Читать книгу Devil And The Deep Sea - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

SAMMA was woken from a light, unsatisfactory sleep by a crash, and a muffled curse. She sat up, glancing at the illuminated dial of the clock beside her bed, whistling faintly when she saw the time. The poker game had gone on for longer than usual.

She lay for a few moments, listening to the sounds of movement from the kitchen, then reached resignedly for her robe.

Clyde was sitting at the table, staring into space, a bottle and glass in front of him. The eyes he turned on her were glazed and bloodshot.

He muttered, ‘Oh, there you are,’ as if he’d been waiting for her to join him.

She said, ‘I’ll make some black coffee.’

‘No, sit down. I’ve got to talk to you.’

She said, ‘If it’s about what happened earlier—I’m sorry …’

‘Oh, that.’ He made a vague, dismissive gesture. ‘No, it’s something else.’

He was a terrible colour, she thought uneasily.

He said, ‘Tonight—I lost tonight, Samma.’

The fact that she’d been expecting such news made it no easier to hear, she discovered.

She said steadily, ‘How much?’

‘A lot. More than a lot. Money I didn’t have.’ He paused, and added like a death knell, ‘Everything.’

Samma closed her eyes for a moment. ‘The hotel?’

‘That, too. It was the last game, Samma. I had the chance to win back all that I’d lost and more. You never saw anything like it. There were only the two of us left in, and he kept raising me. I had a running flush, king high. Almost the best hand you can get.’

She said in a small, wintry voice, ‘Almost, but not quite it seems.’

Clyde looked like a collapsed balloon. She was afraid he was going to burst into tears. ‘He had—a running flush in spades, beginning with the ace.’

There was a long silence, then Samma roused herself from the numbness which had descended on her.

She said, ‘You and Hugo Baxter have been playing poker together for a long time. Surely he’ll be prepared to give you time—come to some arrangement over the property …’

‘Baxter?’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m not talking about Baxter. It was the Frenchman, Delacroix.’

This time, the silence was electric. Samma’s hand crept to her mouth.

She felt icy cold. ‘What—what are we going to do?’

‘Baxter will help us,’ he said rapidly. ‘He promised me he would. He—he doesn’t want to see us go under. He’s going to see Delacroix with me tomorrow to—work something out. He’s being—very generous.’

There was something about the way he said it—the way he didn’t meet her gaze.

She said, ‘Why is he being so—generous? What have you promised in return. Me?’

He looked self-righteous. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘Shall we try pimp?’ Samma said, and Clyde came out of his chair, roaring like a bull, his fists clenched. He met her calm, cold stare and subsided again.

‘We—we mustn’t quarrel,’ he muttered. ‘We have to stick by each other. Baxter—likes you, you know that. And he’s lonely. It wouldn’t hurt to be nice to him, that’s all he wants. Why, you could probably get him to marry you …’

‘Which would make everything all right, of course,’ she said bitterly. ‘Forget it, Clyde, the idea makes me sick to my stomach.’

‘Samma, don’t be hasty. What choice do we have? Unless Baxter supports me in some deal with Delacroix, we’ll be bankrupt—not even a roof over our heads.’

She rose to her feet. ‘This is your mess, Clyde,’ she said. ‘Don’t expect me to get you out of it.’

Back in her own room, she leaned against the closed door and began to tremble like a leaf. In spite of her defiant words, she had never felt so frightened, so helpless in her life. She seemed incapable of rational thought. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to lie down on the floor, and drum with her heels, and scream at the top of her voice.

All she seemed to see in front of her was Hugo Baxter’s sweating moon face, his gaze a trail of slime as it slid over her body.

No, she thought, pressing a convulsive fist against her lips. Oh God, no!

Clyde said there was no other choice, but there had to be. Had to …

‘A year out of your life.’ The words seemed to reverberate mockingly in her brain. ‘A year out of your life.’

She wrapped her arms round her body, shivering. No, that was unthinkable, too. She shouldn’t even be allowing such an idea to enter her mind.

And yet, what could she do—caught, as she was, between the devil and the deep sea once again? But surely that didn’t mean she had to sell herself to the devil?

She lay on the bed, staring into the darkness, her tired mind turning over the alternatives. She was blushing all over, as she realised exactly what she was contemplating.

But wasn’t she being rather melodramatic about the whole thing? She didn’t have to meekly submit to the fate being designed for her. She was no stranger, after all, to keeping men at arm’s length. Surely, she could manage to hold him off at least until they reached Allegra’s first port of call when, with luck, she could simply slip ashore and vanish, she thought feverishly. Her savings were meagre, but they would tide her over until she could find work, and save for her flight home.

She couldn’t let herself think too deeply about the inevitable problems. The important thing was to escape from Cristoforo—nothing mattered more than that—before she found herself trapped into a situation with Hugo Baxter that she could not evade. Because it was clear she couldn’t count on Clyde to assist her.

She began to plan. She would take the bare minimum from her scanty wardrobe—just what she could pack into her bicycle basket. And she’d leave a note for Clyde saying she was having a day on the beach to think. With luck, she would be long gone before he realised she was not coming back.

When it was daylight, she went over to the hotel, and carried out her usual early morning duties, warning the staff not to expect Clyde until later in the day. Then she collected a few belongings together, wrapped them in a towel to back up her beach story, and cycled down the quay.

Apart from the fishermen preparing to embark, there were few people about. Samma bit her lip as she approached Allegra’s gangplank. She wished she could have said goodbye to Mindy and the rest of her friends, but at the same time she was glad they weren’t around to witness what she was doing.

‘Can I help you, ma’mselle?’ At the top of the gangway, her path was blocked very definitely by a tall coloured man, with shoulders like a American quarter-back.

She squared her shoulders, and said, with a coolness she was far from feeling, ‘Would you tell Monsieur Delacroix that Samantha Briant would like to speak with him.’

The man gave her a narrow-eyed look. ‘Mist’ Roche ain’t seeing anyone right now, ma’mselle. You come back in an hour or two.’

In an hour or two, her courage might have deserted her, she thought. She said with equal firmness, ‘Please tell him I’m here, and I have some money for him.’

It was partly true. The small roll of bills representing her savings reposed in the pocket of her faded yellow sundress.

The man gave her another sceptical glance, and vanished. After a few minutes, he returned.

‘Come with me, please.’

The companionway and the passage to the saloon were only too familiar, but she was led further along to another door, standing slightly ajar. The man tapped lightly on the woodwork, said, ‘Your visitor, boss,’ and disappeared back the way he’d come, leaving Samma nervously on her own.

She pushed open the door, and walked in. It was a stateroom, the first glance told her, and furnished more luxuriously than any bedroom she’d ever been in on dry land.

And in the sole berth—as wide as any double bed—was Roche Delacroix, propped up against pillows, a scatter of papers across the sheet which barely covered the lower half of his body, a tray of coffee and fruit on the fitment beside him.

Samma took a step backwards. She said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise. I’ll wait outside until you’re dressed.’

‘Then you will wait for some considerable time.’ He didn’t even look at her. His attention was fixed frowningly on the document he was scanning. ‘Sit down.’

Samma perched resentfully on the edge of a thickly padded armchair. Its silky upholstery matched the other drapes in the room, she noticed. She wasn’t passionately interested in interior decoration, but anything was better than having to look at him.

She thought working in the hotel would have inured her by now to encountering people in various stages of nudity, but none of their guests had ever exuded Roche Delacroix’s brand of raw masculinity. Or perhaps it was the contrast between his deeply bronzed skin, and the white of the bed linen which made him look so flagrantly—undressed.

The aroma of the coffee reached her beguilingly and, in spite of herself, her small straight nose twitched, her stomach reminding her that she’d eaten and drunk nothing yet that day.

Nor, it appeared, was she to be offered anything—not even a slice of the mango he was eating with such open enjoyment.

‘So—Mademoiselle Briant,’ he said at last, a note of faint derision in his voice. ‘Why am I honoured by this early visit? Have you come to pay your stepfather’s poker debts? I am surprised he could raise such a sum so quickly.’

‘Not—not exactly.’ A combination of thirst and nerves had turned her mouth as dry as a desert.

His brows lifted. ‘What then?’

She couldn’t prevaricate, and she knew it. She said, ‘I know you’re leaving Cristoforo today. I came to ask you to—take me with you.’

They were the hardest words she’d ever had to utter, and they were greeted by complete silence.

He sat up, disposing his pillows more comfortably, and Samma averted her gaze in a hurry. When she glanced back, he was rearranging the sheet over his hips with cynical ostentation.

‘Why should I?’ he asked baldly.

‘I need a passage out of here, and I need it today.’ She swallowed. ‘I could—pay something. Or I could work.’

‘I already have a perfectly adequate crew. And I don’t want your money.’ His even glance didn’t leave her face. ‘So—what else can you offer?’

She’d been praying he would be magnanimous—let her down lightly, but she realised now it was a forlorn hope.

She gripped her hands together, hoping to disguise the fact they were trembling.

‘Last night—you asked me for a year out of my life.’

‘I have not forgotten,’ he said. ‘And you reacted like an outraged nun.’ The bare, shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘But that, of course, is your prerogative.’

‘But, it’s also a woman’s prerogative to—change her mind.’

When she dared look at him again, he was pouring himself some more coffee, his face inscrutable.

At last he said, ‘I assume there has been some crisis in your life which has made you favour my offer. May I know what it is?’

She said in a small voice, ‘I think you already know. My stepfather lost everything he possesses to you last night.’

‘He did, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Have you come to offer yourself in lieu of payment, chérie? If so, I am bound to tell you that you rate your rather immature charms altogether too highly.’

This was worse than she could have imagined. She said, ‘He’s going to pay you—everything. But he’s going to borrow—from Hugo Baxter.’

‘A large loan,’ he said meditatively. ‘And the collateral, presumably, is yourself?’

She nodded wordlessly.

‘Now I understand,’ he said softly. ‘It becomes a choice, in fact—my bed or that of Hugo Baxter. The lesser of two evils.’

Put like that, it sounded awful, but it also happened to be the truth, she thought, gritting her teeth. ‘Yes.’

‘Naturally, I am flattered that your choice should have fallen on me,’ the smooth voice went on relentlessly. ‘But perhaps you are not the only one to have had—second thoughts. The prospect of being—doused in alcohol for the next twelve months is not an appealing one.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’ Her hands were clenched so tightly, the knuckles were turning white. She said raggedly, ‘Please—please take me out of here. I’m—desperate.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’ll do anything you ask—anything …’

‘Vraiment?’ He replaced his cup on the tray, and deftly shuffled his papers together. ‘Then let us test your resolve, mignonne. Close the door.’

In slight bewilderment, she obeyed. Then, as she turned back, realisation dawned, and she stopped dead, staring at him in a kind of fascinated horror.

He took one of the pillows from behind him, and tossed it down at his side, moving slightly at the same time to make room for her. His arm curved across the top of the pillow in invitation and command.

‘Now?’ She uttered the word as a croak.

His dark eyes glittered at her. ‘What better way to begin the day?’ He patted the space beside him. ‘Viens, ma belle.’ He added, almost as an afterthought, ‘You may leave your clothes on that chair.’

Shock held her prisoner. She couldn’t deny that she’d invited this, but she hadn’t expected this kind of demand so soon. Had counted, in fact, on being allowed a little leeway. Time to adjust, she thought. Time to escape …

‘You are keeping me waiting,’ his even voice reminded her.

She took a few leaden steps forward, reached the chair, and paused. She could refuse, she supposed, or beg for a breathing space. And probably find herself summarily back on the quayside with her belongings, she realised, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, as she eased her slender feet out of her espadrilles.

Her heart was beating rapidly, violently, like a drum sending out an alarm signal, a warning tattoo. She had never in her life taken off her clothes in front of a man, and she didn’t know how to begin. What was he expecting? she wondered wildly. Some kind of striptease—all smiles and tantalisation? Because she couldn’t—couldn’t …

She put up a hand and tugged at the ribbon which confined her hair at the nape of her neck, jerking it loose.

He was propped on one elbow, watching her in silence, his face enigmatic, but she had the feeling he wasn’t overly impressed with her performance so far.

She supposed she couldn’t blame him. He’d spelt it out for her, after all. ‘My bed or that of Hugo Baxter,’ he’d said. ‘The lesser of two evils.’ Well, she’d made her decision, and now, it seemed, she had to suffer the consequences.

She bent her head, letting her hair swing forwards to curtain her flushed face while she tried to concentrate her fumbling fingers on the buttons which fastened the front of her dress.

The sharp, imperative knock on the stateroom door was as shocking as a whiplash laid across her overburdened senses, and she jumped.

‘Radio message for you, boss. Maître Giraud—and I reckon it’s urgent.’

Roche Delacroix swore under his breath, and made to throw back the sheet, pausing when he encountered Samma’s stricken look. He paused, his mouth twisting cynically. ‘You’ll find a robe in that closet, chérie. Get it for me.’

She hurried to obey, holding the garment out to him almost at arm’s length.

He laughed. ‘Now turn your back, my little Puritan.’

Heart hammering unevenly, she heard the sounds of movement, the rustle of silk as he put on the robe. But when his hands descended on her shoulders, turning her to face him again, a little cry escaped her.

‘How nervous you are.’ The laughter was still there in his voice. ‘Like a little cat who has never known kindness.’ He picked up her hand, and pressed a swift, sensuous kiss into its soft palm. ‘I am desolated our time together has been interrupted, ma belle, but it is only a pleasure postponed, after all.’

He strode across the cabin, and left, closing the door behind him.

Samma’s legs gave way, and she sank down on to the chair. She lifted her hand, and stared at it stupidly, as if she expected to see the mark of his lips, burning there like a brand.

He’d only kissed her hand, she told herself weakly. There was nothing in that to set her trembling, every sense, every nerve-ending tingling in some mysterious way. What would she do if—when he really kissed her? When he …

Her mind blanked out. She couldn’t let herself think about that. She would cope with it when she had to.

And she would soon have to, a sly inner voice reminded her. ‘A pleasure postponed,’ he’d said.

For the first time in her life, Samma found herself cursing her own inexperience. She wished she had some real idea of what Roche Delacroix was going to expect from her—when he returned. Would he make allowances for her ignorance—or would impatience make him brutal?

She bit her lip. Oh, God, what right had anyone as sexually untutored as she was to throw herself at a man of the world like Roche Delacroix?

I can’t stay here, she thought, panicking. I can’t! I’ll have to leave—go back on shore—find some other way out. I must have been mad.

She retrieved her espadrilles and ribbon and, picking up her bundle, went to the door. The handle turned easily enough, but the door itself didn’t budge.

She twisted the handle the other way, pushing at the solid wood panels, but it made no difference. He’d locked her in, she thought wildly.

She might have come here of her own free will, but she was staying as a prisoner. And when her jailer came back—what then?

When the door eventually opened half an hour later, Samma was as taut as a bowstring.

‘How dare you lock me in?’ she stormed.

Roche Delacroix’s expression was preoccupied, and he looked at her with faint surprise. ‘I did not,’ he said. ‘The door sticks sometimes, that is all. I’ll have it corrected when we reach Grand Cay.’

That’s all? Samma thought, wincing. Because of a sticking door, and her own horrendous stupidity, she was still trapped on Allegra with this—this pirate.

She said. ‘I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve decided I’d prefer to forego this cruise, after all.’ She picked up her bundle. ‘I’d like to go ashore, please.’

‘You are just hungry,’ he said calmly. ‘Jerome is waiting to take you to the saloon for some ham and eggs.’

The words alone made her stomach swoon, but Samma didn’t relax her stance for an instant. ‘I refuse to eat a mouthful of food on this boat!’

‘You are such a poor sailor?’ He sounded almost solicitous, but the gleam in the dark eyes told a different story. ‘But we have not yet left harbour.’

‘I’m a perfectly good sailor,’ she said between her teeth. ‘What I’m trying to convey is that I’d rather choke than eat any food of yours.’

He shrugged. ‘As you please, but you will be very hungry by the time we reach our destination. Besides, I thought you would prefer to occupy yourself with breakfast while I dressed,’ he added, loosening the belt of his robe. ‘However, if you would rather watch me …’

Samma fled. Jerome was waiting outside, so there was no chance to make a dash for it, as he escorted her to the saloon.

‘I’ll be just within call, ma’mselle, if you need anything.’ The words were polite, but she was being warned that he was keeping an eye on her, she thought miserably as she sank down on to the long, padded seat, and looked at the table which had been set up. There was a tantalising aroma emanating from a covered dish on a hot-plate.

She groaned silently, feeling her mouth fill with saliva. Oh, God, but she was ravenous! She’d meant every word she’d said, but surely no one would notice if she took just one—tiny piece of ham? Using her fingers, she pulled off a crisp brown morsel. It was done to a turn, of course, succulent and flavoursome, and Samma was lost.

Ten minutes later, every scrap on the platter had gone, and she was on her second cup of coffee.

‘I am glad you decided to relent. I have a very sensitive chef,’ a sardonic voice said from the doorway, and Roche Delacroix joined her.

The thick, black hair was slightly damp, and the sharp scent of some expensive cologne hung in the air as he came to sit beside her. He’d dressed, if that was the word, in the most disreputable pair of jeans in the history of the world. Not only were they torn, and stained with oil, but they also fitted him like a second skin, drawing attention Samma would rather not have spared to his lean hips and long legs.

She said breathlessly, ‘I haven’t relented at all, really. I still want to go ashore.’

He shook his head. ‘That is impossible. The bargain between us is made. The next year of your life belongs to me, and it starts here on Allegra. You knew that when you came to me—offered yourself.’

‘I—I wasn’t thinking clearly,’ she said huskily. She took a deep breath. ‘Monsieur Delacroix, it was terribly wrong of me to rush on board—and throw myself at you like this, and I’m deeply ashamed, believe me. But I have to tell you—it—it wouldn’t work out between us—really.’ She was beginning to flounder. ‘I’d just be a—terrible disappointment to you—in every way.’