Devil and the Deep Sea (5 page)

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,
cherie?
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?'