‘My name’s Ramón Cavellero,’ he said, sounding not in the least perturbed by her outburst. ‘I’m very trustworthy.’ And he smiled in a way that told her he wasn’t trustworthy in the least. ‘I’m sailing on the Marquita. You’ve seen her?’

Had she seen her? Every person in Seaport had seen the Marquita. The big yacht’s photograph had been on the front of their local paper when she’d come into port four days ago. With good reason. Quite simply she was the most beautiful boat Jenny had ever seen.

And probably the most expensive.

If this guy was captaining the Marquita then maybe he had the funds to pay a reasonable wage. That was an insidious little whisper in her head, but she stomped on it before it had a chance to grow. There was no way she could walk away from this place. Not for years.

She had to be sensible.

‘Look, Mr Cavellero, this has gone far enough,’ she said, and she turned back to face him directly. ‘You have the most beautiful boat in the harbour. You can have your pick of any deckie in the market-I know a dozen kids at least who would kill to be on that boat. But, as for me… My friend was making a joke but that’s all it was. Thank you and goodbye.’

She reached out and took his hand, to give it a good firm handshake, as if she was a woman who knew how to transact business, as if she should be taken seriously. He took it, she shook, but, instead of pulling away after one brief shake, she found he was holding on.

Or maybe it was that she hadn’t pulled back as she’d intended.

His hand was strong and warm and his grip as decisive as hers. Or more. Two strong wills, she thought fleetingly, but more…

But then, before she could think any further, she was aware of a car sliding to a halt beside them. She glanced sideways and almost groaned.

Charlie.