‘Thank you.’ Emma shook his hand irritably, deciding he was not only loathsome, but devoid of any moral values, if he was involved with that appalling woman who had just been so rude to her. ‘It was kind of you to invite me on your yacht, Mr Kinsella.’
‘Call me Patrick.’
‘Patrick.’ She smiled coldly as she dropped his vast hand. His name was about all he had going for him, as far as she was concerned. Emma’s mother had been Irish, and Emma had long felt a deep connection with Ireland, something that would have bordered on romanticism, if she had ever felt the slightest bit romantic. Still, at least his accent wasn’t Irish—it was pure upper-class English, and therefore had not the slightest effect on her.
With a cold, polite smile she said, ‘I’m very much looking forward to the cruise. I understand we’ll be stopping in Morocco?’
‘Among other places.’ He gave a cool nod, then lifted his dark head. ‘Is that my sister over there with ten million suitcases?’
‘Yes.’ Emma turned to look at Liz perched like a pixie on a pile of suitcases, her short dark bobbed hair flickering around her gamine face, waving cheerfully at her brother.
They walked over to her together; or rather Emma swayed and Patrick strode like some unidentified species of jungle cat, his powerful body so packed with hard muscle that Emma regarded him through her dark glasses with the same cool detachment with which one might study an animal in a zoo.
‘Hi, Liz!’ Bending a long, long distance, Patrick dropped a kiss on his sister’s cheek. ‘You’re looking very well. Must be all that romantic nonsense you spend your time dreaming about.’
‘Don’t be horrid.’ Liz leapt up from the cases, laughing. ‘Anyway, you wait. One day you’ll fall in love when you’re least expecting it, and then you won’t be quite so pleased with yourself. Have you met Emma?’
‘Yes, we just introduced ourselves,’ Patrick said, without glancing at Emma. ‘I’ve postponed sailing till midnight tonight because I wasn’t sure what time you’d get here. Meanwhile, Charles and Toby have gone up to the old fort for the afternoon. Natasha’s the only one on board.’
Liz made a face. ‘Lord save us all from Natasha! Is she being vile, or just mildly unspeakable?’
‘Mildly unspeakable,’ Patrick said, then looked down at her cases. ‘Is this the lot? If I take four can you two manage the rest?’
They agreed that they could, and Patrick picked up four cases in huge hands, striding away easily with them. Liz and Emma followed at a leisurely pace.
It was quite a relief to Emma to realise that the appalling brunette called Natasha was renowned for vile behaviour. She wondered why Patrick Kinsella was going out with her if he disliked her so much, and decided he was probably the kind of man who liked love-hate relationships with bitchy women. Good luck to him, she thought with an indifferent shrug.
At twenty-six years old, Emma was rather jaded in terms of love relationships. She didn’t believe in romance, nor did she believe in ever finding true love.
Oh, she had a secret ideal man, but she kept him to herself, not telling anyone because she was sure he did not exist and that she would never meet him. She had no idea what he would look like: she wasn’t interested in looks, she was only interested in the mind.
But most men were only interested in sex and showpiece women they could boast about to their friends. She hated artifice—she had, after all, spent most of her early life playing roles, first for her father, then for her late husband. No more role-playing for Emma—she wanted honesty or nothing.
They approached the yacht and walked up the gangplank, watched with interest by the people at the cafés, and as they reached the deck three men in white uniform suddenly appeared.
‘Take these cases down to my sister’s cabin.’ Patrick deposited them on the deck. ‘And the rest to Miss Baccarat’s.’
The men nodded silently, no doubt used to being serfs for Mr Kinsella the incredible hulk, and disappeared with the cases down the long polished wood deck to a slim white door on the right-hand side.
‘Would either of you like to go down to your cabins to freshen up or settle in?’ Patrick studied them both from behind dark glasses.
‘I’d like a drink first,’ Liz told her brother. ‘That journey was hell on two legs, and I see a nice magnum of champagne over there with my name on it!’
Patrick laughed, strolled coolly to the bottle, took two glasses and handed one to Liz, one to Emma. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘this is Natasha de Courcey. Natasha— this is Emma Baccarat.’
‘Ah, yes, Miss Baccarat,’ drawled Natasha. ‘I suppose I ought to shake hands and say how do you do, but I frankly can’t be bothered.’
‘That’s quite all right, Natasha.’ Patrick poured champagne into Emma’s glass. ‘We’re all used to your bad manners. Emma may as well get used to them too.’
Natasha sipped her drink, tapping one foot. ‘I’m just bad-tempered because we’re stuck in St Tropez for hours on end. The only thing to do here is shop, and one gets so bored spending one’s husband’s money.’
‘One wouldn’t know,’ Liz drawled. ‘One doesn’t have a husband. Put a little more champagne in my glass, Patrick…’
‘Well, we all know about your famous single status, Liz, going around dreaming of romance but never finding it. But are you married, Miss Baccarat?’ Natasha arched one silver brow at Emma.
‘No,’ Emma said coolly, ‘I’m a widow.’
‘A widow!’ Natasha smiled slowly, red lips curving like a nasty little pussycat’s. ‘Oh, how very unusual for a girl of your age! How long have you been widowed?’
‘Five years.’ Emma sipped her champagne, face tranquil.
Natasha de Courcey pushed her dark glasses up to reveal a pair of heavy-lidded dark eyes with malice in their depths. ‘How did he die?’
‘A boating accident.’
‘How tragic!’ Natasha said with horrible insincerity. ‘What was he like?’
Emma’s face was expressionless. ‘He was good-looking, adventurous and he loved danger. That’s why he died so young.’
‘I adore men like that. Men who are mad, bad and dangerous to know. Men like Patrick…!’
Patrick gave a hard, dangerous, cynical smile, strolled to the drinks table, put the bottle of champagne down, and watched them all from behind his dark glasses in sexually menacing silence.
‘Well, Miss Baccarat.’ Natasha turned back to her with a nasty smile. ‘Do you think you’ll enjoy this cruise? I mean, you realise there’s a single young man of your age on board? My brother-in-law, Toby.’
‘Your brother-in-law?’ Emma’s brows rose and she looked at Liz. ‘I thought you only had one brother?’
‘I do,’ Liz said, frowning, then realised what Emma had been thinking and started to laugh. ‘Oh, God, what a hoot! You thought Natasha was married to Patrick? I don’t believe it!’
Emma shrugged. ‘Well, I naturally assumed——’
‘That we were together?’ Natasha laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing! No, I’m married to Patrick and Liz’s cousin Charles. His little brother is Toby, and I’m sure this is all very fated, Miss Baccarat. After all, he’s single, so are you, and you’re both stuck together for a fortnight on this yacht…’
Liz laughed, sipping champagne. ‘I shouldn’t hold out any hope for a shipboard romance between Emma and anyone. She’s completely cynical, I’m afraid, and doesn’t believe in love.’