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Another companionway led down to the sleeping accommodation. The stateroom that Enrique showed her with obvious pride made her jaw drop. The fitted wardrobes and dressing table were made of some pale, expensive wood, while the bed, the widest she’d ever seen, was made up with cream linen, a bedspread in vibrant terracotta folded across its foot. The same colour was echoed among the piled-up pillows, and a small sofa, similarly upholstered, stood against one wall.
Or perhaps they were called bulkheads, she thought. She couldn’t remember, and it didn’t really matter anyway. It wasn’t something she’d ever need to know.
The adjoining bathroom was all gleaming white and azure, with a walk-in power shower, a vanitory unit with twin basins, and a bidet as well as a loo.
‘The señorita approves?’ Enrique asked, pointing out the towels stacked on a corner shelf, and satisfying himself that there was soap in the dish between the basins. ‘If there is anything else you require, tell me, por favor,’ he added, turning to leave. ‘There is a bell.’
Thoughtful, Rhianna decided with faint amusement, as she waited to hear the outer door close softly. But unnecessary.
Probably Enrique was more accustomed to women guests who spent longer than just one evening on board with his boss, and who shared far more than dinner.
Whereas I, she thought, swallowing, have to go and put the remains of my life back together.
She dried her hands, and dropped the used towel into the laundry basket, then ran a comb through her hair, wondering whether to renew her lipstick and deciding against it.
As she was doing so, she noticed the toiletries grouped together on the tiled top by the mirror, realising they were all her favourite brands—from the moisturiser to the perfumed body lotion, and even the shampoo.
Odd, she thought, and walked back into the other room, where she checked, her eyes narrowing. Because something else had suddenly appeared on the bed. A woman’s nightgown, exquisitely fanned out. Her nightgown…
Rhianna took a deep breath, telling herself that it was some weird trick of her imagination, or more likely that she’d had too much of that wonderful Rioja.
At the same time, her instinct told her that she was fooling herself. She spun round and went back into the bathroom to check out the toiletries, her stomach muscles clenching as she saw that they’d all been used before, and that the pretty striped bag which had contained them when she left London was now in a cupboard under the basin.
My things, she thought desperately. Here—on his boat.
A glance in the stateroom’s fitted cupboards confirmed her worst fears. All the clothing she’d brought to Penvarnon House was there, neatly hung away, or folded in the drawers, while her travel bag and dress carrier were tucked away at the back of a wardrobe. Her handbag was there too, but, she realised, biting her lip, minus her wallet and passport.
And at that moment she became aware of something else—the steady throb of a powerful engine. And she knew, with horror, that Windhover was moving. That they’d sailed.
She almost flung herself at the stateroom door, twisting the handle one way then another, tugging it, dragging at it breathlessly, while swearing softly but comprehensively. Refusing to believe that it wasn’t going to open, in spite of her best efforts, because it wasn’t just stuck in some embarrassing way—but actually locked.
Telling herself that this wasn’t—couldn’t be happening. Not to her.
He’d implied that he was descended from a Spanish pirate, but this was the twenty-first century, for God’s sake, not the sixteenth, and there were strict laws against hijacking on the high seas.
If Polkernick Harbour actually qualified as any kind of high sea, she thought, quelling the bubble of hysteria rising inside her.
She wanted to beat on the closed door with her fists, screaming to be let out, but a small, icy voice in her brain said this was exactly the reaction he’d expect and would allow for. Therefore it would get her nowhere.
She stepped back and considered as she strove for control. For an element of calm.
Enrique had clearly been busy while her back was turned. It wasn’t just her nightgown that had been left ready for her. Mineral water and a glass had appeared on one of the shelves fitted to the bedhead, together with a plate of cinnamon biscuits.
Everything for the discerning prisoner, she thought grimly.
Including the aforementioned bell. Which she rang.
And which was answered with admirable promptness by Diaz himself. He’d discarded his jacket and removed his tie, leaving his shirt open at his tanned throat.
Rhianna faced him from the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, hands folded in her lap to hide the fact they were shaking.
