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  Samantha slumped in her chair. 'I don't believe this,' she said heavily.

  'Of course, if someone gets ill and leaves the cruise, we'll move you right away. The same if anyone decides to leave the cruise at one of the ports. It's also possible that you could share a room with another woman, but I'm afraid we won't know that for a while. We'll have to keep our ears to the ground to see if there's someone who would like a room-mate to keep down expenses. Of course, if you make friends with...'

  But Samantha wasn't stupid; she could see the writing on the wall. 'I can't believe this is happening to me!' she gasped.

  At which point Josh grinned, uncurled himself from the chair where he'd been relaxing, leaned over and gave her a soothing pat on the arm. 'That's all right, darling. You'll see—it'll be like a dream come true.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Samantha did manage to get out of the purser's office without throwing a temper tantrum, but it wasn't easy. She marched down to her stateroom, slammed the newly installed door and threw herself down on to the couch in a state of fury and frustration. Dream come true, indeed—he had a hell of a nerve! As if there was any chance that she'd happily reconcile herself to living with him, much less consider herself lucky to be with a man who obviously thought himself God's gift to womankind. Samantha couldn't imagine any way that she could find contentment in being near a man so odious and loathsome. And he hadn't cared! That was the part that really killed her. Josh really hadn't cared whether he shared a room with her or not. She was the one who was flouncing around, making angry statements and working herself into a frenzy.

  Was she being unreasonable? Samantha awkwardly swallowed that thought as if she had eaten something unsavoury and lumpy. Well, she didn't much like to admit it, but she reluctantly conceded that she'd not had a relaxed, roll-with-the-punches attitude. She'd ranted and raved, she'd fumed and stewed, and what good had it done? Nothing she had said would alter the situation, no matter how unpalatable it was. She really had no choice, she saw, except to yield graciously and, as the saying went, put the best face on a bad situation. Besides, she might never again have the opportunity to cruise through the Greek Islands, and she really didn't want to ruin her trip by being sulky and down-in-the-mouth.

  So she stood up, shook herself slightly and decided to dress for the dance. She had so many new clothes, she wasn't sure what to choose first. The styles ranged from sweet and demure to sexy and vampy. There was a strapless red dress with a flared skirt, a pale yellow with a prim neckline and a plunging back and, most glamorous of all, one with a gold-sequined top and a slim black skirt that had a kick pleat on the side that went up the length of her leg. Margaret had chosen that one.

  There was a knock on the door at that moment, and she opened it to find Marybeth standing there in all her evening finery .

  'You look wonderful,' Samantha said, letting her in. 'What a lovely dress!'

  'Thank you, honeybunch,' smiled Marybeth, swirling around so that Samantha could get a full view of a frothy aquamarine confection that dipped low in front, swooped to the waist at the back and 'showed Marybeth's petite but full figure off to its best advantage. 'And how come you're not dressed yet? The dance starts in fifteen minutes.'

  Samantha glanced at her watch and groaned. 'I just came from a visit to the purser. It seems he can't change my room.

  Marybeth made herself at home on a chair, crossing her silk-sheathed legs and letting her foot swing in its high-heeled white sandal. 'You mean you're stuck in this room with that gorgeous man?'

  Samantha had a brainstorm. 'Marybeth, I know this is an awful thing to ask, but is there any chance I could move in with you?'

  'Why, Samantha, I'd love it, but I have a single room in the bilge. There's hardly enough room there to swing a cat.'

  'Oh,' Samantha said with a sigh, then made one last effort. 'I don't suppose -you'd like to change places.'

  Marybeth blinked her big blue eyes. 'You mean— move in here?'

  Samantha warmed to it. 'Why not? You wanted a shipboard romance and this would be a ready-made setting. Besides, you did think Josh was awfully good-looking and...'

  Marybeth was shaking her head. 'I'm not very neat,' she said.

  Samantha waved that aside. 'Josh wouldn't mind.'

  'And he already has the redhead hot on his trail. Samantha honey, I wish I could help you, I really do, but I think I'd rather stay where I am.'

  Samantha couldn't blame her. What woman in her right mind would give up her privacy to room with a stranger—and a male one at that? 'That's okay. It was a stupid idea anyway.'

  'Besides, maybe you'll find you do like him after all.'

  Samantha sighed. 'There's not much chance of that. When I'm with him, it's like trying to mix oil and water.'

  'Well,' said Marybeth, her natural optimism returning, 'the best thing to do is get yourself dolled up for the dance and have a wonderful time.'

  'Right,' said Samantha, standing up, 'that's just what I plan to do.'

  But her plans were thwarted when the door opened then and Josh walked in. He didn't look the least put out to find Marybeth there. In fact, if anything, he seemed quite entranced by Marybeth's blonde prettiness, the deep V of her décolletage and her pleasing Southern voice. Actually, it might have been Samantha's imagination, but from the moment of Josh's entrance, Marybeth's accent had deepened to the point that one could almost smell the wafting scent of magnolias in the room, and it occurred to her that Marybeth's arrival in her room had a deeper motive than mere female friendship.

  '... and where's home, Mr Sinclair?' asked Marybeth, after the introductions had been made.

  'New York City.'

  'Why, isn't that amazing! That's Samantha's home town, too.'

  'Is it?' Josh asked and glanced at Samantha.

  'It is, isn't it, Samantha?'

  'Yes,' Samantha said coolly, not particularly relishing the idea that she and Josh had anything in common. '93rd Street, actually.'

  Josh had leaned back on the sofa, put an ankle over one knee and his arm nonchalantly along the back of the couch. '93rd and what?'

  'Riverside Drive.'

  'Interesting,' he said. 'I'm at 99th and Riverside.'

  Marybeth clapped her hands. 'Imagine—you two are neighbours!'

  'Not exactly,' Samantha said quickly.

  'But only six blocks apart,' Marybeth said. 'And to think that you had to meet in Greece! Now that's really ironic, isn't it?'

  'Very,' Josh agreed drily, and Samantha gave him a quick sideways glance. But his face had no other expression on it than a pleasant good humour.

  'Samantha did tell me all about this mix-up with your room.' Marybeth went on. 'And it sounds just horrendous. I mean, imagine coming on a cruise and expecting to have your privacy and finding out that you have to sleep with a stranger.' Her eyes widened, and she put her small hand in front of her mouth. 'Oops—now, why on earth did I put it that way?'

  'I don't know, Marybeth,' he said teasingly, 'why on earth did you?'

  It was clear to Samantha that Marybeth couldn't resist a flirtation. 'Why, Mr Sinclair...' the other woman began, her eyelashes fluttering.

  'Josh.'

  'Why, Josh, it must have been your presence that threw my mind into such disarray.'

  It was more than Samantha could take. Not that she had any reason to resent Marybeth's blatant flirting with Josh, she told herself. After all, she'd certainly let the other woman know just how much she disliked him, and that left the field wide open for anyone, Marybeth included, to step right in and see how far she could go. Still, it was obvious that her nerves were still raw from the rest of the day's happenings, and Marybeth, Southern belle extraordinaire, combined with an affable and flirtatious Josh, was just a little more than her fragile temperament could handle right at the moment.

  So she stood up again with determination and said, 'If you two don't mind, I'd like to get dressed for the dance.'

  Josh merely grinned at her, stood up and offe
red Marybeth his arm. 'Why don't I take you for a drink and let Samantha have the room to herself? I can get dressed when she's done.'

  Marybeth looked tiny and feminine when she stood beside Josh's tall, lean figure. She had to tilt her head way back to look up at him. 'I'd love a drink,' she said, and tucked her small, plump hand in his arm.

  They were laughing gaily as they left the stateroom, and Samantha looked at the closed door with a sour look. Then she shook herself hard and, walking into the bedroom, threw open the door to the closet. She ran her hand over the sleeve of the pale yellow dress, fingered the organdie of the red and then pushed them both aside. With narrowed eyes, she contemplated the gold and black dress, imagining herself in it, remembering the way it had looked on her in the department store. Sexy and vampy, that was how she'd looked. Like a siren looking for seduction. Like a woman out on the make.

  Not that she was, of course. Samantha had never been out on the make in her life and didn't have the audacity to think that she'd carry it off any better at the ripe old age of thirty than she had at sixteen when she'd gone to her first high school dance in a tight red dress that her mother had thought hideous, her nails lacquered a regrettable shade of purple., and her face plastered with make-up borrowed from a friend. Despite all her efforts, however, her appearance had not brought the boys running: it had only served to make her the most colourful wallflower in that hot and humid school gymnasium.

  Samantha had learned her lesson from that experience: it had haunted her for years and had kept her in a wardrobe that was marked by pragmatism, efficiency and sensible colours. She'd actually been shocked when Margaret had pulled the gold and black dress off the rack and flourished it in the air like a matador's cape. Samantha had immediately protested: it wasn't her, it was cut too low in the front, it was cut too high on the leg. Margaret had, in her usual manner, ignored everything Samantha had said and insisted that she try it on. The effect had been quite mesmerising. Samantha hadn't known that she possessed such curves.

  Perhaps, she thought as she ran her fingers over the sparkling edges of the gold sequins, perhaps the moment had come to close the door on the past and admit that she was no longer sixteen-year-old, awkward and gawky Samantha Lorimer. It was really quite possible, given Margaret's taste and some courage on her part, that she might actually turn out to be someone quite different. Who exactly? Well, not her lawyerlike self, that person she'd known for years, but another kind of a woman, the sort who attracted the curious, interested looks of men, whose mouth invited kisses under the moonlight, whose...

  Get a hold of yourself! There was no point in wishing for the moon, Samantha thought wryly. Let's not forget the facts. Even the most fabulous dress in the world wasn't going to change her, miraculously, into a movie star or world-famous model. She would still be Samantha Lorimer, the kind of ordinary woman that men liked as a friend, an acquaintance, a business partner. So there was no point in getting stars in her eyes and deluding herself with sentimental, romantic dreams. On the other hand, for some reason, the opening dance of the cruise had taken on a special significance for her, she couldn't say just what exactly, but it seemed exceedingly important that she enter that ballroom, dressed to kill. And just who is the intended victim? a small voice inside her asked. She stared at the dress and wondered. It certainly wasn't David who, nice though he was, didn't even start her pulses fluttering. And it certainly wasn't Josh. She couldn't stand him, for heaven's sake, and she couldn't have cared less about what he thought or did. So who did that leave?

  Who precisely did that leave?

  Josh was instantly aware that he wasn't the only man in the bar to notice the woman who had walked in. There was a swivelling of heads, a dip in the general noise level and, if you listened closely, a slight intake of about twenty breaths in unison. The object of this second of concerted appreciation appeared to be totally ignorant of the impression that she was making. Josh sat at an angle to the door and therefore had not seen her face, but her walk alone would have caught his attention. It was a straight-shouldered, swaying-hipped, head-up walk, the kind that is made particularly attractive when its owner is wearing black high heels that emphasise slender, shapely calves, a black skirt with a slit up the side that reveals tantalisingly brief glimpses of thigh, and a glittering gold bodice whose strapless back dipped low enough to expose a delicate spine, curved white shoulders and a deliriously soft nape.

  He gave the back of this woman so much of his concentration that he was oblivious to Marybeth beside him who was chattering on about her vacation last year, '...the same cottage on the same lake—why, I tell you, a person can-only take so much...'For a moment, Josh had actually thought that the woman was Nadja: she had the same autocratic angle of head, the same sexy walk, the same proud angle of shoulder, but then he realised his mistake. Nadja had long, dark hair that she wore in a coil on her head: this woman had short, dark curls, she was not as tall, she wasn't quite as thin. He shook his head in irritation. Forget her. He'd told himself that a million times since the break-up. A million times.

  He hadn't even loved Nadja, he'd realised that later, but he couldn't help the bitter residue of the affair. Bud had been right about her, she'd been amusing herself with a working man, jetting in from Paris to be with him at weekends, going with him to restaurants that he could afford, declaring that she loved walks in cold and snowy Central Park when she'd just come off the ski slopes of St Moritz. Of course, it hadn't lasted. The fact was, Josh hadn't even been surprised when it was over.

  '... and I said to myself, Marybeth honey, it's time to treat yourself. It's time to stop sacrificing yourself for the common family good. Now, I knew that was selfish, but I simply couldn't bear the idea of spending another two weeks with my brother and sister-in-law. Not that I don't love them. I do, but...'

  The woman had walked the length of the bar to the entrance of the ballroom and then turned, as if she were undecided about entering. She was just as tempting, Josh noticed, from the front as from behind. She had smooth, curved hips beneath the black satin, firm high breasts that did justice to the revealing neckline, a slender, delicate face beneath gleaming dark curls and...

  Good God, but it was Samantha!

  'Josh honey, are you listening to me?'

  'What?—yes, of course I am.

  Samantha changed her mind again, turned back to the entrance of the ballroom and walked in.

  The voice was very Southern. 'I could have sworn you were miles away.'

  . Josh looked at Marybeth's eager face with its big blue eyes and pouting mouth. 'No, I wasn't,' he said gently. 'I was right here in the room with you.'

  Actually, Samantha's nerve had just about abandoned her. Perhaps it was the hurtful memory of that high school gymnasium with its paper flower decorations and her own unfulfilled adolescent fantasies. Or perhaps it was simply the cold and sobering realisation that she was, without escort, about to walk into a party where she knew no one and might not even like the company, a situation that would make even the most confident of adults feel the slightest bit shaky. Whatever it was, her normal poise practically deserted her, and rather than enter the ballroom through its main entrance, she had ducked into the darkened atmosphere of the bar and walked quickly through it without noticing who was there.

  For a brief second, panic overcame every emotion, and Samantha turned to head back to the safe and quite haven of her stateroom. Then, just as quickly as it had overtaken her, the panic subsided and her usual composure returned. What precisely was she afraid of? she asked herself with disgust. Being a wallflower again? Well, suppose she was. Just suppose it happened to her again. Would it make any difference in her life?

  With that thought, she turned back, walked determinedly into the ballroom and headed towards one of the bars, even though she'd never been much of a drinker. She joined a line-up at the bar and turned to watch the band, relaxing a bit and liking their sound, feeling the beat of the music echoing in her own pulse.

  'Well, w
e meet again,' a male voice said in cool tones.

  Samantha turned to find David standing behind her. He was wearing a white dinner jacket and blue slacks and, although the colours suited him, she was struck once again by how plain he looked when he wasn't smiling. And of course, she knew precisely why he wasn't smiling. She knew what lay behind his watchful, cautious glance and his less-than-enthusiastic welcome.

  'David,' she said brightly, 'how are you?'

  But he didn't respond to her smile. 'Fine,' he said flatly, his eyes looking behind her and then to her side. 'What happened to your friend?'

  'He's not a friend.'

  'No, I guessed that.'

  'No, you have it all wrong,' she said with a little laugh to show him that she hadn't taken any offence at his innuendo. 'Josh is someone I'm sharing a stateroom with—by mistake,' she hastened to add.

  The line moved forward. 'Mistake?'

  'It sounds ridiculous. I know, but we were put into the same stateroom through a computer error, and we're stuck there for the moment. I never knew Josh before. We were complete strangers.'

  'Really?' His smile was disbelieving, and Samantha remembered all those 'darlings' and 'sweethearts' that Josh had spread so liberally around during that ill-fated meeting.

  'Really,' she said, and laid her hand on David's sleeve jacket as if by her touch she could convince him. 'I know the way he sounded, but it was a joke. He's a ...' she sought for the right words and came up with, ' ... a practical joker.'

  Perhaps it was her hand lying lightly on his arm or her earnest face that got through to him, but David visibly relaxed, a smile lighting up his blue eyes and making him seem boyish and almost handsome. 'Well, I was fooled all right,' he said slowly. 'I figured you two had come together.'

  'Never!' Samantha said vehemently. 'I don't even like him.'

  They had reached the bar by this time and gave their orders to the bartender for two gin and tonics. Then, when their drinks were made, they walked to David's table and joined a group of people who already knew one another from the dinner seating. Samantha was introduced to Reuben, a tall and dark electrical engineer from Iowa—'I'm divorced,' he said with a grin—Betty, a secretary from Florida who was pretty and plump—'Separated,' she announced—and Marvin, a balding insurance broker from Schenectady who said in a laconic voice, 'Never been hooked.'