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they marched towards the jeep.
He laughed, with one of his bewildering changes of
mood. “Try it, my girl, and see what happens!” He
looked down at her. “Your jeans have shrunk a little. I’ll
get you some new ones. The sea-water always ruins
cloth.”
She flushed. “There’s no need, thank you. Denim is
meant to stand up to salt water.”
“What a proud, stubborn creature you are!” he
murmured. “I am responsible for ruining them, re-
member? It was my yacht that you were on when you
fell in the sea ...”
“I’m responsible for myself,” she retorted, “and they’ll
be fine when they have been washed.”
Jake greeted them with a broad grin, which dis-
appeared when Marc curtly told him to get a move on
back to the villa. “I’ve some business calls coming
through.”
The journey passed in total silence. Marc stared out of
the window, his profile rigid. She glanced at him under
her lashes, wondering what he was thinking about. He
looked angry.
She was angry with him. His automatic gesture of
money had offended her. Did he think he could buy
everything? They had come through threatened death,
spent the night alone, eaten a scratch meal, cooked by
both of them in harmony, and yet now he spoilt it all by
offering to buy her new clothes. It seemed to be an
attempt to reduce her to a lower level once more—to
make her a subordinate, an employee, one of his small
