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Well, there, that was settled, Samantha said to herself as she said goodbye to the purser and walked on. She'd have her living room, bedroom and bathroom to herself. No more shaving cream by the sink or ties hanging from her closet. No more awkward goodbyes in the morning and embarrassing encounters during the night. Yes, she was quite relieved, she told herself as she arrived at her stateroom door and pulled the key out of her bag.

  And the best part was, she thought as she opened the stateroom door and walked in, that she would no longer have to see Josh. Since she didn't sit with him during meals and no longer shared a room with him, there was no reason why their paths would have to cross except in the most casual way. In fact, on a ship as large as the Princess Marguerita, it was quite possible that she might not see Josh again for the rest of the trip. That was a satisfying thought, wasn't it? For once in her life, things were looking up.

  Yes, everything was now arranged to her utmost satisfaction, which was why she should be elated, ecstatic and ebullient. She should be overjoyed that she had Josh out of her room and her life. She should be just thrilled to pieces that she was back on her own.

  So why wasn't she?

  Samantha didn't know the answer to that question, so she strode angrily over to the bedroom door and flung it open. Instead of being happy, she felt miserable. Instead of luxuriating in her privacy, she felt lonely. Instead of feeling content, she felt restless and irritable. It was as if, by leaving, Josh had unlocked a. Pandora's box in Samantha that she hadn't known existed, letting loose a whole set of unwanted and unexpected and definitely unappealing emotions. And once let out, they raced around inside her, raising such a cacophony of discordant sounds and feelings that the only thing she wanted to do was throw herself head first on the bed and bury her face in her arms.

  And she would have done just that if the sight of her neat and tidy bed had not brought her up short, causing her to stop in her tracks and stand rooted to the carpet. What lay so innocently across the gold counterpane was something quite inoffensive by most people's standards. In fact, in the eyes of many, the item in question would be considered as part of a pleasing, exciting and romantic gesture. But Samantha couldn't feel any of those things. She had the horrible feeling that her mind had somehow been plundered, exposed, laid bare, its silly thoughts and absurd fantasies stripped and revealed for all to see.

  Because, on the bed, was a rose. A long-stemmed scarlet rose. A rose whose velvety petals had opened in a lush, blossoming splendour and whose delicate fragrance filled the air. One lovely, subtle rose.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Samantha had picked up the rose and was staring at it when she was startled by a knock on the stateroom door. Her first and wildest thought was that Josh was there, wanting to find out her reaction to the rose. Her second thought was that she was entirely too fanciful and that it was probably the steward with a new set of towels. She walked through the sitting room, dropping the rose on the table, and opened the door.

  Marybeth stood there. 'Is Josh here?'

  'No, he moved out today.'

  'Mind if I come in?'

  'Of course not.'

  Marybeth limped through the door, flopped down in the chair nearest the door and then stared at her legs, which were stuck out before her.

  'My feet,' she said, 'are killing me.'

  Samantha closed the door. 'What have you been doing?'

  'Jogging—with Reuben. I guess 1 need to have my head examined.' Marybeth threw her head back in weariness. 'Honeybunch, could I impose on you for a little bit of something to drink?'

  'Sure.' Samantha went to the small cupboard that held a tiny bar and refrigerator. 'Alcoholic or non-alcoholic?'

  'Bourbon, if there is any.'

  Samantha found a tiny bottle of Southern Comfort. 'On the rocks?'

  'Straight—heavens, if my mother could hear me, she'd have three heart attacks! She thinks women should stick to mint juleps.'

  'Here you are,' said Samantha, passing on the drink, then sitting down on the sofa.

  'I really don't believe in drinking before the sun's over the yardarm, but there are times and circumstances...' Marybeth said ominously, giving Samantha a meaningful glance over the edge of her glass. 'Well, here's to nothing.' She took a sip of her Bourbon and then noticed the rose on the table between them. 'Why, isn't this nice,' she added, picking it up. 'Who sent you roses?'

  'A rose,' Samantha corrected, 'and I don't know who it was. It was here without a note.'

  Marybeth immediately perked up. 'I just love a man who's mysterious, don't you?'

  'Only when 1 know who he is,' Samantha said drily.

  'Well, who do you think sent it?'

  'I. : . Josh, I suppose.'

  Marybeth's blue eyes widened. 'Why on earth would Josh send you a rose? I thought you two didn't get along.'

  Samantha cleared her throat. 'Well, we don't exactly.'

  'And besides, he's hooked up with that redhead. She moved in so fast that no one else had a chance.' Marybeth gave a dramatic sigh. 'I tried, you know.'

  'I... I thought Josh might have sent the rose, because we shared...' Samantha paused and then said delicately, 'a room.'

  Marybeth didn't notice her hesitation. 'So?' she asked.

  'Well, he might have wanted to say "thank you",' Samantha replied hesitantly, 'or something like that.'

  'But one single rose. It says more than that.'

  'It does?'

  'Absolutely,' said Marybeth with conviction. 'Why, one rose is so understated and so delicate a touch that no man would send it just because he shared a room with a woman. No, I don't see that at all.'

  'You don't?'

  'Heavens, no. Now, listen to me, Samantha, the man who sent you that rose is absolutely nuts about you.'

  Samantha stared at the rose that Marybeth was twirling in her fingers. 'Then who sent it to me?' she asked.

  'You mean you don't know?'

  'No.'

  'Samantha, you aren't seeing the forest for the trees! Why, it's David, of course.'

  'David!'

  'Who else?'

  Samantha tried to imagine David sending her that rose and failed. She could see him sending her a dozen roses; she could see them arriving with a carefully penned love note. What she could not envisage was David having enough imagination to send a single rose without a message. He was far too careful for that, and far too determined to let Samantha know exactly what he wanted. He had intelligence, a sense of humour, and a fair amount of machismo, but he didn't have subtlety. None at all.

  'I don't think David sent that rose,' she said.

  'He's crazy about you.'

  'He doesn't...'Samantha tried to find a word that would describe how she felt about David. 'He isn't poetic enough.'

  'You could do a lot worse than David, honeychile. Oh, I'll admit that he isn't the most exciting man around, but he's kind and considerate and he wants you. That's a lot more than you can say about any other man on this boat. If it were me, I'd snap him up so fast your head would be spinning right into tomorrow.' Marybeth gave another sigh. 'Instead, I have to put up with Reuben, who just blows hot and cold. You know what I'd like to do with that man? I'd like to...'

  But Samantha never got a chance to find out what Marybeth would do if she ever got her hands on an elusive Reuben. There was a knock at the door, and this time it was the steward, armed with a new set of towels, a change of linen, and refills for her drinks cabinet.

  Marybeth stood up, stretched and yawned. 'I'd better get ready for dinner,' she said. 'Are you going to the casino tonight?'

  'The casino?' queried Samantha.

  'At the Hotel Athena. They're waiving entrance fees for passengers of the Princess Marguerita.'

  'I guess I'll go,' said Samantha.

  'See you later, then,' Marybeth said as she walked towards the door. 'And thanks for the Bourbon.'

  'It was a pleasure.'

  'And you think about that rose some more. I really do think David sent it.'


  Samantha wasn't quite sure what exactly it was about Marybeth that aroused her suspicions. It might have been that last little bit of persuasion or the tone of her voice or a strange expression in her wide blue eyes. Whatever it was, it was enough for her to ask slowly, 'Did you suggest to David that he send me a rose?'

  Marybeth turned. 'Why, Samantha, whatever gave you that idea?'

  'Marybeth,' Samantha said ominously, 'did you?'

  'Cross my heart,' said Marybeth in a solemn voice, making a crossing gesture over her T-shirted chest, 'I never did.' And then with a quick little wave and a hurried step out of the door, she added, 'See you later.'

  Samantha wished she could have put Marybeth up in the witness box and have her swear on the Bible that she was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because she knew without a doubt that the girl was up to something that was not quite kosher. She had questioned too many witnesses not to have an instinct when someone was lying or half-lying or only telling a part of the truth. Still, she thought, there was another way of getting to the bottom of the matter, and she turned to the steward who was putting the refills of drinks in her cabinet.

  'Did you deliver a rose here?' she asked.

  'Yes, ma'am, I did.'

  'Who sent it?'

  'It just came down from the flower shop.'

  She didn't want to ask, but she had to. 'With instructions to put it on the bed?'

  If the steward thought there was anything unusual in delivering flowers to a lady's boudoir and laying them across something so suggestive of sexual excess as a bed, he gave no sign of it. 'Yes,' he said solemnly, 'those were the instructions.'

  But a phone call later to the flower shop didn't clear up the ambiguities. The proprietress couldn't give Samantha any information because she'd only just come on duty and, as for the sales clerk earlier—well, she had to apologise, bur that was her sister who lived on Rhodes and had come aboard just for the morning so that the proprietress could visit her sick mother. And no, the flower hadn't been put on anyone's room bill. The sales slip showed that the customer had paid cash. She was terribly sorry if there was some mix-up, and she could get hold of her sister the next day if it was absolutely necessary and...

  'No,' said Samantha, 'it doesn't matter all that much. I was just curious. Thanks anyway.'

  'Kali andamosi.'

  'Goodbye.'

  As she put the telephone receiver down in its cradle, Samantha realised that she was now left with one item of incriminating evidence, no witnesses, an unknown motive and possibly a secret admirer. She picked up the rose that Marybeth had dropped on the table and looked at it for a long time as if the curved scarlet petals, the drooping stamens, the delicate gold beads of pollen could answer all the questions for her. Then, with a sigh, she put it down and began to dress for the evening.

  But Samantha changed her mind and never did go to the casino that night. Instead of putting on the red dress she had pulled out of the closet, she dressed simply in a grey pair of slacks, a white blouse, and a grey and pink sweater that she threw over her shoulders in case the night got chilly. She ran a comb quickly through her dark curls and put only the slightest bit of make-up beneath her eyes. Despite the healthy tan she had developed, she looked tired, a little fragile, thinner than she'd been. She stared at her face in the bathroom mirror and saw that the extra loss of weight had put slight hollows in her cheeks.

  She thought it unattractive, not realising that it made her eyes appear larger, her mouth more vulnerable, the width of her brow more delicate beneath her cap of dark curls.

  When she had finished dressing, she quickly left the boat and took to the streets of Rhodes, walking past the Hotel Athena where elegantly dressed guests poured in through the front doors, past the cafes with their chattering clientele, past the numerous boutiques with their outdoor displays. She walked and walked, wanting to divert herself from her thoughts and lose herself in the shifting crowd. The first task was going to take some effort, but the second was easily accomplished. It didn't seem to matter to Rhodians that it was already nine at night; the street lamps were blazing so that it could have been daylight, and the streets were full of light-hearted partygoers and inquisitive tourists. The restaurants were full, and the boutiques were doing a rip-roaring business.

  Samantha walked through the crowds, trying to fight off what she had learned about herself without any apparent success. It had been her decision about the casino that had suddenly exposed the shameful secret. She hadn't gone for two reasons. For one thing, she wasn't a gambler at heart. Secondly, she knew everyone else was going to be there, David included, and she had an extreme reluctance to see him again. Part of it was that she didn't know how she was going to fight off his advances with tact and gentleness any more. The other part was that she was truly afraid he would admit to having sent her the rose. While it would be nice to clear up the mystery, the knowledge that David was behind it would have disappointed Samantha immensely. To her horror, she had discovered that she much preferred to think Josh had made that romantic gesture.

  And why is that? a little voice inside had asked her, and she couldn't ignore it no matter how hard she tried. The truth was that she was intrigued by Josh, she was fascinated by Josh and, yes, she wanted Josh. There it was. Admitted to. Out in the open. Despite everything he had put her through, despite every maddening statement and outrageous action, despite his obvious connection with the beautiful Helen, Samantha wanted him in a way she had never wanted anyone else. And nothing she could do altered the way she felt. She could talk to herself like a sympathetic but severe Dutch uncle, and it made no difference. She could become furious with herself, and it didn't matter one iota. For all her intelligence, her logic, and her control, she had, she realised, succumbed to one of nature's most basic impulses—raw physical desire.

  It was humiliating, Samantha thought, as she wandered through the throng of tourists, a frown creasing her forehead, to discover that her mind had so little control over... well, to put it delicately— her matter. She had always believed that she was above such things, that she was too cool, too much in charge of her life. That had certainly been the case when she and Marshall had been lovers. Their relationship had been based less on physical desire than on a shared set of interests, classes and ambitions. They had studied together in law school, both being fascinated by contract law, and had even applied to many of the same legal firms after they had passed the bar. The attitude that had most characterised their affair had been one of detachment.

  The irony was that Samantha had thought, at the time, that she was in love with Marshall and that he was in love with her. She had liked him from the first day of classes when he had sat behind her, a tall young man with reddish-brown hair and a sweet smile. Events had thrown them together, and the inevitable had occurred. Because their interests were so closely allied, they took more and more of the same classes. They were both asked to be on the staff of the college law review. Finally, in their third year of law school, they were put on to a huge project that involved hours of time together; weekends, evenings, meals. Then their housing arrangements fell apart. Samantha's room-mate had left school, leaving Samantha with the burden of too much rent; Marshall's room-mate planned to get married and wanted him to move out. It seemed only logical that they should join forces, share Samantha's rent and live together. Nobody in the outside world would have believed they weren't sleeping together before that, but the fact remained that their affair did not truly begin until after Marshall had moved into Samantha's apartment.

  When she looked back on her relationship with Marshall, she could see how blind she had been to reality. Their sexual joining had more to do with convenience and propinquity than it had to do with love, desire or passion. Not having anything to measure it by, she had assumed that she and Marshall were in love. Oh, she'd been well aware that they weren't wildly infatuated with one another, but that hadn't seemed to matter at the time. They were so compatible mentally and temper
amentally that she had never questioned the lukewarm tenor of their affair. In fact, both she and Marshall had even prided themselves on how different they were from their friends who had tempestuous and tumultuous love affairs. But all that cool emotion had only masked a truth that Samantha had not understood until years afterwards when she and Marshall had gone their separate ways—that there hadn't been love between them at all, just an intellectual friendship that hadn't even managed to survive the passing of time.

  She stopped at a corner to wait while a car passed and thought how humbling it was to realise that she was no different from anyone else. She had always looked down her nose at women who let their emotions run their lives, who went into swoons over men, who spent hours agonising over their love affairs. She had thought she was above all that nonsense, but of course, she wasn't at all. The minute Josh had entered her life, the Samantha she had known had disappeared, and in her place was a woman of violent and infinitely changeable emotions. When she should have been reasonable, she had trembled with an unbelievable fury. When she should have resisted, she had succumbed with an overwhelming passion. And this new Samantha had been so naive that it had taken her this long to figure out what would have been obvious to anyone else long ago—that all the emotion boiled down to one simple fact—she wanted to go to bed with Josh Sinclair.

  At least, she was still pragmatic enough, she thought as she stepped across the street, not to elevate this blatant physical urge with something as noble and as edifying as love. She wasn't that sentimental or romantic. What she felt was really very common and, while it couldn't exactly be ignored, it was possible that she could make some effort to act as if it didn't exist. She could, for example, start jogging around the boat's deck. She could take long sightseeing tours at every destination. She could torture herself with extremely cold showers. Whatever she did, it was clear that, one way or the other, she would have to suppress this unwanted physical longing. After all, Josh was already involved with another woman: in fact, they were probably sleeping together in Josh's new stateroom. Samantha allowed her vivid imagination to play that scene like a set of film takes. Josh with Helen in his arms. Josh and Helen in bed. Josh and Helen tangled together and ... Samantha had thought she could toughen herself with these images, but they were so agonisingly painful that she quickly shut her eyes.