Beyond Reach. Sandra Field

vacationing in British Virgin Islands requires a massage therapist for month of April. Excellent salary and comfortable quarters in hillside villa in Tortola.

      The ad had been placed in March, when winter had been at its worst in Ottawa. Dirty snowbanks edging all the streets. Gray, overcast skies. Not a blossom to be seen anywhere… only the dull, dispirited green of pine and spruce trees that had been battered by frigid winds since December. No wonder she had jumped at the chance of warmth and color and sunshine! To top it all off, she’d been ill for nearly a month, miserably ill, with a flu virus that had clung to her as tenaciously as the patches of ice had clung to the front steps of her apartment building. She had craved a change of scene, a break in her routine. Something different and exciting.

      Her lips twisted wryly. Well, she’d certainly gotten that. Rather more than she’d bargained for. Shutting from her mind the ugly little scene that had been played out in the spacious hallway of the hillside villa, she firmed her mouth and tried hard to think in a manner of which her elder sister Marcia would approve.

      She could go to the police station, explain what a fool she’d made of herself, trust that they would help her get her luggage back and then head for the airport. Her return fare, luckily, was an open ticket, prepaid by Mr Blogden. She could fly out on the first available seat and go back to Ottawa. Because her mother was right. She, Lucy, had worked extremely hard over the last four years to build her reputation and steady list of clients, and it was irresponsible of her to jeopardize everything she had struggled so long to establish.

      She got up. The police station was only a few blocks away. The worst part would be the explanation of why she had fled the Blogden villa at high noon minus her luggage. After that, she’d be home free.

      She should go home. Of course she should. Even though she’d finally paid off the last of her student debts, she had her eye on a little house in the country outside Ottawa. If she was going to take on a mortgage she had to do everything in her power to ensure a regular income.

      She didn’t want to live in the city for the rest of her life. Her good friend Sally thought she should stay there so she’d meet more men; the countryside was devoid of eligible males, according to Sally. But, for now, Lucy was through with men. Big blond men who weren’t there when she needed them. The only kind she ever seemed to be attracted to.

      A woman in a colorful sarong skirt was approaching the bench. Lucy collected her wandering thoughts; this wasn’t the time or the place to deal with her problems with the opposite sex. Perhaps this woman could direct her to the police station.

      Then, from the corner of her eye, Lucy saw a flock of gulls rise in the sky over the moored yachts. She stood still, her gaze following the graceful curves they were inscribing against the depthless blue of the heavens, where the rays of the sun made the flashing white wings translucent. Their cries were like the cackling of a coven of witches, mocking her decision. Making nonsense of it.

      Responsible. Sensible. Should. Ought. Horrible words, Lucy thought blankly. Words that had ruled her life for as long as she could remember.

      The woman in the sarong skirt had already walked past her. In sheer panic Lucy made a small gesture with her hand, as though to call her back. Then her hand fell to her side. Feeling her heart pounding in her chest, she knew that somehow she had made a decision. A momentous decision. She wasn’t going back. She was going to walk down the dock and find Seawind and do her level best to get herself signed on as cook and crew.

      Rubbing her damp palms down her skirt, she fastened the image of the gulls in her mind’s eye like a talisman and crossed the road. The sign was still there, its black letters every bit as forceful as she remembered them. There was an urgency behind the words, she decided thoughtfully. Whoever had written them was desperate. Good. All the more chance that he’d hire her. That she’d have four weeks at sea. Four weeks to figure out why the job she’d worked so hard to create had swallowed her up in the process. Four weeks to try and understand why she was always drawn to the wrong kind of menhandsome, blond, sexy, undependable men.

      Four weeks to have fun?

      She suddenly found that she was smiling. Taking a deep breath, Lucy marched down the dock.

      She passed Lady Jane, Wanderer, Marliese and Trident. Then she stopped in her tacks, feeling her heart leap in her ribcage. Seawind was painted white with dark green trim, her furled headsail edged in green, the bimini awning over the cockpit a matching green. She was beautiful. Wonderfully and utterly beautiful.

      ‘Can I help you?’

      Lucy jumped. A bemused smile still on her face, she turned to face the man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. He was standing on the dock four or five feet away from her, wearing a faded blue T-shirt and navy shorts. For a moment, knocked off balance, Lucy thought she must have conjured him up out of her imagination, for he was big, blond, handsome and sexy— exactly the kind of man who had become anathema to her over the last few months. The kind she was intent on avoiding at any cost. ‘Oh, no. No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for the skipper of Seawind actually.’

      ‘Are you applying for the job?’

      None of your business, thought Lucy. ‘Yes, I am.’ With a sudden clutch of dismay she said, ‘It’s not filled, is it?’

      ‘No. What are your qualifications?’

      ‘I think I should leave that for the skipper, don’t you?’ she said sweetly.

      ‘I’m Seawind’s skipper.’

      Then why didn’t you say so in the first place? Lucy thought crossly. And why in heaven’s name did you have to be big and blond and overpoweringly masculine? Smothering the words before she could speak them, she held out her hand with her most professional smile. ‘I’m Lucy Barnes.’

      His grip was strong, his own smile perfunctory. ‘Troy Donovan. Tell me your qualifications.’

      He had every right to ask; he was, after all, the skipper. She said calmly, ‘Would you mind if we went on board? I’m not used to the sun and I’m not wearing any sunscreen.’ Her sunscreen, along with everything else, was back at the villa.

      After a fractional hesitation he said, ‘Go ahead.’

      She stepped from the dock to the transom of the boat called Seawind, and without being asked slipped her feet out of her sandals before stepping on to the teak deck. The bimini cast a big square of shade. The wood was warm and smooth under her bare soles. She had to get this job, Lucy thought, determination coursing along her veins. She had to. Waiting until Troy Donovan had positioned himself across from her, she said, ‘For nearly four years, as a teenager, I spent all my free time sailing. Daysailers, Lasers, and then as crew on a forty-five foot sloop not unlike this in design.’

      He said edgily, ‘Would you mind taking off your sunglasses? I like to see the person I’m talking to.’

      She pushed her glasses up into her hair. Her eyes were her best feature—thick-lashed and set under brows like dark wings. Beautifully shaped eyes, that hovered between gray and blue and bore tiny rust flecks that echoed the rich, polished brown of her hair. Her face had character rather than conventional prettiness: her chin pointed but firm, her nose with a slight imperious hook to it. To the discerning eye it was a face hinting at inner conflicts, for, while her lips were soft and her smile warm, a guardedness in her eyes hinted that she might withhold more than she gave.

      Troy Donovan said abruptly, ‘How old are you now?’

      ‘Twenty-five.’

      ‘Haven’t you sailed since then?’

      Unerringly he had found her weakest point. ‘No—I’ve lived in Ottawa for many years. But I’ve never forgotten anything I learned, I know I haven’t.’

      ‘Where did you do your sailing?’

      ‘Canada. Out of Vancouver.’

      ‘So you don’t know these waters at all?’

      She