Maiden Voyage

TWENTY-THREE

Halfway through the last waltz, Catriona had known already that she was in love. She hadn't meant to be, not so drowningly, not so helplessly. She had thought that the affection she still felt for Nigel might have saved her from being swept away, a lifebelt to which she could cling when Mark Beeney's sheer masculinity threatened to overwhelm her. But as the orchestra played a torrential version of "Over The Waves" waltz, and as Mark danced her slowly and elegantly around the floor of the Grand Lounge, she leaned her head against his starched white shirtfront and allowed him to hold her close. She didn't care about Nigel any more; her feelings wouldn't let her. Neither did she care about Marcia, whom she saw leaving the lounge with a face——as her father would have put it—"as cheerful as a cracked dinner-plate'.

Mark said, "You tried to fight me, didn't you?"

"Fight you?" she murmured. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't wear my orchid. You're not even wearing my diamonds."

She looked away. "There were too many rubies. They wouldn't have gone with my gown."

"Nonsense. You were fighting me. And I'm glad that you did."

"Glad? I don't know why."

"Of course I'm glad," Mark told her. "If you hadn't tried to fight me, I wouldn't have thought that you cared. I would have thought that you were playing with me—teasing me just for fun. But you weren't. You were serious. That's why you fought. And that's why I'm even more pleased now that I've won."

Catriona raised her head. "Who says you've won?"

Mark grinned ingenuously. "I do. You're not going to snatch my victory away from me are you, at the last crucial moment?"

She said nothing, but pretended to admire the reflecting pillars as they danced past. Then she leaned her head against him again and whispered, "I think you're the bee's knees. You know I do. It's not even worth denying it."

"Are you sorry you flushed away my orchid?"

She laughed. "No. Pleased. Anything to teach you not to be so arrogant."

The orchestra brought "Over The Waves" to a tired close, and Mark "and Catriona applauded. Mark looked at his watch. "It's almost too late to go to bed," he told Catriona.

"Almost," she said. Her heart, after she had spoken, expanded inside her chest like one of those mud bubbles in a New Zealand geyser, and then collapsed again. She couldn't have said anything more suggestive if she had sat down and thought about it all week. She took Mark's hand as if to reassure him that she really wasn't as fast as all that, and that she still needed his guidance and protection. For an instant, she was frightened that she might have put him off.

"My stateroom or yours?" he asked her, abruptly. Then he smiled, and she knew that everything was perfect. The morning sun was shining, the ship was running fast and smooth, and she was intoxicated with champagne and affection.

"Yours," she whispered. "I own a quarter-share of this ship; or at least I will do; and so far I've only seen the inside of two staterooms. Mine's "Wind". What's yours?"

"Moon," he whispered back. "Come along, I'll show you. Just let me order another bottle of champagne before we go. I'm developing a taste for your Perrier-Jouet."

"I'll be drunk," Catriona murmured, close to his ear. "I'll be totally helpless." She felt warm and giggly and completely feminine, and when he kissed her forehead and her cheek and the bridge of her nose, she could feel that she was already ready for him. Hadn't she been ready for him the moment he had first kissed her? Hadn't she fet that tingling urgency the very first time he had touched her hand? Moist as the opening buds of a horse-chestnut tree.

She had fallen for him. She knew it, although she also knew that she was probably being very silly. He was rich, vain, and unquestionably the most scandalous womaniser on both sides of the Atlantic, not to mention right in the middle of it. Hadn't he carelessly jilted Marcia Conroy right in front of everybody—the very girl he had brought along as his companion?

Still, the worst she could suffer would be a broken heart; and after the constant niceness of Nigel, she had something of a hunger for the agonies and the delights of a passionate romance. She felt a need for danger, an almost self-destructive desire to hurl herself right in front of an emotional express.

Mark unlocked the door of his stateroom, and guided Catriona inside. All the table-lamps were lit, and John Crombey was sitting at Mark's bureau, immaculately dressed in white tie and tails, poring through pages and pages of company accounts.

"Good morning, John," said Mark loudly.

"Oh," blinked John. "Good morning." He glanced up at Catriona, and began to shuffle his papers into a tidy stack. "I was hoping we have an early meeting on the Cleveland problem."

"Well, sure," Mark told him, tiredly peeling off his tailcoat. "But it depends what you mean by early. As far as I'm concerned, it's I'll late."

"I was hoping now."

"I'm sorry, old buddy. You're going to have to hope again."

John Crombey sighed, and then stood up, swaying a little with the hesitant roll of the Arcadia" decks. "We're losing a whole lot a money on that Cleveland loading operation," he said sharply. "Twenty, maybe thirty thousand. We're going to have to revise our ideas from the basement upwards."

"Let's talk about it later, shall we?" said Mark.

"Okay," agreed John Crombey. "I think I could do with a couple hours" sleep in any case."

"When John Crombey had left, and closed the door behind himself three times, Mark tugged off his patent-leather evening pumps and walked across to the bar in his stockinged feet. Catriona untied the straps of her shoes, too, and arranged herself on the curving half-moon-shaped sofa.

"Champagne?" Mark asked her. She nodded.

Mark's staterooms were as lavishly decorated as her own: only the style was far more masculine. The theme of "The Moon" was expressed in silvered leather chairs, a midnight-blue carpet that was sprinkled with galaxies of hand-woven stars, and walls that were panelled in brushed steel and white enamel. On the bureau stood a white ceramic statuette of "Her Highness, The Moon" by Francois-Louis Schmied, a naked girl with a cloak that curved like the moon and a headdress of stars.

"You know that your Mr. Deacon heartily disapproves of us being together," said Mark, bringing over two tall tulip glasses brimming with cold champagne. He sat down beside her, unbuttoning his white vest.

"I don't blame him," Catriona replied. "He's quite sure that you're going to inveigle me into selling the Arcadia to American TransAtlantic."

"And you don't think that I might have exactly that intention?"

"If you do, you won't get much joy out of me. I haven't got the slightest intention of selling anything to anybody at the moment. I'm enjoying myself too much."

Mark touched the fine crystal rim of his champagne glass against hers. "I'll drink to that," he said. "But just bear in mind that you won't enjoy yourself too much if Keys goes bankrupt."

"Who says it's going to?" Catriona replied, with mock-sharpness.

Mark smiled. "Come on, Catriona, it's common knowledge in the shipping business. Everybody knows that Keys is hanging on by its fingernails. You don't think I haven't noticed all those merchant bankers and financiers on board? The smoking room was like a creditors" meeting when they auctioned the ship's pool last night. If you ask me, most of them were bidding because they believed it was the only chance they were ever going to get of recouping some of their investment."

Catriona sat up straight. "You don't have to be cheesy about it."

"Who's being cheesy? I'm being realistic. You may own twenty-five per cent of a major shipping line, kiddo, but the banks own you. Didn't you notice that O'Hara fellow, from the Eire Credit Bank? Every time anybody took a second helping of caviar, he winced. He was working out just how much it was all going to cost him, spoonful by spoonful."

Catriona felt suddenly bothered, and hot. She knew that Mark was right, but she didn't want to talk, about it, especially now, and especially to him. The whole fun of meeting Mark Beeney had been that they both owned shipping lines, and that she had been able to believe that she was at least his equal (if not his better, since the Arcadia looked as if she was going to be such a success). But now—whether he was doing it intentionally or not—Mark was casually picking away at Catriona's glamour. There wasn't much ritz in being Queen of the Atlantic if her realm was seen to be irrevocably in hock.

She climbed off the half-moon sofa and went across to the porthole. Mark watched her, quietly sipping his champagne, as she drew back the star-sewn drapes and stared out at the morning sunshine. The Atlantic was sparkling so brightly that it brought tears to her eyes; but even after she had let the curtains fall back, she didn't turn around.

"You're here for the same reason as George Welterman, then?" Catriona asked.

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"You're here for the pickings? You're here to buy up what's left of my father's ambitions?"

"I'm here to enjoy myself, that's all. But obviously I'm interested if I can do a deal."

Catriona turned on him. "Thirty-five thousand dollars for a necklace? An orchid before dinner? Soft talk and late dancing? Is that what you call doing a deal?"

Mark grinned. "Not personally. I'd just call it being romantic."

"Have you made a bid for the Arcadia since my father died?"

"Listen, Catriona, this conversation is getting way off beam. I didn't bring you back here to talk business."

"Oh, I see. You just brought me back here to soften me up."

"I brought you back here because I think you're beautiful, and unusual, and attractive; and you have a whole lot more sex appeal than any other shipping line owner I know."

"So that's it. No credit, no liquidity, but plenty of sex appeal." She felt so furious now that she banged her champagne glass down on the white-topped table next to her, and folded her arms tightly. It was a gesture not only of trying to hold in her anger, but also of closing herself against Mark. "I knew I was being stupid when I first let you kiss me. Now I know I was being stupid."

"Catriona, please," Mark appealed to her. "You're getting yourself upset over nothing. I'm not softening you up. Nothing like it. I like you, and I want to be with you, and that's all there is to it."

"You still haven't answered my question, though, have you?"

"What question?"

"You still haven't told me if you made a bid for the Arcadia after my father died."

Mark stood up, and walked across to Catriona with one hand deep in his pants pocket and the other held guardedly in front of his mouth. He looked at her for a long while, his eyes careful and thoughtful and a little hurt. His mother-of-pearl collar stud had come loose, and his collar was sticking out sideways so that he looked like a very wealthy urchin, a street Arab who had unexpectedly come into money. She was resisting him as fiercely as she could: but she still couldn't deny to herself that he was madly arousing.

"What if I had made a bid?" he asked her. A crescent of shuddering sunlight danced on the side of his face, the bright reflection from a crystal ashtray in the shape of a half-moon. "Would that really make any difference?"

Catriona gave him a look of utter simplicity. She was pale from tiredness, but the darkness under her slanted eyes gave them the fashionable lambency of a desert princess" eyes, as if they were staring at Mark over a yashmak. Mark, for his part, had to concede to himself that if a man liked ravishingly pretty girls with high cheekbones and well-shaped jaws, and that shapely kind of figure that was halfway between the forbidden delights of puppy fat and the elegant leanness of the mid-twenties, then Catriona was as irresistible as cocaine or champagne or kisses in the first light of a summer morning at sea.

"I didn't mean to upset you with all that talk about bankruptcy', he said. "I guess I'm just plain clumsy when it comes to mixing business with pleasure."

"You did make a bid, though, didn't you?"

"Well, was it so wrong that I made a bid? I was doing what anybody else in my position would have done. Nothing more. I was thinking about my company's future, that's all. Trying to expand and progress."

"I'm not criticising your business acumen," Catriona retorted, very quietly but also very vehemently. "And, believe me, I don't think you're clumsy at mixing business with pleasure at all. You seem to have managed to make an offer both for me and my father's ship in one go. I can't say that you're not clever, or that you haven't got a good eye for a bargain. The trouble is, I can't say that you're a particularly lovable kind of person, either."

"Catriona, will you give me a chance?" Mark retorted. "I made the offer for the Arcadia because the ship is beautiful; and because American TransAtlantic sorely needs an elegant flagship. I called Edgar Deacon on the day your father died. In fact, I called him as soon as I got the news. I realise that may sound ghoulish to you, but I very much wanted to get my bid in first. I offered four million pounds in cash. The offer still stands, although I'd like to have some kind of an answer by the time the Arcadia reaches New York. I'm surprised that Edgar didn't tell you about it."

"Perhaps he didn't think your offer was worth considering," said Catriona tartly.

"Nonsense. With four million pounds, he can make an appreciable payment to all of your creditors, and refit two or three more of your ships, a keep Keys going as a moderately profitable family business. At least, that's the way John Crombey has assessed it."

"What on earth do you think Keys Shipping would be without the Arcadia? The Arcadia was my father's dream."

Mark smiled and shook his head. "Sometimes, when people dream, they lose touch with reality. I'm not decrying what your father did. You only have to look at this ship to see what he did, and what he was capable of doing. The man was a genius, and a visionary. But there are mouths to be fed, not the least of which is yours. And, one way or another, you're going to have to sell. Either the Arcadia alone a or the whole damn fleet."

"And of course you'd prefer it if we sold the Arcadia to you?"

"Naturally. I haven't made any secret out of it."

"But you think that if you seduce me, you'll have twenty-five per cent of the voting stock in your favour, right from the beginning?"

Mark reached out his hands for her, but she tugged herself away. "Listen," he snapped at her, "if you think I've been making love to you just because I happen to want the Arcadia, then you're doing me a serious injustice. I mean, personally. The two things are entirely separate and distinct. I wouldn't even insult your intelligence trying to cajole you into selling me the world's most expensive ocean liner by making time with you? What kind of a rat do you think I am?"

"I don't know," said Catriona cuttingly. "But whatever you are, you're not being very decent about it."

"I don't believe this," said Mark. "I don't believe what you're saying to me! You really think that I'm trying to flatter the Arcadia out ofyou? You really think that?"

Catriona looked away and didn't answer. The truth was that she wasn't at all sure whether Mark had actually been trying to seduce her into selling him the Arcadia or not. If he had been planning on using her to undermine Edgar and the rest of the Keys board of directors, why had he started talking about business so openly and ingenuously as soon as they got back to his stateroom? Why hadn't he done nothing more than feed her with a surfeit of brut champagne, devious flattery, and gentle kisses, and wait until she was swooningly in love with him before he suggest that she should use her shareholding to pressure the Keys board into selling their flagship to American TransAtlantic? He was either being dazzlingly clever or numbingly stupid, and she couldn't decide which. The trouble was, Mark was so wholesome and so handsome, and his teeth were so startlingly white, that it required a particularly sustained and strenuous kind of anger for anyone, let alone a pretty young girl, to feel betrayed by him for very long.

"Maybe we're both tired," said Mark. "Maybe we should call it a night and talk again tomorrow."

"I don't know what there is to talk about," said Catriona.

"There's us, isn't there? Or am I deluding myself?"

"Us?" she said, with a sideways smile. "The rich shipping line owner and the poor shipping line owner?"

Mark shook his head. "Not at all. Two people who happened to meet on a maiden voyage, Mark Beeney and Catriona Keys."

"Well," she said, heavily, "we'll see."

"You will talk to me, won't you?" he insisted. "You won't just leave me hanging?"

"No," she said, more gently, "I won't just leave you hanging."

She crossed the stateroom and picked up her shoes. She felt as if her throat had been tightly bandaged and she could scarcely find it in herself to speak. "Thank you for the champagne," she said, going to the door.

Mark said, "You haven't even drunk it. Why don't you stay and drink it? You might as well. They won't be serving breakfast for another hour."

"A quarter of this ship is mine. I can get breakfast whenever I want to. And I'm sure you can, too, with your charm."

"Catriona—"

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to hear any more, not at the moment. She just wanted a chance to go back to her own stateroom and look at herself in her own looking-glass and cry to herself in the privacy of her own bed. Whatever Mark said now, she wouldn't be able to believe him. She wouldn't even be able to delude herself that he was telling the truth. The night's romance had melted like spun sugar in the heat of the morning sun, and suddenly all the sparkle had gone.

"I'll see you later, perhaps," she said, and went to the door. Mark came over and opened it for her.

"I want very much for you to believe me," he told her. "I know how you're feeling now, and I'm sorry I upset you. I guess I'm just another damned crass American businessman at heart. Marcia always told me that it showed from a mile away, because of the pointed lapels on my dinner jackets."

"I didn't notice them," whispered Catriona. "Maybe, if I had, I would have been more careful."

Mark licked his lips, as if they were very dry. "I'm going to say something now that I've only said once in my life before," he said. "It doesn't come easy and I'm not sure that it's not going to sound just as unconvincing to you as everything else I've been saying—"

"Mark—"

"No, please, let me finish. I don't want you to walk out of this door without realising that I've fallen in love with you."

Catriona swallowed. She felt as if she had dreamed all this before, as if her real life and her imaginary life had suddenly and unexpectedly converged. She could even remember the starry pattern on the carpet from some long-ago dream; and as the Arcadia rolled in the Atlantic swell, she thought to herself, that was why I felt in my dreams as if the whole world was tilting from side to side. Or, it could have been nothing more than tiredness, and too much champagne, and deja-vu.

"Did you hear what I said?" asked Mark.

Catriona said, "Yes, I heard you."

"Do you believe me?"

She blinked at him. "Didn't you think I would?"

He grinned, and shrugged, not sure how to answer that. Then he said, "You sure you won't come back and finish your champagne? I'm going to be very drunk if I empty that bottle all on my ownsome."

Catriona said, "You could always pour it into the sea. You might impress some lovely young mermaid."

Mark said, "I'll see you later, then. Sleep well."

"Yes," replied Catriona. "You too."

Ten minutes later, up on the bridge deck, outside the open door of his sitting-room, Sir Peregrine saw Mark Beeney emerge onto the first-class promenade in his shirtsleeves and his stockinged feet, carrying a bottle of champagne. The commodore watched in bewilderment as Mark leaned out over the rail, and emptied a splattering stream of champagne into the ocean. Then, Mark went inside again.

Sir Peregrine stared at the deserted deck for a long time. Then he looked down at the china cocoa-mug he was holding tightly in both hands. He could see the early morning sky reflected in it, and the dark outline of his captain's cap. He drained the mug to the bottom, and then pulled out a large white pocket handkerchief to dab at his lips.

He wondered if that damned pompous Philips would notice how strong his breath smelled if he just had one more. He certainly felt he needed it, if only to reassure himself that Philips was an incompetent idiot, and that if anybody had been run down and drowned by the Arcadia, it was plainly and unquestionably Philips" fault. Philips had been on the bridge at the time. Philips was responsible. A captain could hardly be expected to be in fifty-two different places at once, could he? And if his orders were flaunted—if a 53,000-ton ocean liner were piloted as recklessly as if it were a speedboat—then how could he possibly be blamed?

He opened the cupboard in his sitting-room and took out the bottle of white Haitian rum. It was already a third empty. He unscrewed the cap and filled the cocoa mug to the halfway mark. Just this one, and no more.

He stood in the centre of the room, drinking and thinking. He wondered briefly why-that fellow Mark Beeney had emptied a bottle of champagne into the sea. Damned eccentric, some of these Americans. Damned rum lot altogether.

There was a rapping at his door. He called, suspiciously, "Yes?" But it was only the wireless officer Willis with a message from the Meteorological Office.

"Well, what does it say?" demanded Sir Peregrine. "Read it to me."

"It says there's a possibility of severe weather in the early hours of tomorrow morning, sir. All that hurricane activity that was reported in the West Indies before we left—well, one of the most violent hurricanes has veered north-east at latitude twenty-seven degrees, sir, and it appears to have gathered forward speed. Could be rather a nasty one."

"I see," said Sir Peregrine.

He remained where he was, his eyes fixed for no reason at all on brass cabin hook which was used to hold back his sitting-room a door. At the moment it was loose, and it swung slowly backwards and forwards like a shining question mark.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked the wireless officer.

Sir Peregrine raised his head. "Mm?" he queried.

"I was wondering if you were quite yourself, sir."

"Ah, were you," said Sir Peregrine. "And if I were not myself, who did you suppose I might be?"