Take a Chance on Me (5 page)

He stepped back and took her hand – then kissed it – without taking his eyes off hers. A shiver shot down her spine. ‘It's a date,' he said.

A date!

One night of fun with Hot Boat Guy. One night of being someone else. Someone desired.
Someone that's not boring old Sadie Samantha Turner.

She grabbed her waterlogged bag and leaned up to plant a kiss on his cheek, pulling away before he could respond. ‘See you later then.'

‘Haven't you forgotten something?' he said as he walked her down the gangplank.

‘What?' she said, her eyes wide. ‘Oh, you want this?' and she handed him the glossy brochure. ‘I know you'd like to buy one of these when you're a grown-up. But for now, just stick the pictures on your wall – it might help you make your own luck.'

‘Ha-ha. No, I mean your name,' he said. ‘You forgot to tell me your name and I didn't quite catch it from your loud phone calls. I'm Mac. Pleased to meet you, Miss …' He did a mock bow and held out his hand.

‘It's
Ms
,' she said, wagging her finger at him. ‘And it's a pleasure to meet you too, Mac. My name is Sss …' but as soon as Sadie heard her own name in her head, she instantly felt less adventurous. Instantly ‘life' flooded back in and brought a whole load of humdrum with it. In a split second, she knew what to say.

‘Samantha.' Pretending not to be herself had been very enjoyable so far, so she might as well go the whole hog. ‘But you can call me Sam. And Mac,' she said as she turned to walk away. ‘No more spying on people. Deal?'

‘We've got a deal.' He shook her hand formally. ‘Okay, Sam, see you at seven.'

Mac watched her sashaying off into the distance, until she had disappeared amongst the sightseers on the shore.
What the hell just happened?
He hated lying at the best of times – although he had often done it at the worst of times. Times when lying came with the territory, especially in the early years, where women were concerned. But anyone can change, right?

What an interesting last day this had been.
And it wasn't over yet.

Mac finished tidying away his work, and trotted off with a spring in his step, completely oblivious to the occasional glints flashing away in the distance once more, way up on the hillside above him.

Because Mac wasn't the only one doing the spying. High above the harbour, a pair of binoculars was lowered. A mobile phone raised, a window closed, and a silver Mercedes SLK convertible pulled away in the direction of Monte Carlo.

Mac felt like a kid again. He pondered what the hell had just happened to make Mr Cool and Sophisticated disappear into the ocean along with the voluptuous woman's handbag. Toying with his neck chain, he recalled her rear-view clip-clopping back along the jetty. He mentally chastised himself. Where was his usual reserve? Where was his normal
play it cool, no matter who
philosophy?

‘What the hell happened there, boss?' said an olive-skinned man in chef's whites who was waiting for him inside a doorway on the deck. He handed Mac a fluffy white towel. As he took it to dry himself down, a dozen or so faces – all peering through nearby windows and round corners – instantly scattered.

‘Beats me, Mario.'

‘She say no? I can't wait to tell the boys if she say no.
Tell
me she said no.'

‘She
nearly
said no.'

‘Which means she still said yes – goddam, playboy rich kid from the wrong side of the tracks.'

Mac slapped him hard on the shoulder, and he cursed.

‘Now, you slumming it with us for dinner tonight?' Mario's voice went all sing-song. ‘It's your last night in resi-dennnnce … I'm cooking your favour-eeet?'

‘Leave me a plate. I'm not sure how the evening will turn out.'

‘Mamma mia.
You
might not be, but
we
are –
very
sure. It will turn out just as it always does.'

‘Always did, Mario, always did.'

‘Leopards, spots, leopards, spots,' said the chef as they both disappeared inside. 'Maybe the spots get smaller – but they're still there.'

Mac left him and passed down a corridor full of photos of himself meeting various dignitaries and celebrities, with Mario's words ringing in his ears. His image had changed. Quite a lot through the years, actually.

New kid on the block.

Property developer.

Playboy property developer.

Playboy billionaire.

Philanthropist, entrepreneur, Midas-touch investor – there were various paparazzi terms now used for him but he never framed the headlines, only the images.

A line of chronological pictures on the wall punctuated most of his major achievements. At one end a shot of him in a hard hat topping off, or finishing, his first office building project; less grey, less tanned, less wrinkled. At the other end a photo from a couple of years ago that had made every financial publication – marking a deal that had truly put him on the map internationally, and earned his place amongst the high-flying venture capitalists –
amongst the big fish
. There weren't many in that sought-after clique, and he'd worked hard to get there. That's what had made a single life worthwhile throughout those years.
Wasn't it?

That was the deal which had made him. And made him some enemies. Including the man who'd been pictured next to Mac in one of the earlier photographs – Philip Tremain. Mac walked back to look at his wiry face, gaunt, a decade older than Mac, and nearly a foot shorter. Stupid man. He'd tried and failed to oust Mac from one business deal too many, to take control of the cartel of investors who worked together to share risk. It had split the group, leaving Mac with his staunch ally, BJ McKowsky, on their own, and Tremain had been chasing Mac's deals ever since. He leaned in closer to peer at the next photo of just himself and BJ, with an attractive blonde standing in the background. Mac raised a finger to the glass and touched his face from five years previous, clean-shaven and almost unrecognisable from the stubbly chin and unwaxed hair he was now running his hands over. Thank goodness for loyal friends, thought Mac.

This was his own private corridor, untouched when the yacht was rented out for hospitality. Full of photos his office regularly worked hard to bury amongst Internet searches. Privacy could still be afforded with enough Internet know-how, the right connections, and enough money. But these photos gave away too much. He scrubbed at his chin while he looked at them. Maybe his date wouldn't even come back to the yacht tonight, let alone take a tour down this corridor. But he wasn't going to leave it to chance. He knew he shouldn't deceive her but the thrill of her thinking he was a deckhand was too much to resist.

It didn't take too long to remove all the photos, one by one. They needed cleaning anyway. He looked at each as he took it down – yes, the carefully cultivated playboy image had come off a treat including a beautiful woman often pictured close by. He tried but failed to remember all of their names. They'd usually made a play for him at some function or other, and who was he to pass up the offer of an evening with a pretty girl? Although it was just that – an ‘evening', rarely a night. In the last few photos, the most recent, the women had gone. So tonight really was an unusual occasion for him – in more ways than one.

Mario appeared again.

‘We been talking, and we think maybe you lost your moves, boss.'

Mac merely smiled and handed him the box of pictures. ‘See you later, chef.'

‘Aha – the photos come off the walls, maybe the pants come off tonight.'

‘Kitchen!' said Mac, ‘and ask Miguel to give those a wipe over?' The chef ambled up the corridor chuckling and Mac walked to his cabin wondering what destiny would bring.

He opened the door to the master suite and took off his divers watch and began to undress. First, work out how to play tonight.

For sure her body had filled him with the most powerful charge he'd felt for years. Still feeling it. Either that or the air con was too low in here.

Unbuttoning his shorts, he realised the thought of her was still affecting him now. If only he wasn't such a fan of a challenge.

Too competitive, that's your trouble
he told his reflection in the mirror.

Hesitating, then taking off the chain from around his neck, he shook his head.
One night.
She'd made that clear, that was her choice, so to hell with reserve. Tomorrow he'd be gone – like he always was. And anyway, this Sam seemed like someone who could take care of herself, independent and feisty and not likely to turn ‘bunny-boiler' anytime soon. Charming too, even if she was as clumsy as any girl he'd ever met. But if it was just a date, why was he feeling all jittery?

Feeling nervous about a date hadn't been on Mac's agenda for years. Maybe because this Sam had reminded him of his first crush, it made him feel seventeen once more. She
did
have the same incredible green eyes and tousled blonde hair, high cheekbones and voluptuous curves, but it didn't mean he had to act like a jock on prom night.

He carefully removed his shorts and went to turn on the shower. Something unexpected had definitely happened today – and it felt so real, so refreshing. Even if she did think he was only a deckhand.

In truth, perhaps that was why all this felt so delicious …

The hot water felt good. So did his body with all the training he'd been doing. It'd better pay off. Mac never did anything without an end in mind. Business deals, extreme sports events … dates. Well, he could always make an exception – he had absolutely no idea how tonight would end. He only knew it would be fun. In any case, with all the stresses of recent events, he needed to get lost in a woman – truly lost. And if that afternoon was anything to go by, with
this
woman he appeared to have a direct route deep into the forest with no white pebbles to find a way home.

A little while later Mac was standing in just a towel, perspiring in the steamy bathroom but hotter still from thinking about his earlier encounter with Sam. He wiped the mirror, looked at his face and wondered if she'd noticed.

Running his finger across one of the scars on his chin he examined the deep marks, right across his jawline. They were disguised more than usual by the five-day stubble he grew on the rare occasion when he finally took time out to train and just be himself, with only the crew for company. He picked up an expensive looking tube and squeezed out the thick, skin-coloured camouflage cream – one of many unusual lotions and expensive potions on the shelf nearby – till a big blob filled his finger. He looked at it, then at his face.

They never usually mentioned it – the women – they wouldn't dare.

Would this one?

He put a swipe of it over one scar, rubbed a little window into the steamed up mirror, and smiled at what he saw – actually, the stubble was already doing just as good a job of disguise. Maybe it should be his new look. Captain Jim would no doubt approve. He started wiping the cream off again with a tissue.

A sudden banging on the door interrupted his thoughts.
Talk of the devil.
The Captain appeared, red-faced and puffing, wafting his hand through the steam and coughing.

‘You should let Giorgio in here afterwards to help steam his acne.' Then he spotted the coloured cream on the sink, and frowned.

‘You know what you should do about those scars, don't you?'

Mac shook his head. ‘Don't start,' he said, wiping the remainder of the cream onto the tissue and throwing it into a bin.

‘Don't you think it might be time to pay attention to your weaknesses, for once,' said the Captain, concern in his eyes. ‘Take the plunge? It's not like you haven't got the money.' Mac raised an eyebrow at him but he didn't stop. ‘You know that I'll just keep bugging you until you do what I say,' boasted the old man. ‘That usually works.'

‘I let you think it does.'

The Captain waved a dismissive hand. ‘I'll have a word with Simon Leadbetter and get him to book you in the next time you're in LA.'

‘Leave it, Jim.'

‘What happened to
Cap'n
? All for show, was it? All for “Mrs Buy-me-a-Boat”?'

‘It's
Ms
,' said Mac.

‘Yeh, and knowing you it'll stay that way.'

Mac threw a damp towel across the room and it landed right over the old man's cap. ‘We're only going for drinks,' Mac protested, and began to wash his face again.

‘Are you now? Is that why the whole crew's been given shore leave till midnight?' The eyebrow was quivering mischievously but Mac didn't take the bait.

James Wiltshire simply fanned himself in the steam. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to find out if you're joining us all at Mimi's tonight and I guess I've got my reply.' He turned towards the doorway.

‘Get the crew a few rounds for me anyway, will you? And tell Mimi I'll, er, I'll pop down later to settle the account personally.'

‘I bet you don't!'

‘Okay, well take the credit card and sort it for me, would you? It's out there on the dresser. And don't lose it like you “lost” that supermodel's phone number you were supposed to give me last month.'

The Captain didn't need asking twice, trotting along behind Mac like a puppy, a slight waft of Old Spice aftershave exiting the bathroom with him. He picked up a black American Express card, and held it gingerly, almost with reverence. ‘Yes, boss.'

‘Oh and buy Mario a bottle of Cristal. He and the galley staff have excelled themselves. None of the Grand Prix party had a word of complaint at this year's gala dinner – unusual for bankers.'

‘Yes, but did you hear? They still cancelled for next year. Everyone seems to be feeling the crunch.'

‘Or else they've been poached by Tremain,' Mac said.

‘He's not at the foot of every bit of skulduggery you come across, you know.' Mac looked doubtful. ‘Really – that was years ago. Time you two healed your rift, isn't it?' Mac replied by rolling his eyes. ‘No,' continued the Captain. ‘It's another “rift” you've got your eyes on tonight …'

Mac ignored him. ‘You never know with Tremain what he's trying to elbow in on.'

‘Well, a couple of the other skippers have said their bookings are down for next year too, so maybe you'd better get a downgrade on this?' The Captain waved the hallowed black card in the air. ‘Curb your spending like the rest of us have had to? Make some cutbacks if bookings are going to be down?' he teased.

‘Maybe I should go the whole hog and just sell the
Nomad
– would that do you?'

‘You wouldn't! You've only had her a year.' The old man looked suspicious. ‘Is this new attitude to do with that woman, or with you know, your
plan
?'

‘Who knows, Jim boy, who knows. If my plans come off maybe I'll be a million miles away from Monaco and freeloading bankers.'

‘Well, I still think you're making a mistake, but you're the boss.'

Mac didn't reply, just disappeared into a walk-in wardrobe.

The Captain knew a lost cause when he saw one. ‘So …' he said, seizing his moment. ‘Just the
one
bottle of Cristal, you say?' A very cheesy, very toothy, expectant grin peeped round the door at Mac, who couldn't resist his old friend.

‘What the hell, make it two! But I want every man back around midnight! No later.'

‘And no earlier, either. Right, lover boy?' said the Captain, winking.

‘Midnight's
fine
.'

‘Bibbidy-bobbidy-boo,' said the old man, watching with a curious look on his face, as Mac pulled on a plain white T-shirt. ‘Eh? What's all this? You not getting all Armani'd up as usual tonight then?'

‘Nope.'

‘No “whiff me at ten paces”?'

‘Nope.'

‘No “baby's-bum” face? Hang on, you've even taken off Shauny's chain? You must be planning some pretty impressive bedroom gymnastics with stiletto woman.'

Mac's reply was to whisk the damp towel from around his waist and fling it, this time scoring a direct hit across the old man's face.

‘Gaaah. Less insubordination from the crew!' the Captain said, rolling his eyes. Then he shook the towel, folded it perfectly in half and hung it over a rail, looking thoughtful. ‘Seriously, Mac—'