"Yours," she whispered. "I own a quarter-share of this ship; or at least I will do; and so far I've only seen the inside of two staterooms. Mine's "Wind". What's yours?"
"Moon," he whispered back. "Come along, I'll show you. Just let me order another bottle of champagne before we go. I'm developing a taste for your Perrier-Jouet."
"I'll be drunk," Catriona murmured, close to his ear. "I'll be totally helpless." She felt warm and giggly and completely feminine, and when he kissed her forehead and her cheek and the bridge of her nose, she could feel that she was already ready for him. Hadn't she been ready for him the moment he had first kissed her? Hadn't she fet that tingling urgency the very first time he had touched her hand? Moist as the opening buds of a horse-chestnut tree.
She had fallen for him. She knew it, although she also knew that she was probably being very silly. He was rich, vain, and unquestionably the most scandalous womaniser on both sides of the Atlantic, not to mention right in the middle of it. Hadn't he carelessly jilted Marcia Conroy right in front of everybody—the very girl he had brought along as his companion?
Still, the worst she could suffer would be a broken heart; and after the constant niceness of Nigel, she had something of a hunger for the agonies and the delights of a passionate romance. She felt a need for danger, an almost self-destructive desire to hurl herself right in front of an emotional express.
Mark unlocked the door of his stateroom, and guided Catriona inside. All the table-lamps were lit, and John Crombey was sitting at Mark's bureau, immaculately dressed in white tie and tails, poring through pages and pages of company accounts.
"Good morning, John," said Mark loudly.
"Oh," blinked John. "Good morning." He glanced up at Catriona, and began to shuffle his papers into a tidy stack. "I was hoping we have an early meeting on the Cleveland problem."
"Well, sure," Mark told him, tiredly peeling off his tailcoat. "But it depends what you mean by early. As far as I'm concerned, it's I'll late."
"I was hoping now."
"I'm sorry, old buddy. You're going to have to hope again."
John Crombey sighed, and then stood up, swaying a little with the hesitant roll of the Arcadia" decks. "We're losing a whole lot a money on that Cleveland loading operation," he said sharply. "Twenty, maybe thirty thousand. We're going to have to revise our ideas from the basement upwards."
"Let's talk about it later, shall we?" said Mark.
"Okay," agreed John Crombey. "I think I could do with a couple hours" sleep in any case."
"When John Crombey had left, and closed the door behind himself three times, Mark tugged off his patent-leather evening pumps and walked across to the bar in his stockinged feet. Catriona untied the straps of her shoes, too, and arranged herself on the curving half-moon-shaped sofa.
"Champagne?" Mark asked her. She nodded.
Mark's staterooms were as lavishly decorated as her own: only the style was far more masculine. The theme of "The Moon" was expressed in silvered leather chairs, a midnight-blue carpet that was sprinkled with galaxies of hand-woven stars, and walls that were panelled in brushed steel and white enamel. On the bureau stood a white ceramic statuette of "Her Highness, The Moon" by Francois-Louis Schmied, a naked girl with a cloak that curved like the moon and a headdress of stars.
"You know that your Mr. Deacon heartily disapproves of us being together," said Mark, bringing over two tall tulip glasses brimming with cold champagne. He sat down beside her, unbuttoning his white vest.
"I don't blame him," Catriona replied. "He's quite sure that you're going to inveigle me into selling the Arcadia to American TransAtlantic."
"And you don't think that I might have exactly that intention?"
"If you do, you won't get much joy out of me. I haven't got the slightest intention of selling anything to anybody at the moment. I'm enjoying myself too much."
Mark touched the fine crystal rim of his champagne glass against hers. "I'll drink to that," he said. "But just bear in mind that you won't enjoy yourself too much if Keys goes bankrupt."
"Who says it's going to?" Catriona replied, with mock-sharpness.
Mark smiled. "Come on, Catriona, it's common knowledge in the shipping business. Everybody knows that Keys is hanging on by its fingernails. You don't think I haven't noticed all those merchant bankers and financiers on board? The smoking room was like a creditors" meeting when they auctioned the ship's pool last night. If you ask me, most of them were bidding because they believed it was the only chance they were ever going to get of recouping some of their investment."
Catriona sat up straight. "You don't have to be cheesy about it."
"Who's being cheesy? I'm being realistic. You may own twenty-five per cent of a major shipping line, kiddo, but the banks own you. Didn't you notice that O'Hara fellow, from the Eire Credit Bank? Every time anybody took a second helping of caviar, he winced. He was working out just how much it was all going to cost him, spoonful by spoonful."
Catriona felt suddenly bothered, and hot. She knew that Mark was right, but she didn't want to talk, about it, especially now, and especially to him. The whole fun of meeting Mark Beeney had been that they both owned shipping lines, and that she had been able to believe that she was at least his equal (if not his better, since the Arcadia looked as if she was going to be such a success). But now—whether he was doing it intentionally or not—Mark was casually picking away at Catriona's glamour. There wasn't much ritz in being Queen of the Atlantic if her realm was seen to be irrevocably in hock.
She climbed off the half-moon sofa and went across to the porthole. Mark watched her, quietly sipping his champagne, as she drew back the star-sewn drapes and stared out at the morning sunshine. The Atlantic was sparkling so brightly that it brought tears to her eyes; but even after she had let the curtains fall back, she didn't turn around.
"You're here for the same reason as George Welterman, then?" Catriona asked.
"I'm not sure I understand you."
"You're here for the pickings? You're here to buy up what's left of my father's ambitions?"
"I'm here to enjoy myself, that's all. But obviously I'm interested if I can do a deal."
Catriona turned on him. "Thirty-five thousand dollars for a necklace? An orchid before dinner? Soft talk and late dancing? Is that what you call doing a deal?"
Mark grinned. "Not personally. I'd just call it being romantic."
"Have you made a bid for the Arcadia since my father died?"
"Listen, Catriona, this conversation is getting way off beam. I didn't bring you back here to talk business."
"Oh, I see. You just brought me back here to soften me up."
"I brought you back here because I think you're beautiful, and unusual, and attractive; and you have a whole lot more sex appeal than any other shipping line owner I know."
"So that's it. No credit, no liquidity, but plenty of sex appeal." She felt so furious now that she banged her champagne glass down on the white-topped table next to her, and folded her arms tightly. It was a gesture not only of trying to hold in her anger, but also of closing herself against Mark. "I knew I was being stupid when I first let you kiss me. Now I know I was being stupid."
"Catriona, please," Mark appealed to her. "You're getting yourself upset over nothing. I'm not softening you up. Nothing like it. I like you, and I want to be with you, and that's all there is to it."
"You still haven't answered my question, though, have you?"
"What question?"
"You still haven't told me if you made a bid for the Arcadia after my father died."
Mark stood up, and walked across to Catriona with one hand deep in his pants pocket and the other held guardedly in front of his mouth. He looked at her for a long while, his eyes careful and thoughtful and a little hurt. His mother-of-pearl collar stud had come loose, and his collar was sticking out sideways so that he looked like a very wealthy urchin, a street Arab who had unexpectedly come into money. She was resisting him as fiercely as she could: but she still couldn't deny to herself that he was madly arousing.