Romance: Not Dead Yet

This is 500 words of Mills & Boon I did for writer's group. Obviously it is to be taken incredibly seriously as it is my Art. It is an excerpt from the upcoming sensation, "The Somali Pirate's Willing Hostage."

Isobel stood on the deck of the Marie Claire, the wind whipping her hair into a turgid meringue. As she leant over the prow, watching the dolphins frolic below, she realised what a good idea this cruise had been - the perfect opportunity to forget Robert, the charismatic yet callous cleric whose cruel cheating had crushed her confidence and caused her current cynicism concerning carnal contact. "Cunt," thought Isobel as she gazed serenely out over the waves.

As the cruise liner sliced through the ocean, spray from the ship's huge wake further mauled Isobel's unmanageable hair, and slapped a salty blush on her cheeks. As she raised a hand to push back her marmalade tresses, she saw a small ship appear on the horizon and hailed them, waving gaily across the swell.

As the unknown ship drew closer, Isobel imagined that she heard a faint voice coming from the sea, and allowed herself to slip momentarily into the murky pudding of fantasy. It was while she was dreaming of alabaster sculpted mermen that the Somali pirates who had been wielding the megaphone drew alongside the massive cruise liner.

Isobel, lost in her daydream, was deaf to the cries of alarm that filled the ship, and it was only when a pair of strong Somali arms seized her from behind that she noticed the pirates swarming the Marie Claire. As the gravity of the situation sunk in, Isobel found herself being unceremoniously thrown over the cruise liner's side into the pirate boat waiting below, where she landed awkwardly on a pile of grenades.

"Unhand me at once," Isobel squeaked, struggling to her feet, "I am a British citizen!" Alas, the swarthy man standing over her had no respect for international diplomacy. He merely grinned, brandishing his chainsaw-bayoneted assault rifle*, and began to speak menacingly in a guttural tongue. Isobel, shuddering with horror, furrowed her delicate brow and tried to recall what little high-school German had not fled her quivering brain. "What he's saying," said a deep voice from behind her, "is that we're taking you hostage until your government gives us enough food and supplies to feed our orphans."

Isobel spun around, cry of outrage dying on her lips as she surveyed the man standing shirtless before her. His ebony skin gleamed in the sunlight, thickly muscled forearms flexing as he steadied himself against the side of the rocking boat. Lustrous black curls dripped languidly onto his smooth forehead, and a spark of animal lust ignited in his treacle eyes as he insolently raked his gaze over Isobel's slight form.

Isobel found her voice again, reaching back to steady herself against the chainsaw bayonet. "Your...your orphans?" Could it be possible that, despite her outrage at being taken captive, she was feeling sympathy for this harsh, lawless man? "Yes," the pirate captain said, a faint smile playing deliberately around his full lips, "I'm not a complete monster, you know." He paused slightly, amused at Isobel's conflicting emotions, before catching her roughly around her small waist and growling, "Allow me to escort you to your sleeping quarters."

*these actually exist