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  Her lips curved. 'I already have, but I was just thinking about being a captive on board your galleon...'

  'A willing captive?'

  'Oh, yes. That is to say—'

  'Don't.'

  'Don't what?'

  'Spoil it. You've got me feeling very much a pirate lover right now.' His dark eyes were wicked.

  'I love the sound of that. Which just goes to show that I can't be too prickly after all!' She moved closer and slipped her hands around his neck.

  'All the best roses have some thorns, Saffron.' He buried his head between her breasts.

  'Fraser,' Saffron gasped much later.

  All the lights were out this time because there was moonlight streaming into the room, turning the verandah tiles to a sheet of silver and frosting their outlines. He had drawn the pillows up behind him and she was sitting astride him, loving the feel of his hands touching her breasts, slipping beneath her hips, cupping and plucking, smoothing and gripping.

  She was also returning the compliment, stroking his chest, twirling her fingers through the dark hairs, feeling, as the moments passed, more and more vibrant, taut yet attuned to the rhythm developing between them. Taut with desire and wonder, because it was the second time they'd made love and, lovely as the first time had been, she had only followed his lead, feeling a little inexpert and wary.

  But the way he had seemed to understand and had been incredibly gentle and soothed her to sleep after it had released a song in her heart and, when she'd woken to find him watching her, a rush of desire to respond more fully.

  And now the desire was singing through her veins as he carefully drew her down and she experienced more freedom to move and participate with her body in a way that made him say her name as if it was torn from him, then hold her hard as the final moment came for them both.

  Sleep didn't come so easily this time.

  She lay quivering in his arms for a long time until, finally, he said again,

  'Hush.' And he stroked her hair. 'I might have known.'

  Some minutes later, when she'd managed to still her intense reaction to the lovely thing that had happened to her, she asked softly, 'What might you have known?'

  'That there would be no half-measures for you, Saffron.' He held her against him.

  And again she thought of saying that it had never happened for her quite like this. That her previous experience of love had been pleasant but pale by comparison, had never lifted her to the heights he had. Had often been, in fact, a desire to please at the expense of her own pleasure, never an invitation—such as the one Fraser had extended to her—to be an absolute equal.

  I didn't even suspect it could be like this, she thought dazedly. 'Will you stay for a while?' she asked, unable to still the suddenly anxious note in her voice, then hid her face in his shoulder. In case, even in the moonlight, he would see her heart in her eyes. Her real fear of being alone and her...love? But perhaps he knew anyway.

  He said quietly, 'Of course. I'm here; I'll be here when you wake up.'

  She relaxed and revelled in his closeness, the wonderful feeling of strength and protection his arms around her and his body against her gave. And finally she fell asleep.

  She woke again, very early, just as the sun was starting to rise, and he was still there beside her, asleep, peacefully.

  She stared her fill. She wanted to touch the dark shadows on his jaw, smooth the hair off his forehead, run her hand over his broad shoulder where the sheet had slipped, snuggle against him, but forced herself to resist. She couldn't resist the sheer feeling of well-being, though, and lay on her back, stretched her arms upwards and pointed her toes.

  When she turned back to him after that wonderful, sensuous stretch, it was to find that although he hadn't moved he was watching her lazily.

  'Hi,' she said softly. 'Sleep well?'

  'Mmm.' He drew the sheet away from her.

  'Oh,' Saffron said, and tried to draw it back, unsuccessfully. His lips twitched. 'I love looking at you, that's all.'

  'Well—'

  'I've been plagued by wanting to do this for a while now,' he added gravely.

  'There was that beautiful, strapless dress to start with. Then a shirt and daisy-splashed leggings. And of course your flying suit had an effect on me that you may remember.' He raised a wry eyebrow at her.

  'Yes,' she said sternly, then chuckled.

  'All of which,' he continued, 'hid to various degrees... all this.' He sat up suddenly and gazed down at her.

  'I...had never thought it was particularly special,' she said on an uneven breath.

  He looked into her eyes quizzically. 'What do they say about the best things coming in small parcels? I thought I told you last night that you were exquisite.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. Pale, beautifully curved, satiny and perfect. As for these...'

  He touched each nipple and watched as they changed beneath his fingers from tight buds to standing erect. Then he bent his head and tasted each one delicately. 'You never told me whether you liked this,' he said with a wicked little glint, looking into her eyes.

  'I should have thought it was obvious,' she whispered as a wash of sheer desire rippled down her bodyand her hands closed rather desperately on his shoulders. 'I...love it.'

  'I'm glad,' he replied. 'So do I.'

  But his gaze became preoccupied with her body again, as did his hands, sliding slowly down her waist and hips, his fingers dallying in the springy curls that matched her hair, then going on to her thighs.

  Saffron cleared her throat but her voice was still unusually husky as she smoothed her hands across his shoulders. 'May I say that you leave...other pirates for dead, Mr Ross?'

  A silent laugh jolted him then his fingers moved upwards again and this time they did more than dally. Talk about exquisite, Saffron thought dizzily as they wrought the most exquisite sensations upon her with the lightest touch. So much so that her eyes widened beneath his intent gaze, her lips parted, her fingers dug into his shoulders again and her body shuddered with sheer pleasure.

  'How...why did you do that?' she gasped.

  'Did you mind?'

  'No. Oh, no, but—'

  'Good. I just felt like being a pirate again, I guess.'

  She smiled, and an imp of mischief grew in her eyes. 'What is the feminine name for a pirate?'

  His gaze narrowed and he slipped his hands around her waist. 'I don't think there is one. Why?'

  'I just felt like showing you I could be one too.'

  'Ah.' He released her and lay back with his hands above his head in a classic gesture of surrender. 'You have my full approval.'

  Saffron turned over and rested her fists on his chest, and her chin on her fists.

  'I've changed my mind,' she confided. '1 think I'll leave it so as to surprise you. I'm sure pirates are particularly effective when they use the element of—' But she stopped abruptly, her eyes widening again.

  There was a moment's silence, then he sat up and pulled her up beside him so they were sitting side by side. He pulled the sheet up across their knees.

  'Saffron—'

  But the phone rang.

  They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, then he picked it up.

  'Not bad news?' she asked fearfully when he put it down again.

  'I'm afraid so; my father's had a bit of a relapse. Look, Roger—Diana's husband, Roger Marr—has organised a seat for me on a Lear jet that's landing here in an hour. It's a private flight, not a commercial one, and there's only one seat available, but it'll get me home hours before I would have been there otherwise. Saffron—'

  'Don't worry about me, Fraser,' she said urgently. 'Can I—help you pack or something?'

  His eyes softened as they rested on her upturned face. 'You're a brick. Listen.' He took her in his arms. 'They've moved him to Brisbane so it may be a few days before I—'

  'Go and have a shower, Fraser,' she advised gently, and kissed his cheek lightly.

  'But
I don't want you to—'

  'I won't— I'll be fine, believe me. Will you get up and go?'

  * * *

  But leaving Hamilton Island and the beautiful Whitsundays proved to be a sad experience for Saffron.

  She spent the last half-hour before the coach was due to come to take her to the airport sunk deep in thought as she watched the diamond-studded water lap the beach below her verandah. Watched the brightly colored sails of little catamarans skim the surface of the sea as a light breeze blew and Passage Peak presided over it all.

  And she remembered standing on that same beach in the moonlight, so enthralled by Fraser Ross that she'd tripped carelessly and sprained her ankle. She turned inside at last only to be confronted by the memory of her actions the previous night. Taken, she told herself, against the genuine conviction that this man was not for her...

  'Why, Saffron,' Cathy said, bending over her with a tray as the flight got under way, 'where's Fraser?'

  'Left a little earlier, Cathy. Thanks.'

  'How was the night?'

  Saffron froze with a glass of juice to her lips and eyed the other girl, once again so poised and polished in her uniform. 'What do you mean?'

  'I saw you two in the passage last night. An hour or so later I rang Fraser but there was no reply. Could it be that you're more than his interior decorator now?'

  Saffron couldn't hide the tide of colour that crept up her throat, but she set her lips resolutely.

  'If so,' Cathy went on with a rather dry little smile, 'I wouldn't hold out for a wedding ring. Mistress material maybe, but wife? I suspect that whoever she is she'll be much more—exclusive than you or me.' She moved away smoothly.

  Saffron closed her eyes and laid her head back bleakly.

  'Delia, this is a surprise,' Saffron said as she walked into the arrivals lounge.

  'Fraser rang me and asked me to pick you up,' Delia replied. 'Any luggage to collect?'

  'No. I got it all on as hand luggage.' Saffron paused and eyed Delia sharply.

  'How is he? His father, I mean.'

  'Holding his own; that's all they can say at the moment.'

  'Well, shouldn't you be staying up here in Brisbane instead of driving me back to the Gold Coast?'

  Delia smiled wanly. 'I'm not that welcome.'

  'Fraser?' Saffron queried incredulously.

  'No. He was very nice on the phone, but Diana— well, earlier she...' Delia trailed off.

  'I can imagine. Bitch.'

  Delia started to walk towards the main entrance. 'We don't really know each other that well, Saffron. Bernard and I.' She shrugged and gestured. 'The car's this way. The thing is, I didn't feel it was right to cause—tensions in the family at a time like this.'

  Saffron was silent, digesting this. Then she said, 'Fraser approves, by the way. I'm sure that if he feels his father needs you he'll let you know.''Thanks. I wondered how he knew—I suppose you told him?'

  'I think his father may have intimated something to him too.'

  'I still can't believe it happened so quickly, so—' Delia broke off and squared her shoulders. 'How did it go?'

  'Go?'

  'The job. His house—the reason you went up there.'

  'Oh, that.' Saffron winced inwardly but patted her briefcase. 'It went very well. Should be able to get cracking with some orders and so on as soon as I get back to the office.'

  'So he was easier to work with than you expected?' Delia unlocked her car with a lurking little smile then frowned suddenly. 'Why are you limping?'

  'I fell over and sprained my ankle. It's much better but I could have done with the walking stick for another day or so, only it was a borrowed one—well, I forgot it anyway.' She climbed into Delia's car carefully.

  'And he was easy to work with?' Delia asked as she switched on the ignition and adjusted the rear-view mirror.

  'Do you know,' Saffron said slowly, 'I doubt if I'll find anyone easier?' She put her hand to her mouth briefly. 'And I'm very much afraid I did something in the heat of the moment that I might regret for the rest of my life.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'Saffron, I'm worried about you,' Delia said the next morning, as soon as she arrived at work.

  'Join the club—I mean, I'm worried about you,' Saffron said lightly, but added seriously, 'How are you coping?'

  'Feeling better now that I know Bernard came through the operation all right.'

  Bernard Ross had had a heart bypass operation the previous afternoon and, although he was still in Intensive Care, the prognosis was good. Saffron had heard this herself through a phone call from Fraser last evening. It had not been a long call and he'd sounded clipped and strained although he'd made a point of asking her how she was. And she'd made a point of assuring him she was fine and telling him he should concentrate on his father.

  'Here's the paper,' Delia said, putting it down on the desk. 'He's front-page news. I suppose you've been here since the crack of dawn? How about me getting you some breakfast?'

  'That'd be lovely, Delia. I don't know what I'd do without you.'

  Saffron picked up the paper as Delia left.

  There were two photos on the front page, one of Bernard Ross and one of Fraser. It was the one of Fraser she studied. He was wearing a suit and tie, leaving a building with a rather august portico, and the glance the photographer had captured was cool and unimpressed. In fact the whole picture captured a man who was obviously powerful but hard to pin down, good-looking, intensely assured...and a far cry from the man she'd slept with only two nights ago.

  She swallowed suddenly and read the accompanying article. It was a brief report of Bernard's illness then a resume of the Ross empire, going back to Fraser's great-grandfather who had started it all. It was also a tribute to both Bernard and Fraser Ross but particularly Fraser, for his business acumen, which had seen the empire expand, and, most importantly, continue to flourish when others had expanded and fallen.

  There was also a bit about Fraser's early life—an impressive school, a first at Oxford, a rowing blue and a prestigious, world-renowned yachting trophy to his credit.

  Saffron's eyes were widening as she read this when Delia arrived back with breakfast.

  'A toasted bacon and egg sandwich, a muffin, an apple and coffee. Sound OK?'

  'Yes. Thank you. I didn't know he was a yachtsman!'

  'Who?'

  'Fraser—haven't you read this?' She handed the paper to Delia. Delia sat down and pulled her own coffee towards her. 'Oh, yes. His father mentioned it. He's given it up although he still has a boat. Didn't you see it? It was moored at the jetty the night we went to dinner.'

  Saffron shrugged. 'I wasn't in any mood to be looking out for boats; no, I didn't. Impressive?'

  'Well, I'm not an expert but it looked to be a very trim yacht. What was its name?' Delia frowned. 'Oh, I remember— Buccaneer— What's wrong?'

  Saffron had choked on her first mouthful of toasted sandwich.

  'Nothing—uh—something went down the wrong way. So...why did he give it up?' she asked, striving for some composure.

  'His father is of the opinion it wasn't a great love of his life although he obviously enjoyed it. But it was more of a challenge. Something to be mastered. Which he did; he's like that, apparently.'

  'And once it's mastered he loses interest,' Saffron said slowly.

  'He didn't say that. Apparently Fraser still sails but only as a hobby. He doesn't have the time, for one thing. Saffron—'

  'Delia, be a honey and don't,' Saffron said gently.

  'But after what you told me in the car on the way home from the airport yesterday I—'

  'After what you literally prised out of me in the car on the way home from the airport yesterday, don't you mean?'

  Delia grimaced. 'If you hadn't mentioned something you'd regret until the day you died, I might have been less concerned! How can you be so sure he's not for you, Saffron?'

  Saffron raised an eyebrow. 'I think it's more a case of I'm n
ot for him, Delia. But, be that as it may, I'd rather not...talk about it.'

  'Well, what are you going to do? Have you made a mutual decision of some sort?'

  Saffron considered. 'I suppose we did.'

  'After...it happened?'

  'No. But nothing's changed. Delia, we need to get stuck into this. Could you get my film developed? But, Delia, if you need any time off just say the word—promise me?'

  'Thanks, pal.'

  Saffron finished her breakfast slowly and gave silent thanks that she was home. She looked around her office and breathed deeply. Whatever life held in store for her—and she had a premonition of pain and a parting—she still had this.

  She pulled a pad towards her and started to work again. The day flashed by as she did battle with a louvred-blind-maker who preferred to take his own measurements and was only mollified when asked tartly if her measurements had ever been wrong, and would he like to pay his own way up to the Whitsundays if that was the case.

  She went through catalogues of china, crystal, silver and linen, thought about pots and pans, and paid a visit to Marina Mirage to inspect the new consignment of Javanese furniture. She got a surprisingly prompt response from her contact in Zanzibar, but flinched slightly at the cost involved and once again wondered why she'd got carried away on the subject of Zanzibari doors.

  She also chose some beautiful rugs, and was thankful that the interior of Fraser's house was all wood-panelled so she didn't have to worry about wall colour schemes. Tomorrow, she told herself, she'd visit some of her favourite galleries looking for objets d'art.

  It was nine o'clock when she got home, feeling weary and drained. She had a shower, put on her green towelling robe, made some toasted cheese, put Enya's Watermark CD on, and sat cross-legged on her sumptuous buttermilk-coloured couch.

  The doorbell rang.

  She sighed, frowned and hesitated. It rang again.

  'I'm coming,' she called, sliding off the couch and tripping on the rug. Consequently she was breathless and annoyed when she finally wrenched the door open. It .was Fraser, in jeans and a navy jumper, with his hair windblown. She saw past him to the Mercedes in the drive with the hood down.