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She took another look at her reflection, knew that Sam, too, would be appalled at the mess she looked, and decided it was time to do something positive about her situation. No good waiting around for help. Tucking her shirt more tidily into her jeans and lifting her chin with new resolve, she found the nearest cloakroom where she could start by washing her hands and face. It would have been lovely to apply some make-up, but she had to make do with biting her lips to give them colour. Damp fingers through her hair achieved a bit more improvement.

Next stop was the tourist office she had seen nearby, and there she learned that there were five Consular offices in Horta, none of them British. When she told her story it was received with obvious scepticism and she was advised to try either the Passport Control Office, the police station or the Club Naval da Horta, though they doubted whether the latter would be able to do anything. In other words, they thought she was trying to pull a fast one, suggesting that the police station was really her best bet. Rather than have the humiliation of being refused admission to the Club Naval da Horta, she decided to take their advice.

The police station was about two blocks away. A girl in the tourist office came outside with Minella and pointed out the Matriz church, telling her to head in that direction. When she passed a supermarket on the way she stood at the door and looked longingly inside, like a child with empty pockets glueing its nose to a sweetshop window. There were so many things she wanted to buy.

It was fairly easy to find a policeman who spoke English.

‘I want to find out how I can contact my brother quickly,’ she said to him. ‘He’s on a yacht called
Delphine Rose
which was taking part in the Westerly Cup race. I was washed overboard last week in the storm, and there’s been such a mix-up.’

‘You have your
passaporte?'
the policeman asked, without much interest.

‘No, I haven’t anything. I told you, I was washed overboard from a yacht.’

He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You are here without a
passaporte
, and no money?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It is all very irregular. A ... tall story.’

‘I know how it must sound, but it’s true. You must believe me!’ Minella was getting het up. ‘That’s why I’ve got to find my brother, so that he can come and take me home. You see, we thought he was dead, but now I know he can’t be. It was a different yacht ’

‘What is your name?’ The policeman was making some half-hearted notes.

‘Minella Farmer.’

He put down his pen impatiently. ‘Why did you not say that first?’ he demanded. ‘Mr Stafford has already been informed of the messages from Mr Farmer that he is on his way here. Until he arrives Mr Stafford is responsible for you, and I think it better if you stay where he can keep an eye on you. Without a
passaporte
it would not do for you to get into trouble.’

Minella was seething. How dared the man talk to her as if she was a vagrant, policeman or not! He made her so furious she hadn’t yet digested the important part of what he’d said.

‘If there’s news about my brother I want to hear it direct, not have it passed on to me through someone else,’ she said, the authoritative tone conflicting with her appearance, making the policeman scrutinise her afresh. ‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give me the details, as I’m not staying with Mr Stafford any more.'

'Your position here is difficult, Mees Farmer. I understand how you feel, but without Mr Stafford’s guarantee of your good conduct it would be even more difficult, and
you
must understand us. We wish to help. Now, if you wait I will telephone the Border Authorities and ask them to repeat the message for you, but I strongly advise you to return to Mr Stafford’s custody.'

'Custody? I’m not under age, and I object to having Sam Stafford as some sort of guardian!’

‘Wait, please,’ he said, his calm voice unchanged, unimpressed, and he sauntered away to another office.

A shaft of light split the gloom, a million dust particles dancing along it as the door opened and disturbed„ the air. Some yachtsmen came in, and Minella was tempted to approach them in the hope they might be English, but when they spoke together it was in a guttural language she didn’t recognise, possibly Scandinavian. They were welcomed with smiles. If the policeman who spoke English had smiled it would have made all the difference. Suddenly she dreaded him coming back, and without questioning the wisdom of the move she darted outside, like one of Fagin’s pickpockets waiting for the right moment to escape from the law. It had been claustrophobic in there.

She waited a moment on the pavement, having used evasive tactics for the second time in less than an hour, and wondered what her third predicament would be. It didn’t take long to find out.

She was very tired, but an obstinate streak in her cast tiredness aside in the determination to continue her own investigations. She would find the Border authorities, whoever they might be, and find out exactly what was going on.

Elation at having Greg’s safety confirmed was tempered now with irritation at the way things had been handled, and as she started retracing her steps to the harbour her mood became progressively worse until she was very angry indeed. And it was Sam who was at the core of that anger. Sam had had word from the Border authorities about Greg, yet he hadn’t told her, and she had gone on grieving for her brother when there was no need. How could he possibly be so cruel? Oh, what a detestable man! To think she had been softening towards him only a short time ago, when he was capable of such treachery. Whatever reason could he have had for withholding such wonderful news, knowing how much Greg meant to her? She could only think of one. He had wanted to keep her at the cottage long enough to make her yield, and this morning’s brutal kissing had been just the start. She touched her lips experimentally, and set them tingling at the memory. No one had ever kissed her like that before, and the force he had used was an insult, bitterness the only emotion. Well, he hadn’t won. It was a good thing she’d had the sense to get away.

'Oh, Greg, thank God you’re safe,’ she murmured. ‘Just hurry up and get me out of this mess!’

So involved were her thoughts she didn’t notice she had missed the turning to the harbour and was walking along a road lined on either side with white houses. Past a church on the left with the twin towers and patterns on the white fa
ç
ade in grey lava stone that she had come to recognise. Her feet were dragging with exhaustion and she had no idea where she was heading, so she could hardly believe her eyes when, at the end of the street, she came to a completely different bay with lovely old houses edging close to the sea. A huge moon, red as a watermelon, hung above the rooftops preparing to take off into the darkening sky, and it touched the purple-black sea with fire. This was the old whaling port of Pirn, almost enclosed by two volcanic cones, and Minella stood and stared. The two bays had only a ribbon of land between them, threaded with a few dozen houses.

She wandered a little way further, with visions of spending the night on a bench, then she sank down on a bollard to rest and reassess her position. The police knew she was in Horta without money or a
passaporte
, so they wouldn’t be too pleased if they found her sleeping rough. She wouldn’t like it herself, either, but where was there to go? She hadn’t a clue what had happened to Vasco, and didn’t relish the thought of trying to trace Sam, even if she knew how to start.
He
seemed to be well known to the police, too, she thought. The policeman had mentioned his name as though he was quite a celebrity, a respected citizen to whom they would entrust a harmless alien without papers, apparently.

Thinking of Sam, she lifted her eyes and glanced idly at the nearest houses. One of them, large and attractive, appeared to be a studio with the front window extended to display size, and as she looked the door beside it opened, producing a golden oblong of light in the semidarkness. Two people came out. Minella darted to the shadows, intuition warning her that this was about to become predicament number three. She was right. The girl in the doorway was an elegant brunette with long hair and a tall, graceful figure. The man, on whom she bestowed an infatuated smile, was Sam.

Minella’s heart tilted, capered erratically, then righted itself. He didn’t return the smile, or seem aware of its content which had been obvious even at a distance, but the girl took his arm and Minella blinked hard to try and dispel the scene. Sam’s hard, muscular arm crooked to accommodate the possessive hand, and the unwilling spectator in the shadows felt strangely sick. For someone who didn’t like women, Sam Stafford exuded a strong magnetism, attracting them without any effort, and Minella remembered how quickly she had felt the lure of it herself.

They were coming towards her and she flattened herself against the wall. He was talking to the girl in Portuguese, but his voice had the same low, seductive ring calculated to set the spine tingling and blood racing through the veins. Oh, he was a master of philandering! She wished she knew what he was saying, then was glad she didn’t. Inexplicable tears stung her eyes and she would have given anything to be beautiful like the Azorean girl. Sam’s car was parked at the end of the road and he opened the door for her, then got in himself and drove off.

Minella came back into the light, her temples throbbing and a pain in her heart she had never experienced before as she stared after the departing car in forlorn confusion. Part of her wanted to make a rude sign with her fingers, but the sigh that escaped her was pure despair at not being able to fathom the true direction of her feelings.

She was sitting on the bollard again when a motorbike buzzed round the corner like an angry hornet attacking her eardrums. She covered her ears with her hands as Vasco screeched to a stop beside her, exhaust fumes belching into the soft air which a few minutes previously had retained the girl’s heady perfume.

‘Where have you been?’ Vasco demanded. ‘I ask you to wait and when I look for you you are not there. Why?’ His handsome young face was clouded with annoyance.

‘I
did
wait,’ said Minella, and she told him what had happened, matching his temper because she was in no mood to make allowances. She was relieved to see him, but that didn’t make his long disappearance excusable.

‘You didn’t even buy me a drink, and I’d no money to buy one,’ she finished. ‘It made me feel ridiculous.’

He was contrite. ‘I am sorry—I did not think. I was in a hurry to get something important and it was more difficult than I think, but I have it now.’ He gave a triumphant grin which dispelled the frown. ‘Also I have brought wine, to make up for my mistake. Come, we have only a little way to go and then everything will be all right.’

Minella clambered back on the motorbike, trying not to think of Sam’s girl-friend stepping elegantly into his car, and she giggled. Vasco was fun, which was more than could be said of Sam, and if she was taking bets on who was likely to spend the happiest evening she knew which way she would gamble. She rested her cheek against Vasco’s back and juddered along with her eyes closed, uncaring where he planned to take her because anywhere was better than having no place to go. Or so she thought, in that moment of temporary respite.

Vasco slowed down and turned right, off the road. The surface was now uneven and the jarring so unpleasant she sat up straight and looked around. They were driving round the harbour, perilously near the edge of the quay, and he took no notice of fishermen who shook fists at him as he bounced over the cobbles, just laughed in high humour. Further along, the harbour arm stretched protectively across the bay and he continued on to where yachts were tied. There was a feeling of unreality about the caper, heightened by the sight of strange paintings on the wall appearing bright and almost frightening in the headlight. He pulled up beside a large power cruiser and dismounted.

‘You see,’ said Vasco proudly, ‘I had to get permission before I could use the boat, and I could not find my friend, but it is all right.’

Minella looked at the boat, and back to Vasco. ‘You mean we’re going on board?’

Minella worked for a company near Brighton who made dinghies, but she also knew a lot about the expensive side of the trade and recognised the worth of the cruiser, which was all of thirty-two feet long. Vasco certainly had wealthy friends. It was a beautiful boat.

Vasco stepped on board and uncovered the hatch, but she didn’t follow. There were nervous butterflies playing havoc with her inside and she clasped her hands together tightly when he stretched out one of his to help her.

‘I don’t think we should, Vasco. I’ve got a funny feeling....’

‘You do not trust me?’ he asked, offended.

‘Of course I do, but... this place ... it doesn’t seem right.’ She glanced at the wall where the moon shone on the painted stones, and all the yacht owners who had decorated them over the years seemed to be warning her not to fall in with the smiling boy. Vasco was a rogue. He was inviting her aboard a borrowed boat, the bag he had taken from the panier of his bike clanking with bottles, and only a fool would misjudge his intentions. Hadn’t she flown from Sam Stafford because he had tried to take advantage, and yet here she was inviting trouble. She hung back.

‘Minella Sparrow, I will not hurt you,’ he laughed. His tone was light and he was making fun of her hesitation. ‘What harm is there in cooking a meal and eating it in comfort? Much better than a bar. Then we can talk a little before I go home. You had nowhere to stay the night, so I ... magic it for you because I am clever, but I promise I will not touch you, only to help you now.’

‘I’ve climbed on board enough boats not to need any help,’ she said, indignantly. ‘Did you say you’ve got food?’ She suddenly realised how hungry she was, and convinced herself the butterflies in her stomach were no more than hunger pangs.