first; but when Mark had discovered that Julian Mitchell, one of his friends, was planning a cruise from London to Mombasa in Elsie, a sleek motor-launch, he had insisted that it was the ideal opportunity. There was a spare berth on Elsie. What was more, Julian and his four friends were even planning to visit Serengeti—she could go with them, couldn't she? Nicolette had not been over-keen at first. She did not entirely trust Julian, and the rich, spoiled set he moved with were not exactly her cup of tea. Besides, she had protested, the long cruise would cut into her time at Serengeti. But Mark had been insistent. And, as usual, she had done what Mark wanted.

The cruise from Britain had been pleasant enough. Having discovered that Nicolette was not quite their 'sort', the five young people had left her more or less to do as she pleased. She had basked in the sun, or read countless romances, watching with one eye as the others enjoyed themselves in their own way—the jokes that only they could understand, references to people called Jumbo' or 'Topsy', a lot of hard drinking and upper-class horse-play. She had been determined not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But she had wondered what her father would have said about the five companions of her

voyage—the Famous FiVe, she had privately christened them.

Despite the darkening sky, the road ahead shimmered in a heat haze. She was very hot. Again, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. It was difficult to shake off the eerie feeling that she was being watched. Maybe she should have stuck it out in the car? Would the Famous Five have had the brains to send out a search party for her, when she failed to return? She glanced at her watch. By now they were probably on their third or fourth Pina Coladas and dry Martinis, and would be laughing hysterically at their own in-jokes. She grimaced to herself. It had taken this holiday to show her just what twits Mark's friends could be. She glanced back. Her T-shirt was wet, and clung to her uncomfortably. When she got back to the camp, she promised herself, she was going to take a long, hot bath, and a long, cool drink. And then she was going to order a thick, juicy—

Another slight sound made her spin round in panic. There was something there. Something following her through the long grass. She stood rooted to the spot, her ears straining for any noise. Suddenly, a frightful image came into her mind, filling her with terror. The hyenas! She thought of their huge, ugly heads, the massive jaws that could crush bones like so much dry toast, the teeth that could rend and rip. She had learned at Serengeti that hyenas were not, as popular opinion believed, merely scavengers. They were hunters, the most ruthless, cruel, relentless hunters in Africa, with their hideous, loping walk, their lowering black heads, their eyes of fire.

'Oh, dear God!' she breathed shakily, her oval face white with tension. She listened.

The lightning was like a sheet of white fire, and the thunder ripped overhead, a noise as shockingly violent as if giant hands had torn the sky in half. Nicolette started in alarm, and looked up anxiously. The first heavy drops of rain had begun to fall, splashing into the sand like blood. The road ahead to the camp stretched interminably into the empty, sinister landscape. What had led her to imagine that Africa was all jungle and waving banana trees? This vast grey sky was as pitiless as a desert, the grass dry and juiceless. Even the red earth seemed parched, drinking up the large raindrops as they fell. Too afraid to look back again, she walked through the ever-increasing rain. Soon she was soaked, her long blonde hair straggling uncomfortably across her cheeks, dripping water down the back of her neck.

Another vast crash of thunder shook the universe. This was not like English thunder; this was savage, primaeval, a terrible violence huge enough to smash worlds. The thunder rolled from one corner of the horizon to the other, and then over her head, like boulders rolled on heaven's roof. Again there came that sound behind her, this time loud enough to rise above the pelting of the rain. It was a distinct rustle in the grass. She whipped around, catching the tall fronds swaying. Was it the rain, or—a grunt emerged from the grass, and Nicolette ran.

Her heart pounding in her throat, her breath rasping painfully, she slipped in the red mud, rose, slipped again. The beating rain was reducing the track to a quagmire, and her elegant cowboy boots slithered helplessly. She looked back, and her blood froze. Two dark shapes were materialising behind her on the road. Hyenas! She crouched, petrified, in the shelter of the long grass. If she

lay still, would they miss her? No. They would catch her smell, the frightened human smell that would tell them food was near. The thought filled her heart with sick terror. She leaped to her feet, and ran on blindly through the mud, looking desperately for a tree, anything to hide in. Without knowing it, she was gasping out Mark's name, 'Mark—please help me—'

She cast a wild glance over her shoulder. They were following her! The two grim black shapes, heads down to the earth, were drawing steadily closer. Despair tore at her. Too exhausted to go further, she stumbled to her knees, her heart pounding as though it would burst, her throat dry with fear. Then two brilliant lights flashed through the lashing rain ahead of her, and a big white shape began to materialise. Her heart almost stopped— then bounded with a surge of joy. It was a car, a Range Rover with tinted windows, lurching and slithering through the mud towards her. With a final spurt of energy, she struggled to her feet and waved frantically. Another crash of thunder battered at her eardrums as the big vehicle stopped, and a tall man in boots and a grey flak-jacket jumped out.

She stumbled forward and threw herself into his arms, pressing her face against his broad chest, and gabbling confused thanks as strong arms encircled her. Then her knees gave way, and she sagged against him, so that he was forced to pick her up bodily and heave her on to the front seat. A trembling reaction set in as she shut her eyes, hoping she wasn't going to be sick. Then she opened them.

'Welcome aboard,' said a big, tanned man with a beard.

'Thank God you came,' she gasped, gazing into a pair of

calm, smoky grey eyes. 'You saved my life! There were hyenas chasing me, two of them—'

'Hyenas? 5 The deep voice was incredulous. Nicolette followed his gaze. Standing forlornly in the rain a few dozen yards away were two young warthogs, their naturally mournful faces made ridiculous by mud and rain. As she gaped at them, they turned with military precision, and with their stubby tails held high, trotted off into the bush.

'Oh,' she said.

'Don't sound so disappointed,' he said drily. 'They might just as easily have been hyenas.' He walked round the car, and climbed into the driver's seat. 'What were you doing out of your car anyway?'

She looked up into the bearded face >vith a timid smile.

'It broke down,' she explained, 'so I decided to walk back to camp—'

'In a thunderstorm? Alone and unarmed?' Black eyebrows rose gently.

'Well,' she said defensively, 'I didn't know whether anyone would ever come to my rescue out there. Thank God you came, anyhow.' The beautiful eyes were watching her with uncomfortable clarity. 'It's only ten miles,' she stammered on, 'and I didn't think the storm would break so soon—'

'You don't have to defend yourself,' he said softly. 'If you want to kill yourself, that's your business.' He looked her up and down calmly. 'You've certainly got yourself into a mess, young lady.' Suddenly she realised that her bush jacket was missing.

'Oh,' she said in dismay, 'my jacket! I've dropped it somewhere on the road!'

'When you were being chased by the hyenas?' he suggested with dry irony. She flushed.

'It's got all my money in it-—and the car keys—'

He held up a strong brown hand. 'Okay, I've got the message. We'll take a look.' The car started at his touch, and they lurched along the slippery, blood-red road, Nicolette peering out of the windscreen, feeling slightly disturbed by this calm male presence beside her.

'Thank you for finding me, by the way,' she said, 'I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't arrived.'

'Not at all. It's not every day that one gets hugged and kissed by a beautiful stranger.' She shot a quick glance at him, but his face—what she could see of it—was impassive.

'Had you been looking long?' she asked.

'I wasn't looking at all,' he said gently. 'I was actually on my way to meet a friend.'

'Oh,' she said again. His manner was deceptively gentle. The thick beard gave him an almost savage look, and in his supple boots and grey combat gear, he might have been a soldier or a lumberjack. But his voice was quiet and authoritative, and the hands on the steering wheel, though powerful and obviously used to hard work, were not coarse. The grey eyes met hers again, with that hint of mockery in them. They were disconcerting eyes, she decided, their apparent calm concealing a hard challenge.

'I hope you're keeping a look-out for your precious jacket,' he said, and she looked away, flushing.

'There it is,' she said. He stopped, and muttering her thanks, Nicolette scrambled out and went to retrieve it. The cowboy boots slipped uncontrollably in the wet, and with a gasp, she found herself sitting painfully in the

middle of a miniature lake. Coated with red slime, she struggled to her feet, casting a hasty glance back at the car. The tinted windscreen concealed the driver's expression. Which was just as well, she reflected with burning cheeks, as she scooped up her jacket, checked that the keys were still in it, and walked back, nursing a bruised arm.

As she opened the door, cool grey eyes met hers wearily.

'Do you have any idea what a state you're in?' he asked quietly. She glanced down at her sodden jeans, at the mud that clung to everything, at the filthy jacket in her arms. She brushed the wet blonde hair out of her eyes, and looked at him.

'I don't make a habit of this,' she sighed.

'I'm glad to hear it,' he said, a glint of humour in his eyes. 'Would you mind riding in the back?'

'I'm sorry?'

'This isn't my car,' he told her expressionlessly. But she had a shrewd idea he was laughing at her. 'I don't want you to ruin the seats, Miss—er—'

'Mercury. Nicolette Mercury.'

'Miss Mercury. I'm sure you'll find somewhere to sit in the back. Perhaps on the spare wheel?'

Miserably she clambered into the back, and wedged herself between a box of tools and the spare wheel, feeling exactly like a muddy dog exiled by indignant owners. 'What about my car?' she ventured.

'I presume it's hired? Then you'd better leave it where it is, and contact the company from the camp.'

'Oh. You really did save my life, you know. If the hyenas hadn't found me, I'd probably have been struck by lightning.'

'Okay. We'll say you owe me a favour.' He met her eyes

in the rearview mirror. 'Tell me, who is Mark?'

'I beg your pardon?' she stammered.

'When you threw yourself into my arms you were babbling about Mark.'

'Yes,' she said, embarrassed, 'I suppose I was. He's— er—he's my fiance.' Almost, she added to herself.

'Ah. I thought he might have been your patron saint.' She sneaked a sidelong glance at him through the space between the front seats. A big man, broad-shouldered and flat-stomached. The eyes that were watching the road carefully were a flat, challenging grey. Battleship grey. The keen eyes of a hunter, or a sailor. His nose was straight, a strong, arrogant, Norman nose, and the cheekbones were firm. But the lower half of his face was concealed by the thick black beard that was, she now noticed, flecked with gold.

'I thought you were a game ranger at first,' she said. He did not respond. She tried again.

'You aren't a game ranger, are you?'

'What? Oh—no, I'm on holiday.'

'Are you staying in Serengeti much longer?'

'No. I'm leaving to-night.'

'Oh,' she said, obscurely disappointed. 'We're leaving to-morrow.'

'You were very silly to go out on your own in this weather.' He glanced at her in the mirror. 'Won't Mark be angry with you?'

'Well no, actually. Mark's in England.' One eyebrow rose sceptically. 'I came to Serengeti with some friends,' she told him.

'Ah. A last spinster fling before the chains of matrimony?'

'Not exactly. We decided to have—' She stopped herself. She didn't owe this stranger any explanations about her private life. 'Our holidays didn't coincide, that's all,' she concluded. The man's eyes were still watching her in the rearview mirror. Then he shrugged, as if to say it was none of his business anyhow, and the high wooden gateway of Bubi camp loomed out of the rain ahead of them, flanked by its two famous elephant tusks. Nicolette directed him to the hut she was sharing with Julian and his friends. Hut being a polite understatement for the palatial bungalow that was the most expensive and luxurious accommodation Serengeti could offer. As he helped her out of the Range Rover, the two girls, Samantha and Geraldine, emerged from the doorway.

'Nicky darling,' cooed Samantha, her gold bangles clinking musically against the glass she was carrying. 'You poor dear! What on earth happened to you?'

'The car broke down,' she said, acutely conscious of her filthy state next to the impeccable elegance of the two women, who were staring from her to her rescuer with curious eyes. 'This gentleman found me.'

'That was very kind of him,' purred Geraldine, her sultry almond eyes flicking over his tall, supple figure. She extended a slim, bejewelled hand. 'My name's Geraldine Parker,' she said. He shook her hand briefly, without speaking, his cool grey eyes taking them in, the glasses in their hands, the pricy 'bush' clothes that were actually made of suede and silk, the abundance of gold and diamonds. Nicolette could tell exactly what he was thinking—rich bitches. Their drawling accents and spoiled faces proclaimed them for what they were. Julian Mitchell

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 21

strolled out in his turn, also holding a glass, his handsome, slightly petulant face puffy with the brandy he had already drunk.

'Nicky, old thing,' he said, removing the long yellow cheroot from his lips to stare at her muddy clothes. 'What happened? Where's the car?'

'It broke down,' Samantha explained, giving the tall man the benefit of her most winning smile, 'and this kind gentleman gave her a lift back.'

'That was good of you,' drawled Julian, staring at him. 'My name's Julian Mitchell.'

'Alexander St Cloud,' said the bearded man, taking Julian's hand in an unwilling handshake. Julian's eyebrows rose.

'Any relation to Amory St Cloud?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Well, my dear chap, come on in and have a drink—'

'Please don't bother/ Alexander St Cloud interrupted calmly. There was an ironic glint as he surveyed them all. 'I'm in rather a hurry. I have to meet someone in a few minutes.'

'Please don't go yet,' murmured Geraldine, fluttering her eyelashes. 'Just a tiny little drink? Please?'

'Yes, come on, old man,' pressed Julian. 'Just a quick whisky. After all, the sun's over the yard-arm, and—' He stopped, then pointed a triumphant finger at Alexander St Cloud. 'I've got you,' he said. 'You're Paul St Cloud's son, aren't you?'

He nodded, glancing at his watch. 'That's right. Do you know my father?'

'Why, he built my boat,' said Julian, turning to the rest of them. 'And Paul St Cloud's the best boat designer in the

business. Fm delighted to see you again, my dear chap. Now look, you must have a drinkie— *

'I'm afraid not,' Alexander St Cloud said firmly. 'Besides, shouldn't—er—Nicky be getting into a hot bath?'

Instantly, Geraldine and Samantha clustered around Nicolette with false cries of sympathy. The bearded man eased himself deftly away from them, and climbed lithely back into the Range Rover. With a quick wave he drove off. The two girls ceased their ministrations, and turned to stare after him regretfully.

'Who was that masked man?' Geraldine murmured.

Samantha shook her head. 'Really, Nicky, how did you manage to pick him up? That's the sexiest hunk of—'

'Hey there,' interrupted Julian with a brittle laugh Samantha was his girl-friend. He took her arm possessively. 'Don't be getting any ideas about other men, Sam. You're with me.'

'Of course I am,' she smiled, kissing him. 'So who is he?'

'Well, his father is one of the top boat designers in Britain—St Cloud Construction. They're marine engineers. As for Alex—I've met him once before, in London. Nice chap, if a bit stiff. Funnily enough, I don't think he's in his father's business. I've got an idea he's got something to do with aircraft. Maybe a pilot? Anyway, he seemed to be in an awful rush. Come on, let's go and have another drink.'

Geraldine stared after the white Range Rover.

'You must introduce him properly when we get back to England,' she said in her purring voice. 'He looks like someone I should know, whatever business he's in.'

'He'd eat the likes of you for breakfast, Gerry,' said Samantha with a bright little smile.

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 23

'Would he? I'd like to see who eats who, anyway.'

'As a matter of fact,' drawled Julian, 'I don't think Alex St Cloud would have enough to keep you in furs, my dear Gerry. I seem to remember some rumours that his business had gone bust.'

'What a shame,' murmured Geraldine. 'Perhaps that's why he's wearing that beard? I say, Sammy, d'you think he's hiding from his creditors?'

'He didn't look as though the bailiffs were after him,' commented Samantha. 'Anyway, let's get back inside— I'm getting wet'

They trooped back into the bungalow, talking and laughing, leaving Nicolette standing wearily on the porch. No one, she thought resentfully, was very worried about her.

She thought of Alexander St Cloud's level grey eyes. Hard, calm eyes, that said 'damn you' to the world. He certainly didn't look like a man being hunted by bailiffs. When she next saw him, she must thank him properly. She sighed, surveying her own muddy figure. A long hot bath was going to be heaven. She kicked the worst of the mud off her boots, stretched her tired back, and followed l the others into the bungalow.

She really must thank him properly. When next she saw him.

CHAPTER TWO

But she did not see Alexander St Cloud again; and two days later they were back in Mombasa. Julian's boat was ready for them at the boatyard, an elegant white shape amongst the assorted craft that bobbed in the murky brown waters of the harbour. Elsie looked like what she was, a rich man's expensive toy. Julian treated the powerful boat the way some men treated their cars, as an extension of his male ego. Out to sea, it wasn't so bad, but Nicolette hated the way he powered the boat so recklessly through crowded harbours. Sometimes he could be both arrogant beyond belief and as foolish as a boy.

Elsie had been refuelled and equipped; they had checked themselves through Immigration and Customs with the harbour authority, and now Julian was making some last-minute checks, a glass of brandy close at hand. Nicolette had gone up to the highest part of the boat, the wheelhouse, to gaze out over the harbour and say her own private farewells to Kenya. She was on her way home. To Mark. The thought did not fill her with its usual pleasure. Was she also undecided, uncertain? God forbid! She looked up at the sprawling city that extended in a wide sweep around the harbour, fronted by coconut-palms, glamorous in the blazing sunlight. The harbour swarmed with boats of every kind, but despite the frantic activity, some providence prevented collisions. There seemed to be an unspoken code which ruled all this marine business

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 25

and commerce. There was no end to the variety of the boats. Arab dhows with their angular sails competed with shabby little canoes and grimy fishing trawlers. The sleek sailboats drifted among them as gracefully as society ladies. Across the harbour, a tug was nudging a rust-streaked cargo vessel into its berth, and a flotilla of little fishing dories was scattering indignantly out of the way.

Elsie herself was on the point of leaving, and Julian had started the big engines that drove the boat. Sitting quietly in the wheelhouse, Nicolette watched the bustle and clamour of the harbour with regret. She didn't want to leave Kenya after all; her time in this beautiful country had been so short. Too short to take in its strange attraction properly. A curse drew her attention to Julian, who was wrestling with the wheel, complaining that the rudder was stiff. She glanced worriedly at the glass of brandy in his free hand. Why did he have to drink so much? Why now, of all times, just as they were about to leave the harbour? He gulped angrily at the liquor, his face more puffy and red than usual, and pulled out the throttle. The engines howled in protest, lifting a turgid heap of water at the stern. Frank Saunders peered into the wheelhouse.

'Having trouble, Julian?'

'I can handle it,' he retorted surlily. Frank shrugged, and returned to his beer. Samantha and Geraldine had already taken up their favourite positions on the upper deck, lying prone in the tiniest of bikinis, coated in a gleaming emulsion of Bergasol and sweat.

Nicolette turned her attention back to the teeming harbour, watching a group of African boys fishing from a little canoe. The big cargo ship had finally docked with a triumphant hoot of its siren, and the fishing dories were

drifting back cautiously. A bright swarm of sailing boats was crossing the middle of the harbour.

'Right,' declared Julian, with aggressive good-humour, 'that's that, then. Come on, everybody—wave goodbye to Kenya. England, here we come!' With another gulp at his brandy, Julian gunned the engines, and Elsie surged away from the quayside. The boys in the canoe paddled frantically out of the way, and Nicolette looked up in alarm.

'Please be careful, Julian—it's so crowded!'

'I know what I'm doing,' he grinned. His face was covered with a sheen of sweat, and a knot of anxiety formed in Nicolette's stomach. She prayed that they were going to get out to sea without any mishaps—Julian was in a stupid, reckless mood. As if to underline her thoughts, he tossed off the rest of his brandy with a hand that shook slightly, and grinned at her again.

'Go easy,' she sighed. 'You're going so fast—'

'Don't be such a worryguts, old girl. Let Uncle Julian show you how it's done.'

He was steering the boat through a small group of dories, and Nicolette winced as they almost hit the prow of the nearest one. She caught a glimpse of angry African faces as they surged past. Julian laughed, then stopped, and scowled. The entrance to the harbour was crowded with a queue of sailing boats waiting to get out to sea, and he throttled back the launch impatiently. Elsie drifted to a halt, rocking with the movement of the sea. He passed his glass to Nicolette for a refill, but she shook her head.

'Wait until we're out of the harbour,' she pleaded. He shot her an angry glance, but said nothing. Geraldine appeared in the doorway, sleek with suntan oil.

'What are we waiting for?' she demanded. Julian ges-

tured scornfully at the crowd of boats ahead. 'Bloody sailing vessels,' he informed her. 'Look at them—clogging up the harbour, as usual. It oughtn't to be allowed.' He glanced at his expensive gold watch. 'I want to be out to sea by noon, for God's sake!'

Before Nicolette could stop her, Geraldine had poured him another drink, and was passing him the glass.

'That'll soothe your temper,' she smiled. He tossed back the contents, and Nicolette's heart sank. Geraldine stared languidly at the crowd of sails.

'It's a pretty sight,' she murmured.

'What's pretty about it?' he snapped. 'A lot of damn fools playing with yachts. I wish to hell they'd hurry up, we're going to be here all day at this rate.' Suddenly the wind shifted, and for an instant there was a gap in the thronging sails. Julian grabbed the wheel. 'Right,' he said, 'now's our chance. I'm going through—to hell with the queue!' He opened the throttle, and Elsie surged forward into the gap.

'Julian,' Nicolette said urgently, 'stop! You're going to hit someone—'

'Like hell I will,' he snarled. Geraldine grasped his shoulder, her almond eyes alight with excitement. The white steel hull cut through the water like a knife—but already the gap was closing. A lone yachtsman in a red catamaran managed to turn his boat in time to avoid them, and Julian twisted the wheel to miss a second boat. To her horror, Nicolette saw a third boat sailing across their path, a beautiful grey yacht with a tall black-and-white sail like a gull's wing. It was right in Elsie's sights.

'Julian!' Nicolette covered her face with her hands as he tried to spin the wheel, curses spilling from his wet lips.

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL

There was an agonising pause. And then a thump that sent them all staggering across the little wheelhouse. Nicolette uncovered her eyes in time to see the beautiful sail swing past their decks. Someone shouted. There was the tinkle of breaking glass. Geraldine reached the throttle and cut the engine off, and in the deathly silence that followed, Elsie swung in a wide circle, still scattering sailboats before her. Julian stared back with a haggard expression; the yacht they had hit was heeled over, the long black-and-white sail dipping towards the troubled surface of the water. Along her polished grey hull was a long scar, and someone was in the water, his orange lifejacket showing bright as he swam slowly back to the stricken yacht.

'Reckon he's all right?' Geraldine whispered. With an effort, Julian tried to pull himself together.

'Of course he's all right,' he said shakily, reaching for the throttle. 'Let's get out of here before the harbour police—'

'No!' Nicolette jumped in front of him, white-faced. 'Are you mad, Julian? Someone might have died back there—'

'Oh, rubbish,' interrupted Geraldine harshly. 'Don't talk like a fool—look, the man's climbing back already. And look, the yacht's upright again.'

The tall sail was once more perpendicular. Sailboats had begun to approach Elsie from all sides, and they could hear angry shouts.

'I'm getting out,' said Julian nervously, and reached for the throttle. Nicolette clenched her fists, ready to hit out at him.

'Ahoy, Elsiel Ahoy there!' A small boat had pulled

alongside, and an indignant middle-aged face peered up at them. 'I saw that—you went straight into him, you damned fool!'

'He was in my way,' snapped Julian, his hand still hovering over the throtde.

'Nonsense! You were going straight for him. Anyway, you'd better get over there and render assistance, young man—one of the crewmen is hurt.'

'Oh no!' protested Geraldine. 'Honestly, Julian, you are an idiot sometimes!' Samantha and the others were crowding into the wheelhouse.

'Best get back to that yacht, Julian,' said Frank quietly. Julian's face was red, but he grasped the throttle unwillingly, started the launch, and steered slowly towards the grey yacht, which was drifting like a wounded bird on the sluggish water.

'I hope you're all going to stand up for me if there's any trouble,' he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. As Elsie steered alongside, he composed his features into an expression of jolly good humour.

'Ahoy there!' he called, trying to read the name of the yacht. 'Mistral, is it? Are you all right?'

A savagely angry face stared up at them, with a straight Norman nose and a thick black beard.

'Lord Almighty!' snarled Alexander St Cloud. 'I might have guessed it would be you bloody fools! Are you drunk, you great oaf?'

'Now take it easy,' said Julian anxiously. 'Is everything all right down there?'

'No, everything is not bloody well all right!' he snapped, his grey eyes furious. 'You've broken my crew member's arm, and he's losing a lot of Wood.' For the first time,

Nicolette noticed the man lying huddled in the stern, the red stain on the white planking. Nausea rose inside her, and she heard Frank curse under his breath. Alexander St Cloud looked as though he wanted to murder them all.

'God in heaven! Don't just stand there,' he rasped. 'Help me get him aboard your battleship—he's got to get to a hospital, and fast!'

The Kenyan doctor came out of the ward, pulling his gloves off, and looked at them with no great enthusiasm. Rich foreign children, Nicolette guessed he was thinking. He took in their worried faces with an ironic twist of his mouth.

'Which of you is Mr St Cloud?' he enquired gently.

'He's not here at the moment—he went down to make a phone call,' said Julian. 'But my name's Julian Mitchell, and I'm—'

'Ah yes. You are the man whose boat did all the damage to Mr Franklin's arm.'

'Well,' said Julian, looking flustered, 'that's putting it a bit strong, doctor. I was—'

'How is Mr Franklin?' Nicolette interrupted. The doctor turned to her with tired eyes, then offered a quick smile.

'He's doing very well. The humerus was snapped cleanly. His upper arm, that is. It's a serious injury, and he has lost a pint or so of blood; but there were no complications. It should set perfectly.' He tugged off his other glove as Nicolette heaved a sigh of relief, and looked at her.

'Are you a friend of Mr Franklin's?'

'No,' she stammered. 'I was on board the other boat. The Elsie:

'Ah.' His expression changed. Just then Alexander St Cloud came into the waiting-room, his eyes dark with worry.

'How is he, doctor? I'm Alex St Cloud.'

'Your crewman is doing well,' smiled the doctor, and repeated what he had told Nicolette. 'He should be discharged in a week, maybe less.' As the doctor walked away down the corridor, Alex turned to them with a forbidding expression on his bearded face.

'I hope you're all pleased with yourselves,' he grated.

Samantha stepped forward, smiling coolly.

'Don't take it like that, Alex—'

'Don't call me Alex, damn you!'

She shrugged. 'Mr St Cloud, then. Your crewman will be as good as new in a few weeks. Don't be angry—'

'As good as new?' he repeated bitterly. 'What do you think he is—some kind of home appliance?' He turned to Julian, who was chewing his lip, and for a minute Nicolette thought he was going to strike him. 'As for you, skipper? he said, emphasising the word with biting sarcasm, 'you ought to be tried for drunken driving!'

'Steady on, old man—'

'I smelt the brandy on your breath,' Alex grated. 'God, I wish you amateur sailors would stick to Loch Lomond, and not go around on the high seas, endangering life and limb!'

Nicolette cleared her throat, and tried a timid smile.

'Mr St Cloud,' she said, 'Alex—we're all so very sorry for your friend. And for your yacht.' She was hot with shame for the others. Alex St Cloud's eyes met hers fiercely, as though he were debating whether to lash out at her, too.

'Rich kids,' he said at last, raking them all with a gunmetal-grey glance. 'Stupid rich kids. I'm going to see Pete.' He pushed through them, and into the ward where his friend was lying.

'"Nice chap", I believe you said, Julian?' Samantha's pretty face sneered. 'I thought he was going to hit you for a minute back there.'

'I wouldn't have blamed him if he had!' said someone in a voice close to tears, and Nicolette realised with vague surprise that it was her own voice. They turned to look at her. Samantha's eyes were cool.

'Oh? And why not, Nicolette?'

'Because he's right—rich kids is exactly what you are,' she said quaveringly. 'Irresponsible children. Don't you realise you could have killed that man? You could have killed them both—'

'Come off your high horse,' advised Geraldine gently. 'You were on the boat too, you know.'

'Of course I know—and I'm so ashamed!'

They stared at her for a few seconds, and then Julian slapped his pocket for the box of cheroots he carried.

'There's no point in hanging around here,' he said, puffing out a cloud of thick smoke at the NO SMOKING sign. 'We'd better try and get our rooms back at the hotel for to-night. There's no sense in setting off again until to-morrow.' He squinted at Nicolette through the smoke. 'Come on, Nicky, let's go.'

'I'll join you later,' she said thickly.

He shrugged, and looked at her for an instant. 'You only came along because Mark Macmillan happens to be a good friend, you know. Otherwise you'd never even have been on my boat. Just remember that, Nicky. You've had

a jolly nice free holiday on board Elsie —don't push your luck.' He stared into her eyes for a second, then smiled his wide, false grin. 'Okay, Nicky? Right. We'll see you later, at the hotel. Come on, let's get a drink.'

She watched them stroll out with the inborn arrogance of their kind, trying to fight back the tears of mortification, and then sat down on the couch. A large African woman opposite was staring at her curiously. Nicolette closed her eyes and leaned back, remembering the horrible thump as Elsie's sharp prow had hit the grey yacht's elegant hull. There would be expensive repairs to be made, she was certain. And she had been right—they could so very easily have killed the two men on board Mistral. What would her father have said? Her father, so big and strong and bear-like, who had taught her to sail before she was ten, who had been so fierce on the subject of safety at sea! She recalled the grizzled face, the powerful arms that could toss a little girl miles into the air, and catch her, shrieking with delight, with the sureness of a trapeze artist. And then one day he had sailed away into the Channel on a foggy morning, and she had never seen him again.

They had found the little sloop, wrecked on the jagged needles of the Minquiers. And that was all. His death had left her utterly alone—except for the grave of the mother she had never known. She was not likely to forget that death was always present at sea. As for Julian and the others—suffering and pain formed no part of their lives. They didn't understand. Their pleasure was all that mattered to them, no matter who got hurt in the process. She opened her eyes as the door opened, and Alex St Cloud came into the room, his face set and bitter.

She stood up nervously, and walked over to meet him.

'What the devil are you doing here?' he growled.

'I—I meant what I said. About being sorry for what we'd done.' She twisted her hands, unable to meet the fierce grey eyes. 'I know it was unforgivable—what Julian did. But they're just kids. You were right about that. They don't know any better, and—and—'

'And so they've sent you to negotiate, eh?'

'No,' she said, meeting his eyes. 'I just wanted to try and explain to you. They're stupid, irresponsible—but they'll grow up one day. And I wanted to say sorry on my own account. I was in that wheelhouse, and I should have stopped Julian A couldn't. And I'm very sorry . ..'

'Yeah.' His eyes were cold. 'Well, you'd better run along back to them now. You are their little toy doggie, aren't you?'

'What do you mean?' she asked quietly, her face reddening.

He sneered, 'You're the poor relation, aren't you? I can see you're not their type. So they keep you around to do all their dirty work, don't they—like apologising to the poor bloody fools they run over!'

'You're wrong, Mr St Cloud.' She met his eyes without flinching, bitterly hurt. 'I'm not their type, no. And I did come along because Julian is a friend of Mark's. But I'm nobody's little toy doggie.'

He contemplated her for a second, then shrugged.

'Well, run along, then, whatever you are. You make me sick!'

Nicolette turned away, aching. His anger was understandable, and there was nothing she could do to allay it. And was there a grain of truth in what he had said? Was

she becoming the poor relation in the rich set that included Mark Macmillan? She turned back to Alex.

'Before I go—is your friend conscious?'

Just,' he said coldly. 'Why?'

Td like to speak to him.'

To hell with that!'

'I've got a feeling Mr Franklin won't be quite as unforgiving as you are,' she said quietly. She walked past him into the ward. In the far corner, a man was lying back on a pillow, his face pale and tired. A bandage covered his chest, and the arm that lay above the blanket was strapped into a complicated aluminium frame. Nicolette bit her lip. If only the others could be made to see this—the result of their stupidity.

She bent over the white face, and the hollow eyes flickered open.

'Mr Franklin?' she said quietly. 'My name's Nicky Mercury. I was on the Elsie —the boat that hit your yacht.' He nodded slightly, eyes misty with drugs and pain. 'I want to tell you how very sorry I am,' she said. 'It was unforgivable of us. I'm sorry, from the bottom of my heart.'

The blue eyes searched hers tiredly, and then he smiled faintly. His good hand fluttered open, and she took it gently in both her own.

'I'll be okay,' he whispered. 'Good doctors. Good nurses. I'll be fine—don't worry.' He smiled again, and the drawn features blurred into the relaxation of sleep. Nicolette laid his hand gently on the coverlet, and stood up. Alex was standing next to her, watching her with grim eyes.

'He won't be sailing for the next year,' he said curtly.

His eyes flicked to the metal frame on his friend's arm, met hers coldly, and then he turned on his heel and walked out.

Nicolette followed slowly. He was waiting for her in the room outside.

'Listen,' he said, 'you tell Mitchell that he's liable for all the expenses on Mistral. And it's going to cost him a pretty penny—she's scarcely been built. As for Pete, I'll meet the costs myself. I don't want that dog to pay for his hospital treatment. And tell him that if he wants to argue, he'd better get himself a good lawyer. A very good lawyer.' He turned and walked off.

'Tell him yourself,' Nicolette said quietly.

He stopped, and turned back with furious eyes.

'What did you say?'

'Tell him yourself,' she repeated. 'I'm not carrying your messages around.'

They faced one another angrily. The large African woman stared from one to the other with perplexed eyes.

'Very well,' Alex St Cloud said at last, his voice dry with anger, 'I will tell him myself. Where is he?'

'He'll be at the Mombasa Hilton,' she said. His eyes met hers coldly for a last second, and then he turned and was gone.

'But it wasn't Julian's fault,' said Geraldine plaintively. 'He was going exactly where—'

'Please stay out of this,' Alex said icily. 'You were steering straight at me, Mitchell. I never had a chance to get out of the way. It's going to cost a lot of money to repair Mistral —and you're going to be paying.'

'I say,' said Julian Mitchell angrily, 'that's going a bit

far! After all, it's not as if it's structural damage—it's just a few planks smashed. And the surfacing.'

The surfacing?' Alex repeated bitterly. 'That surfacing is pure liquid nylon, Mitchell. It has to be applied with a gun—and it has to be applied all in one go. You can't patch it. When Mistral gets back to London, she'll have to be stripped and re-coated.'

Their conversation was being overheard by several other people in the lounge of the big hotel, and Nicolette was aware of faces turning to stare at the big bearded man who was so obviously furious with the little group at the corner table.

'How much is it going to cost?' asked Samantha.

'You can thank your lucky stars that my father's yard will do the job,' he snapped. 'After all, Mistral is his latest design. But you're going to be charged for the materials. And it's going to run into two or three thousand pounds all told.'

'I'm not paying that,' said Julian flatly. 'You can't prove that it was my fault—'

'Of course it was your fault! Twenty yachtsmen saw you run into me, Mitchell.'

'Did they?' A cunning look came into Julian's puffy eyes, and he leaned back, puffing at his cigar. 'You'll have to produce all these witnesses in court, Alex. In London.'

'Then you don't admit liability?' Alex asked quietly.

Samantha smiled, licking her lips. 'Of course he doesn't,' she said triumphantly. 'You'll have a hard job proving your case against Julian, Mr St Cloud. It's just your word, isn't it? And there are six of us who'll swear different.'

There was a tense pause, and once again Nicolette was afraid Alex St Cloud was going to strike Julian. But with a monumental effort of self-control, he kept his big hands on the table.

'Then you'd better contact your lawyer,' he said with soft menace, 'because St Cloud Construction will be suing you.'

'Go ahead,' Julian smiled. Once more, a hot flush of shame rose to Nicolette's face at their behaviour. She met Samantha's almond eyes bitterly. How adept they all were at saving their own skins, at protecting one another. It would have been the same, she was certain, had Pete Franklin been killed instead of merely badly hurt.

'I wonder if you know how much trouble you're causing me,' Alex grated. 'Mistral was fresh from the boatyard, Mitchell. Do you know that? She hasn't even been sold yet.' He stared across the room with bitter, vacant eyes, almost talking to himself. 'She was on her sea trials. A brand-new boat. And you rich fools had to run into her with your pocket battleship!' He rose, staring at them with utter contempt in his grey eyes. 'We'll meet again, Mitchell. Now I have to go and find another crew member to get Mistral home. And God knows where I'm going to find one in this town.'

'Well, all the best, Alex,' grinned Julian, sipping from his Pina Colada. 'I'm sure you'll find someone.'

Alex stared at him with furious amethyst-grey eyes for a second, then said something unprintable, and turned on his heel.

'Well, really,' drawled Geraldine, her voice a husky purr, 'some people have no breeding at all.'

Nicolette's gin was suddenly sour in her throat. She put

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 39

the glass down firmly, picked up her bag, and walked out after Alex. The others paid her scant attention as she left, because they were laughing at Samantha's imitation of Alex's parting remark. She caught up with Alex in the foyer of the hotel, and took his arm. He spun round, ready to lash out, and she met his furious face as calmly as she could.

'You again?' he snapped. 'What the hell do you want?'

'I—I want to apologise for the way Julian and the others treated you, Alex—'

'Save your breath,' he said scornfully. 'I'm sick of listening to all your Belgravia accents.'

'Is your yacht—is she badly damaged?'

'She'll sail,' he said shortly. 'Though I'm not likely to find anyone to sail her in this damn town.'

'Can't Mistral be sailed by one person?' she asked gently.

'Not safely,' he said, looking her up and down with angry eyes. 'She needs at least two. Preferably three. Anyway, what do you care?'

'I feel responsible,' she said simply.

'You ought to,' he told her grimly. She fell into step beside him, and then paused with him at the big stainless-steel door of the hotel.

'Are you in a hurry to get back to Britain?' she asked.

'As it happens, yes. A hell of a hurry. There's a potential buyer for Mistral in London. Bjorn Olafsen—he's a big name in yacht racing. And he's in a hurry. He wants Mistral for the Trans-Atlantic Yacht Race, and if I can't get her back to London, and repaired, in twelve days, my father's going to lose the sale to his biggest rivals.'

'Elsie really has messed things up for you, hasn't she?'

she sighed. A colourful party of Kenyans in bright kaftans jostled past them.

'Not Elsie,' said Alex grimly. 'Her crew.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, no longer able to face those furious eyes, 'I can see that you hate me. I'll leave you in peace.' He stared at her for a few seconds as she turned to leave.

'Mistrafs the best thing my father ever built,' he said at last, the words coming slowly. Nicolette could suddenly see that he was a tired man, fighting through his exhaustion with indomitable will power. 'But it costs thousands of pounds to design and build a boat as advanced as Mistral, and my father's badly over-extended right now. It's very important for him to get some sales soon. And if Bjorn Olafsen takes Mistral —and shows the professionals what she can do—then all those months and years of work will start paying off. Yes, your friends have messed things up for me.'

4 What are you going to do?' she asked quietly.

He shrugged. 'I don't have the slightest damned idea. Right now I'm arranging to have Pete flown back to England as soon as the doctors let him go. After that, I'll be sitting here, waiting for a replacement to materialise out of nowhere.' He turned to go.

'Alex—'

He stopped. 'What now?'

'Alex,' she said, not quite knowing why she was saying it, 'if I should happen to find someone who could go with you—is there anywhere I can phone you?'

'Yes,' he said, looking at her curiously. 'You can call me at the Yacht Club. Just ask for MistraFs skipper.'

Nicolette nodded. 'Good luck,' she said, watching his tall figure stride offinto the night. Julian Mitchell's guffaw

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 41

floated out of the lounge, reaching her where she stood at the door. As if the sound had thrust her bodily out, she found herself strolling absently along the pavement through the crowd, her mind more or less blank. Mombasa by night was a happy, colourful city, thronged with a million smells and sounds. She bought an ice-cream cone from a street vendor, and strolled along the street, licking it, and staring thoughtfully into the shop windows, at shelves full of touristy wooden carvings and beads, various things made out of animal skins, piles of glossy, useless articles for Mum and Dad to take back to Dresden or Rome or Birmingham.

The esplanade was alive with music, the harbour like a Christmas display, the riding-lights and cabin-lights of the boats making brilliant squiggles in the water. The warm breeze carried the smells of strange spices and curries, and African rhythms poured sweetly from nightclubs and street bands. Nicolette's blonde hair and full-breasted figure drew whistles and a lot of harmless, impudent gallantry, but she did not mind. She felt safe here, safer than she would have done in certain areas of London. There was a happy, carefree feeling in the air that she wished she could join in with.

She sat at the foot of the old war memorial, gazing out across the dark bay and its firefly lights. As always, her thoughts were hovering around the subject of Mark Mac-millan. The accident this afternoon, she felt, was going to drive a further wedge between them—she knew Mark was going to take Julian's side, no matter what the facts were. Mark and his friends always stuck together. It was a class thing, a network which linked people like Mark and Julian together to the exclusion of other people. Like herself.

Mark's world, she had begun to discover, was full of invisible trip-wires. But Mark was what he was, and he was not going to change to suit her. Had she lost his love? With a chill, empty feeling inside her, she wondered whether he might not have lost hers.

At least there was some consolation in the thought of getting back to work. She could lose herself in the patient details of her craft, the cleaning and restoration of precious paintings. She excelled in the meticulous work that could turn a near-ruined masterpiece into something beautiful and joy-giving again. Oil paintings were her speciality, and Nicolette Mercury was already a sought-after name in the art world. After her success with the famous Rubens there had been articles about her work in all the dailies, even a television interview. A maniac had torn a huge rent in the priceless painting with a knife, and the gallery had asked her to do what she could. It had taken her months of meticulous work; the endless stitching with tiny needles, the intricate work with resins and fillers. And finally, the retouching, the hardest part of all. She had worked across the smooth scar like a plastic surgeon, using soft oil pastels under a magnifying glass, trying to copy the exact shades and strokes of the great master. By the time she had finished, the scar was invisible, even at magnifying-glass range. The gallery staff had been almost tearful with gratitude, the general public impressed, and Nicolette had found herself a minor celebrity overnight. London Weekend Television had interviewed her on a news programme when the Rubens had gone back on show. After that, her temporary fame had vanished rapidly. But the commissions had kept rolling in. She had been able to leave the art firm which

had employed her, and had set up a studio of her own in Knightsbridge (huge rent, but excellent address) and had been doing well. And had met Mark in his parents' home, while surveying a collection of mildewed second-rate watercolours that Mrs Macmillan seemed to think she might be able to turn into masterpieces by some magic or other.

Nicolette sighed, and stood up, dusting the seat of her dress. More than one man cast admiring looks at her trim calves as she walked slowly back; but the pretty girl with the beautiful, long blonde hair was in a sombre mood.

Back in her room, she lay on the bed, miserable. Much had changed over the past twenty-four hours, and she was not altogether sure why. It was as though she had been wearing rose-tinted spectacles, and someone had suddenly knocked them off.

She thought of the faces in the yacht that morning. Ugly, selfish, cowardly faces. She had known that they were superficial people, using a pretence of sophistication and charm to cover inadequate personalities. But she now saw them in a grimmer light still—as corrupt children, using their wealth and privilege to force a ruthless passage through other people's lives. There was nothing attractive about them at all.

On a sudden impulse, she picked up the bedside telephone and asked the switchboard to give her the International Operator. Then she asked for Mark's number in London. When his cultured tones broke through the silence, she knew she had phoned at the wrong moment. The edges of his voice were blurred with drink, and there was an aggressive note in his voice which she

had come to dread over the past weeks.

'Mark? It's me.'

'Hullo, you. How's Kenya?'

She sighed, not wanting to talk to him after all. She hated talking to Mark when he was drunk; he was apt to want to confess things, usually things she would rather not have known.

'I just wanted to hear your voice,' she said lightly. 'I won't disturb you—'

'Nonsense.' She could hear him gulp at something. 'What's the latest news?'

She hesitated, then told him about the accident. He heard her out in silence, then asked aggressively, 'So? What did you expect Julian to do?'

'Well,' she sighed, not really wanting to discuss it at all, 'he could have admitted that he was in the wrong, for a starts which would have been more gentlemanly—'

'Since when are you such an expert on gentlemen?' he taunted, and she flushed, choosing to ignore him.

'—and in the second place, he does owe Alex the cost of repairs.'

'I see,' said Mark with a sharp note in his voice, 'so you're an expert on the law as well, are you?'

'I may not know anything about the law,' she said quietly, 'but I do know something about sailing. And Julian was in the wrong. No—worse. He was criminally negligent. And he was drunk.'

'Before you start chucking accusations around, just remember that Julian's given you a free holiday, Nicky. Don't bite the hand that feeds you, old girl.'

'I paid my own way,' she retorted. 'And you know I'd • much rather have flown to Kenya in the first place—I

didn't want to go on Elsie. And as for Julian, he might have killed Alex today!'

'Alex? he parodied. 'You sound very pally with this blighter, whoever he is!'

'At least he's decent,' she rejoined, her temper beginning to rise. 'He saved my life in Serengeti, if you want to know.'

'Really?' Mark drawled in mock amazement, 'do tell.'

She told him the story as impersonally as she could, and he grunted at the end of it.

'Huh—sounds to me as though' you're rather falling in love with this paragon of virtue, my dear Nicky—are you?'

'You're drunk, Mark,' she said drily. 'And I don't think I want to talk to you any more.'

'Wait.' There was a long pause. When he spoke again, there was an odd, false note in his voice that puzzled her. 'Nicky, old girl, has anyone been talking to you about me?'

'AH the time,' she said lightly. 'You're the main topic of conversation. Why?'

'Oh—well, it's nothing.'

'Mark,' she said patiently, 'what is it?'

'Well, I was just wondering whether you had some other—but no, it's nothing.'

'You're being infuriating, Mark,' she snapped. 'What the dickens are you driving at? Is something bothering you?'

'Well, I was rather wondering whether there was anything botheringjwf!,' he replied mysteriously.

She sighed in exasperation. There was something on Mark's mind, she knew that plainly. And he was inviting

her to dig it out of him—an old game of his, and one which had always seemed very tedious to her.

'Of course I'm bothered, Mark—I'm bothered about that accident. And I dread the thought of going home on Elsie:

'Why, Nicky? Has—has something else happened?' he asked, a strange edge in his voice.

She frowned impatiently. 'What are you getting at?'

He hesitated. 'No one's said anything to you, then?'

'About what?' she asked, beginning to worry seriously now.

'Oh,' he laughed, a false sound that made her wince, 'you know—people gossip, don't they?'

'Why should anyone gossip about you?' she demanded.

'Oh, I don't know,' he said, sounding confused. He tried the laugh again. 'It was just a thought, Nicky—in case anyone's been talking about me—and Gerry—'

'Geraldine? And you?' Nicolette shook her head in bewilderment. 'What would there be to gossip about?'

'Are you trying to torment me?' he asked, his voice still edgy, and Nicolette realised that for some mad reason he thought she had found something out—something about Mark and Geraldine—

'Mark,' she said anxiously, 'have you and Geraldine had some kind of argument?'

'Scarcely an argument, old girl,' he said, laughing nervously again. 'Listen—it was all an accident, to begin with—it started that weekend in Scotland, when you thought we were out with the ponies—'

She stared blindly at the plush carpet, at her own pink-nailed toes, too numb to speak.

'You don't have to pretend, Nicky,' Mark said theatri-

cally. 'I can guess what happened. That bastard Frank has always been jealous of me and Geraldine. It would be just like him to break the news to you—to get back at me. What did he say, exactly?'

'Mark,' she said, her voice almost a whisper, 'how long has this been going on?'

'I told you,' he said irritably. 'Since Scotland. Maybe a year now.'

'And you've been—sleeping together?'

'Don't be such a child,' he said drily. 'Of course we've been sleeping together.' In the silence that followed, he said rather nervously, 'Nicky? I mean—you and I weren't—well, weren't doing anything like that. A chap has to have some fun out of life.'

'You have nothing but fun,' she said, clenching the receiver in her hand. 'We were going to be married!'

'We can still get married,' he said, the insincerity making his voice brittle. 'If you want to.'

'If I want to! y

'I suppose you've teamed up with this chap St Cloud to get me back,' he said quietly. 'You don't have to do that, Nicky—'

'Get you back? You talk like a schoolboy!' she exclaimed furiously.

'You mean you haven't—well, given yourself to him?'

'Is that what you think of me?' she asked, unable to believe her ears.

'I wouldn't put it past you,' he said with a false laugh. 'You can be a little cat at times—'

'As a matter of fact,' she snapped bitterly, 'Alex is my lover, yes! And I'm going with him on MistralV

'Can I take it, then,' he said calmly, with a note of—was

it triumph? in his voice, 'that anything between us is now over?' Nicolette stared blindly at the phone as he droned on, his voice as dry and concise as a lawyer's, telling her that things had come to a certain pitch, that it would be immature to keep pretending, that adults should know when to call a halt, that—

'Mark,' she said, her voice shaking, 'you contrived this whole conversation, didn't you? You wanted me to know! You were just dying to tell me about this sordid little affair with Geraldine—'

'Steady on,' said Mark uncomfortably, and she could hear the guilt in his voice.

'If you wanted to get out of this relationship,' she said furiously, 'why didn't you just come out and say so? You didn't have to go to this length!'

'Look, Nicky, there's no sense in being childish—'

She slammed the phone down with a crash, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a flood of scalding tears.

When she had recovered a little, she snatched up the phone again, her mind whirling. Would Alex take her on? Probably not. In fact, definitely not. He had obviously associated her with the dissolute crew of Elsie. And she couldn't risk being turned down by him now. A mad, vague plan had begun to take shape in her mind. She called the switchboard again, and asked for the Mombasa Yacht Club.

Alex's voice was cold and hard.

'Yes?'

'I think I've found your crewman,' she said. 'When do you want to leave Mombasa?'

'As soon as possible, of course,' he replied. 'There's a

tide at three o'clock this morning, in fact. I could leave then— MistraVs practically seaworthy. Why?' Her heart jumped. Three in the morning—while it was still dark. There might be time—it might just work! She thought of Alex, assessing the penetrating power of those grey eyes. Could she possibly fool this man? Her stomach fluttered. Maybe just. Maybe just for a few hours. She cleared her throat.

'There's a young man we met in one of the waterfront bars. A student, I think. He mentioned that he was looking for a passage home. He'd been robbed,' she added, inventing freely, 'and he'd lost all his money.'

'Well,' he snapped, 'who is he? What's his name?'

'Oh—er—it was Timmy,' she said. 'Maybe it was Tommy, though—'

'It doesn't matter,' he said impatiently. 'Do you know where to find him?'

'Oh yes,' she beamed.

'Where?' he demanded.

'Well—er—' she floundered, 'he said he was going out to-night. I'm not sure where to. Would you like me to contact him when he gets back?'

'No, I'll speak to him,' he said, obviously thinking intently. 'Where is he staying?'

'He—er—well, I'm not sure of that, either. Look,' she said desperately, 'I'll get hold of him as soon as he gets back, and send him down to your yacht. Will that do?'

'I suppose it'll have to,' he said, after a pause. 'Look, this kid's not in any trouble, is he? Drugs, or something like that?'

'Oh no,' she exclaimed, 'nothing of that sort/

'How do you know?'

'He didn't look the type,' she said firmly. 'But I know he was very eager to get a passage back.'

'Hmmm. Tell him I'll pay the flat Seamen's Union rate,' he said. 'And try and get him down to the yacht basin as soon as you see him. Okay?'

'Okay,' she said happily.

'If he gets there before three a.m., we'll sail at once. Got that?'

'I'll tell him,' Nicolette said solemnly. She was mentally making a list of the things she was going to need—would there be an all-night chemist somewhere in the city?

'Look,' said Alex, his tone slightly less hostile now, 'I've forgotten your name.'

'Nicolette Mercury.'

'That's right. They call you Nicky, don't they?'

'Sometimes,' she said. He could not know that she hated any abbreviation of her name, or that Mark had always insisted on 'Nicky', something she had resented from the start.

'Nicky—if you can get this Tommy or Timmy along to Mistral to-night, I'll be very glad.'

'I'll do my best,' she promised, grinning inwardly.

'Yes, well—I'm sorry if I was harsh with you—'

'I understand,' she said gently. 'I'll go and look for him now.'

With a hasty goodbye, she put the phone down and ran out to the lift, counting her money. Would she be able to pull it off? she wondered. It would be dark—that was on her side. And the deception would only have to last a few hours. Once they were out to sea, he would scarcely turn back again.

She found an open chemist's in the next street, snatched

up a wire basket, and began looking for the things she was going to need. Scissors, hair-dye, aspirins, some assorted cosmetics, sea-sickness tablets—she might need those on a big yacht, some glue . . .

With her arms full of her purchases, Nicolette ran back through the crowded streets to the hotel. In the lift, she twisted over her parcels to glance at her watch. Nearly ten-thirty. 'Damn!' she whispered. There was not very much time!

CHAPTER THREE

It was two-thirty when the taxi finally nosed its way along the quayside, its headlights picking a path through the inky darkness that lay on the yacht basin. Alex St Cloud looked up from the charts he was surveying, his heart rising. Would this be a change in his luck?

A slight figure in a bulky anorak climbed out of the car, looked hesitantly around the silent yachts, and then caught sight of the hurricane lamp hanging over MistraPs decks. He waved to Alex, paid the taxi, and then carried his bags over to the beautiful grey yacht. Alex turned the hurricane lamp up, shedding a pool of soft yellow light over the gangplank, and went to meet the new arrival, a rather slim boy.

'Mr St Cloud?' the boy asked, in a gruff voice. 'My name's Tommy Watson. Nicky sent me.'

'Hello there,' said Alex, surveying the lad dubiously in the dim light. Short black hair, a surprisingly delicate face, a rather comical black moustache. There was something familiar about the boy's stance.

'Haven't I seen you somewhere before?' he asked thoughtfully.

The boy shook his head hastily.

'Don't think so, guv'nor. 'Ere, is it true you're looking for crew?'

'Yes,' said Alex, looking the young man up and down.

'Have you had any experience with sailing boats?'

'Sure/ said the boy confidendy. 'Me old man used to take me out in 'is sloop. When he was alive, that is. I know the basics, anyhow.'

Alex began to look happier. This somewhat effeminate-looking kid might be all right after all.

'Can you read a compass?'

'Pretty well. And I can cook and clean, too.' Alex's eyebrows rose. The boy cleared his throat hastily, and looked up at the radar bowl on the mast. 'I can read radar as well,' he said, more gruffly.

'Charts?'

'Like I said, guv, I know the basics. I'll soon pick up anything I don't know.'

'Hmmm.' Alex looked at the boy with growing interest. He really was rather slight-looking, almost girlish. 'I'm no millionaire, Tommy. All I can afford is the flat union rate.'

'That'll do me fine, guv,' the boy replied, in that curiously gruff voice. 'AH I really want is me passage home.'

'You've cut things a bit fine. The tide'U be turning in—' Alex consulted his watch, ■—in ten minutes. Can you leave right now? As you are?'

'Sure,' the boy replied, with a delightful grin. That moustache really was comical! No doubt the poor kid grew it to make himself look older and more masculine. But the gentle brown eyes that met his without flinching were steady enough; and though he was a slight figure, muffled in clothes that seemed too big for him, there was a determined quality about this boy that Alex was beginning to like. He glanced at the boy's grimy hands. They

too were slender, almost delicate; but they also looked competent. A thought struck him.

'How old are you, Tommy?'

The boy looked confused. 'Er—twenty, guv.'

'Come off it,' said Alex quiedy. 'You're not even eighteen. How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?'

'I'm seventeen, guv,' said the boy, 'straight up.' But Alex knew he was lying.

'You're in some kind of trouble, Master Watson, aren't you?' he asked kindly. 'What is it—police?'

'Nah,' said the boy anxiously, 'nuffink like that, skipper. I'm clean, I swear it. It's what you might call—er— family troubles.'

'What sort of family troubles?'

'Well, if you really want to know, guv, both me parents have died recently. There's only me Auntie Joan left—an' she's on the game an' all—'

'All right,' said Alex, his keen grey eyes suddenly compassionate, 'you^don't have to say any more. I'm going to take you on, Tommy—no questions. Okay?'

'That's terrific!' exclaimed the boy, his voice breaking into a clear soprano. Alex felt sorry for him. Poor, homeless kid, so obviously delighted to have found a friend. 'Tommy,' he said, 'please don't call me "guv". My name's Alex. Or "Skipper" will do, if you prefer that.'

'Right you are, Skipper,' grinned the boy, showing beautiful white teeth. Once again, Alex thought there was something familiar about that smile—what was it? He grinned in return, and shook the boy's hand heartily. The boy winced. Poor kid, he really wasn't very strong.

'Are you going to be all right, Tommy?' he asked dubiously.

1 'Course I am, guv—er—Skipper. I'm as strong as an 'orse, honest I am.'

Alex turned away to hide a smile.

'We've got five minutes to catch the tide, Hercules. Get your bags stowed away in the for'ard cabin, and let's get weaving!'

'Aye aye, sir,' said Tommy with happy professionalism, and Nicolette scampered joyfully down to her cabin.

Mistral sailed out into a blood-red dawn, her sails filled with the early morning breeze that swept from Africa out to sea. The water glittered ahead of the slim grey yacht like a long sheet of molten silver, and Nicolette was filled with the beauty of it all. She obeyed Alex's instructions promptly and silently, and by six o'clock, Africa was merely a long purple smudge over to starboard. As the sun rose, the sea became a deep intense blue, and the sky changed to cobalt. It was soon hot, and the salt sea breeze had washed every trace of land-smell off the boat and its rigging.

The activity soon tailed offonce Mistral was under way, and Nicolette went unbidden to the galley while Alex checked through his charts, and began to assemble the ingredients for breakfast. He looked up in surprise as she brought the steaming plate of bacon and eggs up to the bridge.

'That looks like a million dollars,' he grinned, taking the plate and tucking in. 'Where did you learn to cook?'

'I just picked it up,' she smiled. 'I more or less 'ad to cook, after Muwer died. Dad couldn't cook for monkey-nuts. God rest 'is soul,' she added piously.

Alex nodded, staring out to sea.

'My mother died when I was a kid,' he said. 'So there was just me and Dad—like you, I guess.'

'Really? What does your dad do for a living?' she asked, trying to keep her clear voice as gruff as possible.

'He designs boats,' Alex smiled. 'He designed this one, for instance.'

'Coo—and you, Skipper? Are you in the same line of trade?'

'No. Not quite, anyway. I design craft—but aircraft, not boats.'

'Garn!'

'It's true. I make executive jets for the super-rich, helicopters, that sort of thing.'

'I'll bet you're rich,' she said, patting her moustache, which was beginning to itch like fury. When should she reveal herself? Not until they were a good long way up the coast, she decided.

'No, I'm not rich, Tommy,' Alex smiled. 'I make a living, that's all. But I hope things will improve soon, once I've paid off all my overheads. Look, why don't you take off that anorak,' he added. 'It's going to get as hot as hell pretty soon, and you'd be best offin a T-shirt.'

'I—er—yes,' she muttered, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. 'In a minute. I've got a bit of a cold, actually, and—'

'Why didn't you say so?' said Alex, putting his plate down and rising with a look of concern. 'I'll get you something. Got a headache?'

'Er—no. I mean yes, that is—'

'Poor kid! Here, take two of these.'

Reluctantly, Nicolette swallowed the aspirins with the

VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL 57

mug of water he passed her. He took the mug to throw the remainder of the water out, and then stopped rigid, peering into the mug with an expression of astonishment. Something was floating in the water, something black and hairy.

Her moustache.

Alex's eyes met hers in amazement, and then his face went cold and hard.

'What the hell is this?' he rasped.

Nicolette cleared her throat nervously. At least she could now shed the gruff voice that had belonged to 'Tommy.'

'I think I'd better explain, Mr St Cloud—' she began.

'My God,' he interrupted. 'Youl Nicolette Mercury!'

'I'm afraid so. I—'

He stepped over to her, his face grim with anger.

For a moment she thought he might strike her, and she flinched away. He grasped her arms with unbelievably strong hands, and she gasped.

'What kind of joke is this?' he snarled. 'Who put you up to this game, you little vixen?'

'Nobody put me up to it,' she gasped. 'You're hurting my arms—'

'I mean to. What the devil do you mean, deceiving me like this?'

'I knew you'd never take me on if I suggested it,' she said. 'Please let me go!'

'Let you go?' He shook her furiously. 'I ought to chuck you to the sharks!'

'I only wanted to help you,' she said nervously. 'After all, you said I owed you a favour—remember?'

'A favour? I wasn't that desperate,' he snapped, thrust-

ing her away. 'Right, run that foresail down, Miss Mercury. We're heading back to Mombasa.'

'Please wait,' she begged, running after him. There's no point in going back now—'

'Yes, there is. I'm going to put you back ashore and give you back to your friends, little stowaway!'

'They'll have left by the time we get back,' she said urgently. 'And I'm not going aboard Elsie again anyway.'

'I don't care where you go, as long as you go off my ship,' he retorted. 'If you won't take that sail down, I'll do it myself.'

'You can't even see past your own anger, can you?' she said quietly. 'You're so cocksure of your own correctness. But what are you going to do when you've put me ashore? Sit rotting in Mombasa for weeks? Don't you owe your father something?'

'Let me decide what I owe, and to whom,' Alex said icily. 'I'm not going to risk my father's property with a spoiled puppy like you!'

'You've seen what I can do already this morning,' she reminded him. 'That part of the story was true—I do know the basics of sailing.'

'Yes, I've had ample evidence of your skill,' he sneered, pointing to the smashed planks on the deck.

'I wasn't at the wheel of that boat, Mr St Cloud,' she said, her own temper beginning to rise. 'Why take it out on me? You said yourself that I wasn't their sort. And if you want to know, I was trying to make Julian stop when he hit your yacht.'

'You weren't very successful, were you?'

'That wasn't my fault,' she snapped. 'I did my best.'

'If that's your best,' he jeered, 'I'd hate to see what you're going to do with my boat!'

'Then take me back to Mombasa,' she rejoined hody. 'Rot there, if you insist on it.'

'I'd sooner rot in Mombasa than be sunk by you,* he snarled, his grey eyes furious as he towered over her.

'I don't need lessons from anyone in sea-safety,' Nicolette said quietly. 'That part of the story was also true. My father was drowned in the Channel five years ago.'

He stared at her, the anger fading in his eyes.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I didn't know that.'

'And he did teach me to sail when I was a kid,' she said, in the same quiet voice. 'I really could help you, Mr St Cloud.'

He stared at her, taking in the short dyed hair and the clumsy anorak which she had worn to conceal her figure. Her hair, he noticed for the first time, had been clumsily hacked, as though cut in front of a mirror in haste; and she had used brown foundation-cream to make her face look tanned, the skin rough.

'You've ruined your beautiful fair hair,' he said inconsequentially. 'Will that dye wash out?'

'I don't know,' she admitted wryly.

He stared at her, his eyes suspicious.

'Why do you want to help me, Miss—er—Mercury?'

'Because I was on Elsie? she said simply. 'And I'd like to repay you for some of the damage we did. Especially as it doesn't seem likely that Julian Mitchell intends to meet his obligations. But also because I do owe you a favour. You'll never know how glad I was to see your Range Rover appear out of the rain that day. I don't

think I've ever been so scared in all my life.'

'What about Mitchell—and your other friends? I presume they're as much in the dark about your stupid little scheme as I was?'

'I left a note for them,' she said, meeting his eyes calmly. 'I don't think they'll miss me much.'

'And dear Mark? What's he going to say when he hears about this—this charade of yours?'

'As a matter of fact—' she began, then stopped herself, her eyes dark. There was a pause, and then she sighed. 'I don't care what he says,' she told him, the words leaving her throat as though they had been fish-bones. In the silence, the wind whistled quietly through the rigging. The sun was already high by now, and she was sweltering in the anorak she had stolen from Julian Mitchell's room. Alex St Cloud stared at her, his grey eyes thoughtful, his savage face intent.

'It's going to take a lot longer to get back on Mistral than it would have done on Elsie,' he said drily. Nicolette met the hard challenge of his eyes without feeling.

'My job will be waiting,' she said. 'And if you don't take me back to Mombasa, you'll get Mistral back on time.'

Then she knew he was going to agree.-He stared at her with beautiful slate-grey eyes that seemed to be seeing her for the first time.

'There doesn't seem to be much I can do about it,' he said bitterly. 'You might as well try and undo some of the harm your rich mates have done, I suppose.' She tried to suppress the grin of triumph that rose to her lips. 'And for God's sake try and do something about that hair,' he snapped. 'You weren't too bad as Tommy Watson. As Nicolette Mercury you're hideous!'

Til do my best,* she promised, and smiled—a gentle smile that made her look lovely, despite the absurd cropped hair. But Alex St Cloud was impervious to any beauty that might lie in Nicolette's face.

'You're under sufferance,' he said, turning a broad back to her dismissively. 'Just don't put a foot wrong. Got that?'

'Aye, aye,' she said, chastened. 'Have you finished your breakfast—Skipper?'

In her own cabin, Nicolette examined her hair ruefully. Perhaps the black dye would come out, but the homemade haircut she had given herself as 'Tommy Watson' was a mess. Her feminine impulses were re-emerging, now that her little deceit had had its effect. She was, after all, going to be in close contact with an extremely attractive man for the duration of a longish sea voyage. She thought of Alex's tall, powerful figure, the level grey eyes that seemed to look straight through her. He was undeniably 'dishy', as Geraldine would have put it; yet it was hard to tell what he really looked like under that fierce black beard. She stuck her head in the basin, ran a little water into it, and proceeded to lather her poor black locks.

Several vigorous washes removed the last of the dye, and her hair was revealed in the honey gold of its original tint—a beautiful, rich colour that her father had always called 'wild honey'. But it was sadly hacked. For the first time, she felt a pang for her lovely long tresses. In the anxiety and excitement of disguising herself for Alex, Nicolette had scarcely thought about her hair. She had simply snipped it off, and thrust the heavy golden stuff into her waste-basket. She had not even kept a lock of it. For a few moments she felt like crying, as she surveyed her

bizarre haircut; it was like the punk fashions of a few years back, only softer and fluffier.

With a heavy heart, she took up the scissors and set about neatening it. The basin was lined with gold clippings by the time she had finished. She had reduced the disorganised haircut of last night to a short—a very short—mop of blonde half-curls. The result was far from beautiful. She looked like a street urchin, she decided, some gamine from the streets of any big city. At least the curls all lay together now, catching the light with their usual glint—but oh, how short it was! Thinking of her lost locks, she shook her head dismally at her own reflection, and went to pull on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Then she ventured up into the sunshine on deck.

The wind had risen slightly, and Alex was hauling down the spinnaker. Nicolette moved beside him quietly to help, slackening the guy-rope for him as he lowered the big sail, which was beating powerfully in the wind. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the tracery of muscle along his fore-arms as he tied the sail into a long, neat bundle. His hands were powerful, but extraordinarily beautiful—the fine, strong hands of an artist or a surgeon. He tied the last knot with a grunt, and then turned to face her. His eyes flicked to her hair.

Tm glad you got that filthy paint out,' he said grimly. 'Why you had to cut all that hair ofT, though, I'll never know. Couldn't you have tied it up and hidden it under a cap?'

'I never thought of that,' she said ruefully.

'No,' he retorted sourly, 'you wouldn't have.' He looked at her, his grey eyes inscrutable, and then beckoned. 'Come—I want to run the mizzen out' She followed him

to the foremast, and as they hauled up the triangular sail, his eyes met hers with an awareness that jolted her in her solar plexus.

'Miss Mercury, I trust there's no—' He paused, holding the guy taut,'—no romantic nonsense in that cropped head of yours?'

'What do you mean?' she asked, puzzled.

'I mean,' he said coolly, 'I hope you didn't weasel your way on board this boat because of any foolish sentimental attraction to me?'

'Certainly not,' she said, her colour rising. He clipped the thin steel cable into its bolt and looked at her drily.

'I'm glad to hear it,' he said. 'That would have been an unnecessary complication.'

'I'm sure it would have,' she retorted, her face pink. 'Do you have much of that sort of trouble, Mr St Cloud?'

'It's been known to crop up,' he said calmly. A mocking grin appeared on his face, and she caught the glint of white teeth through the black curls of his beard. 'But I'm not in the market for romantic attachments, Miss Mercury. Is that understood?'

'Perfectly,' she gasped, her breath taken away by his calm arrogance.

'Good. It's nearly one-thirty, Tommy Watson. Time for lunch, don't you think?'

Mistral sailed on through the afternoon, a grey gull drifting along the glittering waves. She was more or less sailing herself now, running before the wind with full sails, her elegant prow slicing through the bright water cleanly and smoothly. Always, to her left, Nicolette was conscious of the long purple line of Africa. They were close enough to land to be visited by seabirds, and a constant escort of big

white gulls followed them, drifting past MistraFs tall sails with bright eyes alert for any scraps. Nicolette threw the remains of their lunch on to the white wake of the yacht, and the birds dipped for the morsels with harsh, haunting cries. Her thoughts turned once or twice to Mark, Julian, and the others, but she resolutely shut such topics off. She would wait to cross those stiles when she met them.

Alex's words earlier in the afternoon had hurt and disturbed her. After studying the charts for the area they were in, he had pulled off his shirt, and was lying on the foredeck in the afternoon sun, his magnificent torso a rich mahogany colour in the harsh light. From time to time she stole glances at him, noting the flat stomach, the broad chest with its husky triangle of dark hair that tapered so excitingly down over his stomach. The journey ahead was a long one—round the horn of Africa, up Suez, across the Mediterranean, and through the straits of Gibraltar. What sort of journey had she let herself in for?

She studied Alex covertly. There was so little spare flesh on his body that she could see the hard sculpture of his stomach muscles; yet he was a big man, powerfully built. That body must be solid muscle, she reflected, hard as the ruthless body of a barracuda. And there was something of the predator's savage anger about him, too. He was a fierce, impatient personality, his inner power often well concealed behind a deceptively gentle manner. Was she going to be able to cope with Alex St Cloud? There was no answer to her question.

The sun sank slowly in the west, filling the sky with glory. They ate quietly in the crimson glow, the world utterly at peace, but for the eerie voices of the gulls and the secret-whispering sea.

One by one the stars came out, pinpoints of diamond light against a dark velvety blue. The moon was nearly full—not an icy white English moon, but a rich orb of finest gold, glowing brightly among the lesser lights. Alex leaned back against the wheelhouse, gazing up at the moon with calm eyes.

'They say the moon is a virgin,' he said quietly. 'It's easy to think that in Europe, isn't it? But here, off the coast of Africa, it's not a virgin at all, is it? Or should I say she?' He looked up speculatively. 'She's a rich, beautiful woman, ready for love.' Nicolette sat silent, not knowing what to say. He looked at her, and in the dim light she saw the ironic glint in his grey eyes. 'Or so the poets would have us believe, anyway,' he said drily. 'I'm going to light the riding-lights.' He rose in a fluid movement that was characteristic of the man's animal grace, and went to ignite the red and green lights that would burn on MistraVs mast during the hours of darkness. Nicolette washed the dishes, wondering about him, and then checked the compass against the course he had laid out. When he came back, he tapped the map on the chart table with a lean forefinger.

'We're going to be running into the Margherita Reefs pretty soon,' he told her. 'I'm going to take Mistral as close inshore as I can. I'd rather sail this side of the reefs than the seaward side.'

She nodded her understanding, and he spun the wheel to take the grey yacht towards the shore.

The vast land mass of Africa loomed gradually closer in the moonlit night. Nicolette stood next to Alex on the bridge, close enough to him to feel the warmth of his body. The night was like velvet, a deep blue African night; and

as they neared the coast, the smell of Africa came to them on the breeze, a haunting, indefinable smell of campfires and aromatic plants—a smell that Nicolette knew she was never going to forget.

'What country is this?' she asked softly.

'Somalia/ he told her. 'You'll be able to see the shore soon.'

And in the stillness of the night, the low roar of the surf on the beach came softly. Soon they were close enough to see the long line of palm trees that fringed the beach, a ghostly silver streak in the moonlight.

Now she could see the white lines of the breakers, rushing up on to the beach half a mile away. MistraVs full sails carried them swiftly towards the coast, and when the yacht was within clear view of the moonlit beach, Alex turned her forward, and set a course north, along the line of the African coast.

Bewitched by the incredible beauty of the scene, Nicolette leaned on the polished brass rail in the stern, and watched the coast drift by in the peaceful night. There was no sign of life anywhere on the long coast, not even the red glow of a campfire. She and Alex might have been the only two creatures living in all that solitude. The yacht drifted slowly on, past a cape, and along the long, straight line of the beach. The smell of the land was in her nostrils again, and she wondered whether it was preferable to the clean, salty sea-smell, the smell that was of nothing at all, that the air carried out at sea.

Alex came to stand next to her for a moment.

'We'll have to take some kind of watches,' he said. 'We'll get that worked out to-morrow. It's not really necessary, but I like to be safe.'

Nicolette nodded, and turned to watch the land drift by. She could discern the coconut palms that grew in huge groves along the beaches, and here and there an open stretch of savannah, studded with the inevitable thorn trees. How remote she was now from that weird afternoon in Serengeti, when she had ventured out of her car into the great unknown of Africa, alone and afraid. In this warm still night, she was deeply at peace, tranquil as the sighing sea on which they rode. How long would it last? she wondered wryly. She was too intelligent not to have recognised that there was a germ of truth in Alex's accusation of the afternoon. She was attracted to him— very strongly. It was not simply because he had come so providentially to her rescue in the game reserve, nor because of the accident in Mombasa harbour—it was because of what he was, a magnificent, beautiful, free spirit; as free and proud as the yacht that carried them so swiftly over the dancing sea.

She stared unseeingly into the velvety night, unaware of the millions of diamond-like stars that spangled the tropical sky overhead. She was thinking of Alex, of Mark, of herself, of all the strange paths that had led her, unwittingly, to this night on the sea under the stars.

A distant sound penetrated her reverie, a faint cough that seemed to drift on the breeze. At first she thought it must be Alex, but then she heard it again—a rough barking roar that for some reason raised the hackles on the back of her neck. It seemed to be coming from the shore. She turned to the wheelhouse, where Alex was plying dividers over the chart by the light of the hurricane lamp.

'Alex, come and listen to this.'

As he stepped out on to the deck, the sound came again,

a faint roar from the land. Alex cocked his head, his eyes intent.

'What is it?' she whispered. The roar was joined by a second one now, and Alex suddenly grinned, his teeth glinting in the light.

'Let's go and see,' he said, striding over to the wheel. 'Your safari may not have finished yet—if you're lucky.' She stared across at the land as he brought Mistral steadily into the shore. The breakers grew closer and louder.

'Is it safe?' she called nervously.

'Yes—she draws very shallow. Keep your eyes on the beach.'

'What am I looking for?' she asked apprehensively.

'Lions,' he said succinctly.

Startled, she turned back to the beach. They were so close now that Nicolette could see the palm trees waving gently in the night breezes, the moonlight glittering on the pebbles on the beach. Again, the coughing roar came to them, louder now, and Nicolette's skin rose in gooseflesh. There was something deeply disturbing about that sound, here under the stars. Thank God they were on a yacht, and not on the lonely beach! As if reading her thoughts, Alex laughed.

'It's supposed to be frightening,' he said. 'They use that noise when they hunt—to frighten the game in the direction they want. Quiet now—and keep your eyes peeled.'

And then she saw them. Her blood froze, half in terror, half in a thrill of delight. Two big lions, walking slowly from between the palm trees on to the beach.

She turned, speechless, but Alex had seen them too. Silently, he let down the big sail, and then slipped the anchor overboard. It fell with a faint splash into the sea.

Transfixed, Nicolette watched the lions stroll across the sand, barely two hundred yards away. Under the moonlight, their coats were silver-gold. She thought she could even see the amber lights of their eyes. As she watched, three more lionesses came slowly out of the dark palm-groves to join their mates on the sand. Alex came quietly up to the rail next to her, and they watched in marvelling silence.

The big creatures rolled slowly in the sand, the males shaking their shaggy manes. Like huge cats, they played, batting one another with paws that could shatter bones, rolling in the soft sand under the moon. Nicolette's heart ached with the beauty of the scene—it was fantastic, the fabulous vision of some savage poet. The magical light gave the picture an unreal, dreamlike quality. The softly-crashing breakers made a fitting musical score for the majestic games of the lions, and the dark blue curtain of the night surrounded them. From time to time their coughs and grunts reached the yacht on the warm breeze. Nicolette and Alex watched, spellbound.

Mistral tugged at her sea-anchor, and the waves thrust her onwards; but they were so silent that the big animals on the shore were completely unaware of their presence. In the moonlight, they might have been cats playing innocently, five lithe, sleek bodies that twisted and rolled with the agility of their kind. Only a short stretch of surf separated them from the yacht, which lay like a great silent gull on the dark water, waiting to fly on.

Then, as slowly as they had come, the big cats made their way back into the palm trees, calling to one another in their rough voices from time to time. As the lions disappeared back into the darkness, Nicolette slowly

became aware that her hand was aching. She looked down. It was clasped in Alex's. In the darkness their eyes met, hers big and soft, his dark and unfathomable. Then he released her hand, and turned to haul up the anchor.

'I want that spinnaker up,' he said matter-of-factly, and she stepped next to him to haul up the huge sail again. His hard shoulder bumped hers casually. As casually as though she had been part of the machinery on the deck. It was as though that strange interlude had never happened. She turned back wonderingly to stare at the shore. The silvery beach was silent, as deserted as an empty stage. 'Sightseeing's over,' said Alex shortly. 'Let's get going.' The wind filled MistraFs tall gull's-wing sail, and the grey yacht leaped eagerly forward against the sea.

CHAPTER FOUR

By midday of the next day they were rounding the horn of Africa, and turning past the sandy, palm-covered island of Abd al Kuri into the Gulf of Aden, the steel-blue waterway that would lead them into the Red Sea. It had become baking hot, and they were both slightly breathless in the heat. Alex had stripped to a faded pair of shorts, and his magnificent body gleamed with sweat as he hauled up every spare stitch of canvas they had, in order to take advantage of the slight breeze. Nicolette, too hot even for jeans and T-shirt, had stripped to her violet bikini, and as they secured the last guy-rope, she sat back on the deck, gasping. Alex wiped wearily the sweat off his brow. He had borne the brunt of the work, with his superior strength and co-ordination, and his body was literally dripping.

She smiled up at him.

'Like me to hose you down?' she suggested.

'Please.'

She hauled the fire-fighting equipment out of its locker, tossed the rubber hose into the water, and switched on the pump, so that a stream of sea water shot out of the nozzle she was holding. She played the stream of water across Alex's broad back as he gasped with the'cold shock of it. It was a crude but effective means of staying cool in the oven-like atmosphere of the Gulf. Even the Red Sea would be preferable to this, as the wind would blow cool air from the land across them. Clean and shiny-wet, Alex took the

hose from her and returned the favour. Nicolette pirouetted ecstatically in the fine spray, remembering summer days in her childhood when her father had done this for her in the little garden in Surrey. Cool at last, they retreated into the shade of the wheelhouse. Alex's eyes glanced at her slender, full-breasted figure.

'I don't know how I was ever so stupid as to fall for your disguise,' he said drily. She flushed, and turned to towel her ridiculously short hair dry. At least her cropped curls were cool in this blazing noonday sun; her long, heavy tresses would have been unbearable. She peered at her dim reflection in the mirror over the compass box. An elfin face looked back at her with gentle brown eyes.

'I had no idea my ears stuck out so much,' she said wistfully, wishing she looked more like Greta Garbo, and less like Peter Pan.

'You should have thought of that before you were so stupid,' Alex retorted. He looked at her critically. 'You never had much to recommend you, apart from your hair. And now that's gone.' She silently pulled on a towelling shirt, and went into the galley to prepare something light for lunch.

As they sailed towards the straits of Bab el Mandeb, they were meeting more traffic on the bright water. They had overtaken a succession of Arab dhows since dawn, oddly-shaped boats with uplifted prows and huge, leathery sails. As they ate their snack in silence, they found themselves among a small flotilla of Arab boats, manned by lean, dark-skinned men in white pyjama-like garments.

Finishing his food, Alex went up on to the bridge to keep a look-out, and Nicolette found herself with time heavy on

her hands. She glanced up at him, a commanding figure keeping a careful eye on the waters ahead, and decided that she must find something to occupy herself with over the hot afternoon. She sat herself down to polish the nautical instruments, complicated affairs of brass and crystal. Lost in her work, she sat dreaming over the sextants and chronometers for almost an hour, until Alex came down from the bridge, and stood tall in the doorway.

'Something's just occurred to me—this fiance of yours—Mark, was it?'

'Yes?'

'Have you told him where you are?'

'I—' she hesitated. 'No, actually, I haven't.'

'How do you expect him to know, then?' he asked sharply, his grey eyes watchful.

'I—I thought Julian Mitchell would explain,' she faltered. 'I left him a note—'

'You left Julian Mitchell to explain? And what do you think he's going to tell your precious boy-friend?'

'Why,' she said nervously, looking up at the handsome, bearded face, 'that you needed an extra crew member, and that I'd chosen to go with you .. .' She tailed off. His face was thoughtful.

'What does this Mark do for a living?'

'He's a stockbroker,' she said. 'Why?'

'He works on the Exchange, then?'

'The Stock Exchange in London, yes. But why?'

'Because I can raise them on the radio,' he said. 'I'm going to have a word with your Mark. What's his other name?'

'Macmillan. But why—'

'What do you think friend Julian is going to tell him?' he

sneered. 'After your bizarre prank, and after the little argument I had with him in Mombasa, don't you think this is his ideal opportunity to hit back at me?'

'What do you think he'll say?' she asked anxiously.

Alex put on a savage imitation of Julian's languid drawl. 'She met this yachtsman chappie, don't you know, and the next thing she was jumping into bed with him—'

'No!' she yelped.

'—and so, of course, she's run off with him on his boat,' he concluded. 'Well, I'm going to get hold of Mark right now—and then you can explain exactly what the position is. Right?'

'Alex, no,' she protested nervously. 'I don't want—'

'What you want is of no importance/ he interrupted. 'I'm not having myself compromised for the sake of your little jokes.'

'But let me explain—I didn't—'

'I'm going to call him up on the radio,' he said, walking up the companionway.

'Alex,' she called, running after him, 'please don't—'

He turned to her severely.

'Don't you think it would be fairer on the poor guy to let him know? He'll be imagining all kinds of things.'

She followed him helplessly up to the bridge. The massive radio set was on one of the chart tables, and Alex sat down in front of the complex black machine, and began calling London.

'Alex,' Nicolette tried a last time, 'you don't have to speak to Mark. I can explain what—'

'Your explanations are a little too plausible,' he said drily. 'This is Mistral calling London, Mistral calling London . . .' Within a few minutes, he had established

contact with the London radio centre, and had asked them to patch a telephonic link through tp the Stock Exchange. Calls such as this from yachts all over the world were common fare for the Stock Exchange switchboard operators; they were quite used to clients calling them from various glamorous and unusual locations across the globe.

Nicolette stood silently next to Alex as he waited, the microphone in his hand, for the switchboard girl to locate Mark Macmillan. Her heart was beating painfully fast. Why hadn't she told Alex the truth? Suddenly Mark's cultured voice crackled out of the radio set.

'Hello, Mistral? Mark Macmillan here. Who's calling, please?'

'This is Alexander St Cloud,' Alex said clearly. 'Listen to me, Macmillan, your fiancee is on board this boat— Nicolette Mercury.'

'Ah,' said Mark, his voice changing in that subtle way she knew so well. 'So that's who you are. What do you want?'

'I want to explain the situation,' said Alex quietly.

'Oh, you don't have to explain anything, old chap,' said Mark's genteel voice with maddening good humour. 'I quite understand—you've taken a fancy to my fiancee— my ac-fiancee, I should say—so you simply loaded her on board your dinghy, and sailed off into the sunset. Is that right?'

'No, that's not right,' Alex said grimly. 'Nicolette got on board by a trick—'

'Did she now?' said Mark sarcastically. 'You're a lucky man, Mr St Cloud—/ could never get her to turn that trick. Perhaps you were more forceful?'

'Look, Macmillan—has Julian Mitchell been in contact with you?'

'As a matter of fact he has,' drawled the urbane voice. 'He tells me you rammed his boat, doing a considerable amount of damage. You were, I believe—how shall we say—under the influence of spiritous liquors?'

'That's a lie!' exclaimed Nicolette hotly, unable to contain herself.

'Is that my dear ex-fiancee?' asked Mark calmly. 'Nice to hear from you, Nicky. What's Mr St Cloud's bed like?'

'Look here, Macmillan,' snapped Alex angrily, 'you're jumping to conclusions. I haven't touched your girl. And if that swine Mitchell has implied that she and I are having some kind of affair, then he's an even bigger liar than I took him for!'

'Julian has been giving me some of the details,' said Mark languidly. 'But I didn't need his information to get the full picture. I'm a very busy man this morning, Mr St Cloud—can we cut this rather tedious conversation short?'

'What do you mean by that last remark?' Alex demanded in an icy voice.

'Didn't you know? I'm afraid your new floozy has already spilled the beans, old chap.'

'Nicolette? What the hell—'

'Oh, please don't play the innocent,' drawled Mark self-righteously. 'She phoned me the night you two left Mombasa to tell me the whole sordid story.'

'What? 9

'You two seem to have got your stories mixed, old chap. Look, talking to you is giving me rather a pain at the moment. I'm going to ring off now. And please don't ring me back again—either of you.'

'Macmillan—!' snapped Alex, but he was gone. He slammed the microphone down on the table and spun in his chair to face Nicolette with blazing eyes. 'What the hell is all thisT he demanded furiously. 'Did you phone Mark and tell him we were having—some sort of relationship?'

'Alex,' she began, twisting her hands nervously, 'please let me explain.'

'I think you'd better,' he said, rising and looming over her. 'I've had just about enough of you and your insane schemes. Why did you tell him I was your lover?'

She looked unhappily at his fierce face. 'It just slipped out,' she said awkwardly.

'How the hell could a statement like that just slip out?' he snapped.

'Well,' she began, 'I was so upset about everything in Mombasa, Alex—so I phoned Mark and told him the whole story. We—well, we haven't been getting on too well lately. Something had come between us. We were both upset and confused—please believe me, Alex. That's why I came to Serengeti on my own in the first place—to give Mark a breathing space. He said he needed—'

'Spare me the details of your domestic arrangements, for God's sake! What happened when you phoned him in Mombasa?'

'He—he—well, he chose that particular evening to inform me that he'd been having an affair with one of our friends. Geraldine—you met her.'

'Who the hell is Geraldine?' he shrugged.

'The dark girl on the boat—the one with the diamond earrings.'

'Ah,' he said drily, 'the one who looks at all the men like a French tart?'

That sounds like her,' said Nicolette with a touch of bitterness.

I'm beginning to understand why you crept on board my yacht,' Alex said angrily, watching her with an unforgiving face. 'You wanted to get your spiteful little revenge on them all, didn't you?'

'I thought you might think that,' she said quietly. 'But it's not true. Anyway, Mark told me he and Geraldine had been meeting for months—'

'I'm not really interested,' he snapped. 'Dear God, you're a pretty lot of innocents, aren't you?'

'If you like,' she said quietly. 'But believe it or not, I was badly hurt. And Mark seemed to think that I'd found out about his little—arrangement with Geraldine. And that I was...' she faltered to a halt.

'That you were hopping into my bed for a spot of revenge?' he suggested grimly. She nodded. 'I see. And naturally, you confirmed that?'

'I was so upset, Alex. I didn't mean to use you like that. It just came out, with all the hurt inside me—'

'Oh, please,' he snapped, 'don't start playing the tragic heroine—I couldn't stand it!' He turned abruptly away from her, and gazed out over the late afternoon that was turning the Gulf of Aden into a sheet of beaten copper. 'You've played me for a sucker,' he said, his voice soft and menacing. 'Right from the start. I was a very convenient way out for you, wasn't I? A way out of a holiday you weren't enjoying—'

'No, Alex—'

'—and then a way out of a relationship that was beginning to bore you—'

'That's not true!' she cried. 'I loved Mark—' She

stopped, her mind whirling. Loved? Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second, and he smiled, a bitter little quirk of the mouth that burned her like acid.

'Go on,' he said silkily. 'I'm quite enjoying the performance/

'I—' a lump had formed in her throat, and she gulped it back miserably. 'I didn't mean it to turn out like this, Alex—'

'You mean you didn't intend me to find out all the lies you'd been telling about me?'

That's not what I meant. I didn't set out with the idea of using you. I meant to help you, to repay you in some way. I didn't mean to drag you into my troubles with Mark.'

'Didn't you?' He stared at her, contempt mingling with disbelief in his smile.

'I don't suppose it matters what I say, anyhow,' she said bitterly. 'You wouldn't believe me, would you?'

'No,' he said calmly, 'I wouldn't believe you now. From now on, Miss Mercury, when you say no, I'll know you mean yes.' He turned and looked out of the Perspex window ahead. Across the shimmering sea, a long line was appearing on the horizon.

'That's Ras Khanzira ahead,' he said. 'To use the words of your late fiance, can we cut this rather tedious conversation short? I'm going to stop in Djibouti to-night to pick up fuel. It's somewhat cheaper in this part of the world,' he explained drily. 'Let's get back to work.'

'Alex—'

He stopped, turning to her with impatient eyes. 'Yes?'

'I don't want to be your enemy.'

* You're not my enemy,' he said in scorn. 'You simply don't matter a damn to me. Satisfied?'

The night was smoulderingly hot, and despite her short hair, Nicolette was too warm for comfort. The wild, high sound of Arab music drifted across the bay from Djibouti, and the harbour, even at night, was swarming with activity. Mistral was moored near the huge petroleum bowsers on the quayside, and the thick umbilical pipe that swayed from them to her sleek grey side was pumping fuel into her tanks. They had not used MistraFs engines yet, but she knew that in the Red Sea they would probably run out of favourable winds, and would have to rely on their engines. She fanned herself with a paperback novel she had been idly reading, listening to the shouts of the Arab workmen. Alex was somewhere on the quayside, superintending the refuelling process. Nicolette slumped back on the settee in the wheelhouse, feeling her shirt sticking wetly to her back. She thought of English frosts and cool vistas of snow across the gentle landscape. She would never curse the cold weather again, she decided miserably. At sea, the heat was tolerable, even delicious; but in this decidedly smelly port, among the shimmering fumes of diesel fuel and a heady, industrial odour of ships, machinery and oil, the heat was horrific. Djibouti itself was a sprawling mass of dingy lights, crawling across a flattish hill, and she eyed it with disfavour. The wailing Arab music seemed to be incessant, like the sound of the sea.

Her relations with Alex, on the other hand, were little short of glacial. The few remarks he had addressed to her since the disastrous telephone call to London had chilled the hot air in the cabins as though a freezer door had been

opened. Which was ironic, Nicolette thought wryly, because she was growing closer to him than ever. She could not help admiring the sure, economical power with which he ran the boat. He cared for Mistral with a deep passion, that was obvious, his instinct for the grey yacht's moods as certain as a lover's for his mistress's flights of temperament. She had longed to ask him about his father, about his own work, but normal conversation was scarcely possible. His conversation, in fact, had been limited to sharply-barked orders, which she had obeyed instantly.

She ran her fingers wearily through her cropped hair. Alex was no ordinary man, and no woman could be blamed for falling slightly in love with him. Yet she was sure that she had not done so. She simply liked and admired him, and that was all. Wasn't it? She could hardly be falling in love again! Not so soon after a traumatic bust-up with a fiance—-well, almost-fiance— of six long months. And not with a man she barely knew, either. No, she decided firmly, she was not infatuated with Alex St Cloud. And she was not going to be, either.

The faint hum of the petrol line had stopped, and she could hear the clanking of the reinforcing chain as the mechanics uncoupled the long hose from the yacht's side.

She stood up as Alex came in to the wheelhouse.

'Let's get out of this stinking harbour,' he said shortly, and she nodded. For the first time, Mistral's twin engines began to throb, a deep note that rose above the clamour and bustle of the harbour. Alex steered the yacht carefully through the myriad boats that cluttered the oily waters of the harbour, and soon Mistral was crossing the turbulent waves at the mouth of the breakwater. The noises and smells of Djibouti faded behind them. They hoisted the

yacht's tall black-and-white sails, and the warm breeze drove them onwards into the Red Sea. Within an hour they had passed the straits at Bab el Mandeb, and had entered the wide, calm darkness of the Red Sea itself. The moon was full to-night, a great golden disc in the sky above, and in the still, warm darkness the stars sparkled like jewels. Alex cut the engines, and the full-bellied sails drove Mistral silently on.

Once again, activity on the yacht tailed off. They were alone on the wide, dark sea, and once Alex had set the automatic pilot, there was little to do. The instruments were still lying on the chart table, where she had been polishing them, and Nicolette picked them to replace them in their cases. The sextant, a heavy, triangular apparatus, slipped through her fingers, and to her horror, hit the deck with a crack. She snatched it up anxiously. The little crystal lens was smashed, and her heart sank. The instrument was a beautiful, obviously antique and much-loved thing. She was peering at it dismally as Alex came in.

* What was that noise?' he asked, then saw the sextant in her hand. She handed it to him guiltily, and he looked at the broken instrument.

'My father gave me this,' he said quiedy, and looked up at her with arctic eyes. 'It was his grandfather's.'

'I'm sorry, Alex—'

'Isn't there anything you can do right?' he asked bitterly.

Her nerves taut, Nicolette met his gaze fiercely. 'It was an accident,' she said tensely. 'Can't you believe that? People do have accidents, Alex. I didn't mean to break it—'

'You didn't mean anything, did you?' he said brutally, his own resentments and frustrations rising to breaking point. 'Everything that happens to you happens by accident, doesn't it? It's never your own damned stupid fault, is it?'

'Who the blazes do you think you are,' she retorted with shrill anger, 'some kind of infallible god? You've done nothing but snap and snarl at me ever since you met me—as though I was responsible for all your bad luck!' She turned away, shaking with anger. 'I've done my best to help you, Alex, though I'll never know why. I don't know why I didn't let you take me back to Mombasa that morning—'

'I don't know why I didn't,' he snapped, his wide eyes sparkling with temper. 'I don't need you, Nicolette—you thrust yourself upon me uninvited—'

Then you can put me ashore at Port Said,' she answered in a trembling voice, 'and I'll find my own way back to England!'

'Port Said!' he jeered. 'How the hell will you find your way out of Port Said?'

'I—I don't know. But—'

'You haven't got a penny, have you?' he taunted.

'I—' She hesitated, flushing.

'You're just supercargo, Nicolette,' he told her savagely.

She spun round, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and made for the door of the wheelhouse. His hand caught her wrist in a vicelike grip, and he jerked her ruthlessly around to face him. She gasped, staring up into the intent, bearded face above her.

'Let me go, damn you!' she hissed. Her wrist was hurting.

'Why?' he asked with deceptive softness. 'It's the way men treat their concubines, isn't it?'

'What do you mean?'

'Seeing that you've told the world you're my mistress, little Nicolette, we might as well make the most of it.' Alex pulled her close to him, his magnificent grey eyes intent.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she faltered nervously, trying to pull away.

'Poor little innocent,' he said silkily. 'Let me show you.* He lifted her chin with a strong hand, and kissed her full on the lips. He was still wearing only his shorts, and his naked skin was cool against her warm flesh. She froze in shock, then thrust away, her hands pressing on the hard muscles of his chest and ribs.

'Let me go!'

'I'm beginning to think you may have your uses after all,' Alex purred, his eyes thoughtful, smouldering. Her lips carried the memory of his firm mouth, the bristle of his beard. She stared at him, transfixed, knowing that he was going to kiss her again, but unable to resist. His arms pulled her closer against his tall, hard body as his mouth took hers again. Suddenly panicking, she tried to struggle free, but he was incredibly strong, his arms pinioning hers. Her little yelp of alarm was lost as his mouth thrust with ruthless power against her lips, forcing them apart, pressing hard against her tightly-clenched teeth. She could feel his chest-muscles hard against her, and when she tried to twist her head away, his hand came up, and he ran strong fingers through her cropped hair, twisting the short golden curls so that she could not move. Then her lips parted, and his warm lips moved against hers, forcing her to respond. And a deep, irresistible warmth had begun

to spread through her stomach, slackening the tense muscles like the fingers of an expert masseur, so that she felt herself melting against him, her hips drifting against his with shuddering delight. Her mouth melted in surrender too, and as his lips caressed hers roughly, she answered him, slowly at first, and then with mounting passion, as his kiss became deeper and stronger, possessing her as no man had ever possessed her. When at last he released her, she almost fell, and he caught her limp body with quick hands, lowering her on to the leather-backed settee where she had been sitting. Their eyes met.

'So,' he said, his voice slightly rough. 'Now we know.' Her mouth felt bruised, numb; she raised a shaking hand to touch it.

'Wh-what do you mean?' she whispered.

'Now we know why you told all those stories,' he said, his beautiful eyes intent, amused. 'You want to be in my bed, don't you?'

'No!'

'No?' He sat beside her with an ironic smile, and thrust her back, so that she fell into his arms, and found herself looking into the intoxicating wildness of his face. 'Shall we retire to the civilised comforts of my cabin? Or should we simply do it right here?'

'Neither!' she yelped, seriously frightened. 'I don't want to go to bed with you!'

'Your mouth tells me otherwise,' Alex said drily. 'No woman kisses like that who doesn't mean it, Nicolette Mercury.' The golden light of the hurricane lamp was casting soft highlights on the sleek muscles of his arms and shoulders; the rest of his body was in a bronze shadow.

'I—I—-just because you've kissed me it doesn't mean you've got the right to force me into bed with you,' she said breathlessly.

Tm not going to force you anywhere,' he said, his deep voice deceptively calm and gentle. His hand came up to brush her short curls back, his eyes amused, supremely confident.

'This mad haircut isn't altogether unattractive,' he growled, as she stared up at him, hypnotised by the movement of his fingers through her hair. His fingers ran through the glinting curls with smooth, bone-melting strokes, and like a cat, Nicolette began to arch her neck against the intoxicating pleasure of the sensation. His laugh was deep, mocking, and then his fingers tugged at her hair hard enough to make her gasp with pain, and his mouth was over hers. And this time, she could not even pretend to resist. His lips explored her mouth with a deliberate awareness, an arrogant pleasure, that made her senses swim. She found that her fingers were digging into the hard, springy muscles of his neck, shakily caressing his thick hair. His hand slid under her shirt, making her shudder, and deftly unhooked the top of her bikini. As his palm brushed with careless possessiveness over her taut breasts, she cried out, low and soft, and twisted out of his arms with a final effort that left her spent and gasping on her feet. She leaned against the chart table as he straightened, and looked at her with cynical, damnably attractive eyes.

'What now?' he asked sardonically. 'More tricks?' 'I—I don't want to go on with this, Alex,' 'Oh yes, you do,' Alex said coolly. 'Look at your hands, my dear Nicolette—you're trembling like a leaf!'

'I just don't happen to be available,' she said, her voice husky in her throat. 'Not like this, anyway.'

'How, then? Do you have to be wooed and tempted? I'm afraid the Red Sea is rather short on roses,' he sneered.

'I'm not available at all,' she said, winning a little control over her rebellious body. She met his eyes, her face reddening. 'Is this your idea of punishment, Alex? Do you want to humiliate me, because you don't like me— because I've been a minor irritation?'

'Nonsense,' he said calmly. 'This has nothing to do with anything except our bodies. I'm a man, you're a woman. We both want sex. What else enters into it?'

'A hell of a lot enters into it,' she snapped. 'For one thing, /don't want sex. I'm not that sort of girl.'

'What sort are you, then?' he retorted. 'The sort who tells her fiance that she's sleeping with another man? The sort who steals her way into someone else's life? What kind of girl is that, Nicolette?'

'A confused girl, maybe,' she said quietly. 'But not the sort of girl who jumps into every stranger's bed.'

'Oh, come,' he laughed, standing up and coming towards her, 'spare me the virginal innocence!'

'Don't!' she said sharply, stepping hastily out of the door. In the warm darkness on the deck, his arms found her, pulling her close against his body, so close that she could feel how much he wanted her. The blood rushed to her face. He was so very strong that he could have forced his way with her in seconds.

'Alex,' she begged desperately, 'please let me go!' Something of the urgency in her tone communicated itself to,him. Silently he released her, and she stepped back weakly, a horrible pang of disappointment washing

through her. With heightened instincts, she could feel that he had suddenly become cold.

'Nicolette,' he rasped, his voice like steel, 'let me give you one warning—don't play with me. Ever. Understood?'

'Yes,' she whispered. He turned, and strode angrily into the warm night. A miserable, shaking reaction was setting in, and Nicolette clasped her arms around herself, feeling the unsatisfied ache spreading through her body, an empty pain that she knew Alex could have taken from her in seconds, replacing it with—

So—she had saved her precious honour. And that was good. Wasn't it?

CHAPTER FIVE

Nicolette was awake in the pink dawn, lying restlessly on her bunk. Through the porthole the early morning sun sent a shaft of clear light to splash across her naked upper body. She thrust the sheets away, already feeling hot. She had slept badly, her dreams confused and alarmingly delicious, dreams in which Alex's face had appeared with remarkable frequency.

She rose, clad only in her panties, and went to the porthole to look out, hugging her breasts. The flat sea was a rose-tinted silver, as calm and peaceful as an English millpond. Mistral was sailing smoothly up the Red Sea like a great grey albatross drifting on high winds. All was quiet. Nicolette pulled on her bikini, splashed her face with water, and contemplated her reflection ruefully in the glass. The golden mop was growing with maddening slowness. She recalled Alex's Angers through it last night with a shock of memory, and saw the change in her own brown eyes. What was happening to her? Thinking of her own reactions last night, pressed against the exciting strength of Alex's body, she felt a hot wave of shame pass through her. Dear heaven! She had been almost out of control, unable to stop herself from responding to his expert caresses.

Unable to meet her own accusing brown eyes, she turned and went quietly up on to the deck to bathe her

go VOYAGE OF THE MISTRAL

near-naked body in the last cool breezes of the dawn. The sun was already a flaming ball rising out of the long, thin line to the East, the line she knew was Saudi Arabia. She sighed, leaning over, the rail at Mistral's beautiful, elegant prow, and stared down into the glassy, rushing water that creamed delicately around her bows. Yesterday had been quite a day. Mark's voice, issuing from the radio set, had shaken her more than she cared to admit. The cool indifference in his tone had brought it home to her—more forcefully than anything else could have done—that things between them had finally come to a conclusion. She recalled that horrible telephone conversation in Mombasa, the sick shock that had filled her as he told her about Geraldine—Geraldine, whose almond eyes had always watched her with a sly amusement she had never been able to fathom. Well, now she knew the cause of the older girl's quiet smiles. No doubt she had been amusing the others for weeks with the story—how Nicolette was too proper, too 'middle-class' to sleep with Mark Macmillan. How he had found his pleasure elsewhere.

Could Mark really believe that she was having an affair with Alex St Cloud? It came to her in a flash that he didn't. Of course he didn't—but it was the perfect opportunity for him to cut the last remaining ties with her. Mark would probably have felt bound by the chivalrous conventions of his upper-class background. No matter how bored he became with her, he would not be able to simply cast her off. And she had neatly provided him with the classic reason for breaking ofT their engagement.

And she realised, with a hardening of her heart, that there had been unmistakable relief in his voice as he had informed her in Mombasa, with the precision of a stock-

broker, that things were now at an end between them. In fact, she now could see clearly how Mark had set the whole revelation up. She had not wormed the truth out of him—he had wanted her to know, had forced the subject into the conversation. He had wanted to end their engagement, their almost-but-not-quite engagement.

She rubbed the brass rail absently, trying to locate some area of pain in her heart. She should by rights have been shattered by the turn events had taken. Yet she was not. Had she become cynical?

And what about Alex St Cloud? Had he already breached her defences, taken possession of her heart? How could there be possession when all he wanted from her was sex—earthy and powerful, unrefined by any complications? Such as love? Or even tenderness? The sun spread warm fingers across her body, and she turned to look back the way they had come. The sea was deserted and calm, a sheet of liquid gold where the sun lit it. Nicolette glanced down at her own long legs. She had always been blessed with a good figure, slender and delicately made, her breasts uptilted and full. The sun of the past few days had gilded her skin, turning it the rich, fine tint of ripening wheat. The violet bikini set her skin off perfectly, and she wondered almost idly how Alex saw her.

Did her body arouse him? The thought made the fine hairs on her arms rise with a little prickle. He had made it clear last night that he wanted her. She remembered the pressure of his body in the darkness and shook the voluptuous thought away angrily. He would probably have behaved in the same way if she had been hideous, or a withered old crone. There was no flattery to be found in the thought that he had wanted to make love to her. No,

she corrected herself, had wanted to—the words that rose to her mind were too ugly to think. Have sex with her, then. He was a mature man. That magnificent body, so packed with hard male power, would naturally have its desires and needs. Like eating. Or sex. And she had been convenient—available. That was all. Above all, she must not be lured into any sentimental notions about Alex— that would be fatal. He would rip her heart to ribbons if she ever allowed him to take it in his grasp. He was not the loving kind. Not for little Nicolette Mercury, a twenty-three-year-old innocent abroad. Yet how easily he had melted her last night, how very easily! And how exquisite it would have been to have surrendered to him, to have let him take her, body and soul, and to let him transport her to the ecstasy she had glimpsed in his kisses. A fragment of poetry spun into her head, making her shudder—something about a woman wailing for her demon lover. She looked up into the clear blue sky, wondering about Alex St Cloud.

'Sun-worshipping?' She turned to see him coming out of the wheelhouse door, a splendid bronze figure towelling his face dry. Then he dropped the towel, and she gasped. He had shaved off his beard.

'It's going to be too hot for a beard over the next few days,' he said casually. She gaped at him. He had left short sideburns, but his face was naked—a shockingly beautiful face! With a bold, square chin and a mouth that smiled mockingly, deliciously, at her amazement.

'You—you're beautiful!' she gasped, unembarrassed by her own words. He turned away with a faint smile, and she stared at the firm, strong curve of his jawline; it was a face that matched the classical perfection of his body to

the full, an utterly male face that carried no spare flesh. The mouth was sensuous, a mouth made to make women shudder; and his straight Norman nose and level eyes gave a severe calm to what might otherwise have been the face of a rake, a buccaneer who dined ofF women as a gourmet dines ofF pheasants and grouse.

Do you have much of that sort of trouble, Mr St Cloud? It's been known to crop up.

The words of that conversation rose unbidden in her mind.

'Please don't stand with your mouth open,' said Alex sardonically. Tm sure I'm not that stunning—flattering though your attention is.'

She tore her eyes away from him, and tried to match the coolness in his voice.

'No, you aren't that stunning after all. Would you like some breakfast?'

'Yes,' he said, unmoved by her sarcasm. 'First let's put some more canvas up—I want to take advantage of any wind there might be.' He stepped down to one of the lockers, and hauled out a genoa. They raised the extra sail, and Mistral responded with an added thrust into the limpid water. Yet Nicolette could not keep her eyes off him. That shaggy beard had concealed one of the most marvellous male faces she had ever seen, and she wondered why on earth he had ever grown it. To cover a face like that argued a certain lack of vanity. But Alex was not vain. Arrogant, yes, proud of his strength and his fitness, proud the way a mettled race-horse might be—but not vain. Not vain in the way Mark had been vain about his almost girlish good looks. How vague and shadowy Mark seemed in comparison to this man!

Over breakfast, they were silent, neither of them referring to the night before.

'How long will it take us to get into the Mediterranean?' asked Nicolette. He shrugged.

'That depends on the wind. And other things. But about twenty-four hours now.'

'As little as that? 5

'If the wind holds. We're making excellent time.' He dabbed at the remains of his egg with a piece of bread, swallowed it, and looked at her with level grey eyes.

'Mercury,' he said. 'Where does the name come from?'

'My great-grandfather,' she said with a smile. 'He was a Greek, a raisin-merchant. His name was Costas Mer-couri. But no one could spell it, so it gradually changed to Mercury.'

He glanced at her hair and the golden skin of her throat. 'You don't look very Greek to me,' he commented.

'No,' she admitted. 'Costas had hair as black as pitch, but all my grandparents had fair hair/

'Your mother?'

'Her hair was the same colour as mine. Or so my father told me.'

There was a pause, while Alex looked searchingly into her eyes. 'Mmmm. Perhaps your children will turn out black-haired and olive-skinned.'

'Perhaps,' she said, embarrassed by his mention of her children. 'St Cloud's an unusual name. Where does it originate?'

'It's a corruption of Saint Claude,' he said. 'From a town in Provence.'

'I suppose your family came over with the Conqueror,' she said lightly.

'They came over on the JDover-Calais ferry,' he told her drily. 'At least, my father did. He's a Frenchman through and through.'

'Really?' she said, intrigued. 'And your mother?'

'She was English. -She and my father met during the war—he was in the Resistance, based in Toulon, and when he had to leave in a hurry to get away from the Nazis, he came to London. They met, and fell in love. After the war was over, he came back to England to marry her.'

'Julian said he's one of the best boat-designers in Europe,' she prompted.

A rare smile crossed Alex's firm mouth.

'He'd be delighted to hear that,' he said. 'He's always been twenty years ahead of his time. It's generally taken that long for his ideas to be accepted. Anyway, now that he's in his sixties, his genius is beginning to be recognised.' He gestured at MistraFs smooth white decks.

'And you design executive jets for the super-rich,' she said, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

He nodded.

'Yes. For some reason I was more drawn to the air than to the sea. Three years ago I floated a company—Cloud Aerospace. It cost a fortune, and we're just paying off our debts now. But next year—and if the Germans buy one of my helicopter designs for their traffic police, we should be in business. And you, Miss Mercouri—are you one of the idle rich?'

She explained about her restoration work, and to her surprise he was interested. 'I didn't think that sort of thing would mean much to you,' she said.

'On the contrary—what you're doing is vitally impor-

tant. The past is precious—and fragile. It has to be preserved, otherwise it simply disintegrates. And then we all lose touch with where we came from. Which makes it all the more difficult to see where we're going. Speaking of which,' he said, rising, 'we'd better cut the chatter. We're going to be coming into the Shaibera Archipelago soon, and there are lots of shoals and shallows to contend with.' His grey eyes met hers with mocking irony. Just like life. Don't you think so, little virgin?'

They were among the islands by ten-thirty, a myriad sandy humps and banks rising out of the sea, some covered with rough grass, others with date palms and coconut trees growing on them. The yacht glided between them, Nicolette keeping a careful look-out for shoals. After half an hour, one larger than the rest came into view, a grass-covered hump rising out of the glassy water. To Nicolette's astonishment, a castle seemed to have been built on the summit. She called to Alex, who nodded.

That's Mar'abi,' he told her.

'Is it a real castle?'

'I don't know,' he shrugged, shading his grey eyes to stare at the island. 'It looks vaguely Moorish. Something left over from the Crusades, perhaps.'

As they sailed closer, Nicolette could see that it was indeed a castle, many of its sand-coloured walls tumbling down, and obviously deserted. The battlements had been crenellated in an unmistakably Moorish design. It was an eerie, haunting place. On impulse, she turned to Alex, who had come to stare up at it with her.