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Samma almost ground her teeth. Why had she got involved in this kind of verbal sparring? she asked herself despairingly. Why hadn’t she adopted her usual ploy of blank eyes and assumed deafness? Why had she let him get to her like this?
She said quietly, ‘Look, you’ve made your point. Is there any need to go on—punishing me like this?’
‘Punishment?’ His mouth curled, drawing her unwilling attention to the sensual line of his lower lip. ‘Is that how you regard the offer of a meal. The food on Allegra isn’t that bad.’
‘You know what I mean.’ Her eyes met his directly.
‘Yes, I know,’ he acknowledged sardonically, ‘So—what do you suppose you deserve for your impudence in drawing me as you did?’
‘I draw what I see,’ Samma flashed. ‘And everything that you’ve said or done since has only convinced me how right I was.’
‘Is that a fact?’ His voice slowed to a drawl. ‘So, you really think I’m a pirate.’ He shrugged. ‘Then it seems I need have no compunction.’
He moved towards her, purposefully, but without haste and Samma backed away, until the pressure of the long, cushioned seat which ran the length of the saloon prevented any further retreat.
‘Keep away from me.’ To her fury, she sounded breathless and very young, her words more an appeal than a command.
‘Make me,’ he invited silkily. There was a disturbing glint in the dark eyes as he moved closer. With one hand, he pushed her gently down on the cushion, then sat beside her.
Samma’s mouth was suddenly dry. For the first time she had to question her actual physical ability to scream if the situation demanded it. She wanted to look away from him, but she couldn’t. It was as if she was mesmerised—like a rabbit with a snake, she thought hysterically. She tried to steady her breathing, to mentally reject the effect his proximity was having on her. She could feel prickles of sweat breaking out all over her body, allied to a strange trembling in her lower limbs, and she tensed, bewildered by the unfamiliarity of her own reactions.
His gaze travelled slowly and relentlessly down her body, and she shivered as if it was his hands which were touching her. Since her return to Cristoforo, she’d never worn a bra, considering her firm young breasts made such a restriction unnecessary. Now, as they seemed to swell and grow heavy against the thin fabric of her top, she began to wish she was encased in whalebone from head to foot—armour-plated, even.
She saw him smile, as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking. His eyes continued their downward journey, resting appraisingly on the curve of her hips, and the slender length of her thighs, revealed by her brief white shorts.
She had never, she thought dazedly, been made so thoroughly aware that she was female.
He said softly, ‘There are many ways of taming a woman—and I am tempted. But for an impertinent child—this is altogether more appropriate.’
Before she knew what was happening, Samma found herself face downwards over his knee, suffering the unbearable indignity of half a dozen hard and practised slaps on her rear. The first was enough to drag a startled gasp from her, and she sank her teeth into her lower lip, pride forbidding her to make another sound.
Then, with appalling briskness, he set her upright again, his amused glance taking in her flushed face and watery eyes.
When she could speak, she said chokingly, ‘You swine—you bloody sadist …’
He tutted reprovingly. ‘Your language, mademoiselle, is as ill-advised as your sense of humour. I have taught you one lesson,’ he added coldly. ‘Please do not make it necessary for me to administer another.’
‘I’ll find out who owns this boat,’ she promised huskily. ‘And when I do—I’ll have you fired. I’m sure your boss would be delighted to know you take advantage of his absence by—by abusing girls in his saloon.’
He stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh. ‘Considering the provocation, I think he would say you had got off lightly.’ He paused. ‘Had you been adult, then retribution might have taken a very different form. Perhaps you should think yourself fortunate.’ He gave her a swiftly measuring look. ‘And perhaps, too, you should leave—before I change my mind.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Samma said thickly. ‘I’m going.’
Uncaring of the few remaining rags of dignity left to her, she half ran, half stumbled to the door, only to hear as she scrambled up the companionway to freedom, fighting angry tears, his laughter following her.
CHAPTER TWO (#ua1db9062-2319-5d92-a394-cb4f8dd65f57)
IF SAMMA thought her day could not possibly get any worse, she was wrong.
She’d grabbed her drawing materials and fled back to the hotel, evading the good-humouredly ribald teasing from Mindy and the others. And she was halfway home when she realised she’d still left that damned drawing pinned to the board. But wild horses wouldn’t have dragged her back there to retrieve it. Mindy would throw it away with the rest of her unsold sketches at the end of the day.
And she would have to keep away from the waterfront until she could be sure that Allegra had sailed, even though it would mean a reduction in her small income.
Clyde was waiting for her. ‘So there you are,’ he said in the grumbling tone which had become the norm in the past year. ‘That blasted Nina won’t be in tonight, so you’ll have to take her place.’
Samma was still quivering with reaction. Flatly, she said, ‘No.’
His sunburned face went a deeper shade of brick-red. ‘What do you mean—no?’
‘Exactly what I say.’ She glared back at him. ‘I hate being in the club, and I won’t sit with the customers and encourage them to buy expensive drinks they can’t afford. It’s degrading.’
‘When I want your moral judgements, I’ll ask for them,’ Clyde snapped. ‘You don’t pick and choose what you do round here, and tonight you’re standing in for Nina in the Grotto. It’s no big deal,’ he added disgustedly. ‘Just sit with the punters, and be nice to them. No one’s suggesting you sleep with them.’
Samma’s delicate mouth curled. ‘Meaning Nina doesn’t?’
‘That’s no concern of yours,’ Clyde blustered. ‘Now, be a good girl,’ he went on, a wheedling note entering his voice. ‘And do something about your hair,’ he added, giving its shining length a disparaging glance. ‘Nina’s left one of her cocktail dresses in the dressing-room, so you can wear that. You’re near enough the same size.’
‘It’s not a question of size,’ Samma said with irony. ‘It’s taste—something Nina’s not conspicuous for.’
Clyde shrugged. ‘Well, at least she doesn’t look as if she’s just stepped out of a kindergarten,’ he countered brutally. ‘Maybe you should ask her for a few lessons. Anyway, I haven’t time to argue the toss with you. I have a busy evening ahead of me.’
She said evenly, ‘Playing poker, I suppose. Clyde—couldn’t you give the game a miss for once?’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ he said sullenly. ‘Baxter’s here again, and he’s loaded. All I need is one good win. His luck can’t last for ever.’
‘Can’t it? Does it ever occur to you that he wins too often and too much for it to be purely luck?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he dismissed crossly. ‘Now, get on with some work, please. And chivvy up those girls who work on the bedrooms. Number Thirty-three claims his bed was made up with a torn sheet.’
Samma sighed. ‘A lot of the linen’s threadbare. We need to replace it,’ she began, but Clyde was already disappearing, as he invariably did when she tried to discuss anything about expenditure with him.
She sighed again, as she went into the hotel office at the back of the reception desk. In spite of her intentions, it seemed she had to put in an appearance at the club that night. And it occurred to her too that Clyde, who knew how much she hated being there, had never pressured her quite so much before. In the past, he’d been prepared, albeit sulkily, to accept her excuses. Now, it seemed, they had entered on a new phase in their uneasy working relationship, and Samma wasn’t sure how to deal with it. But it was beginning to seem even more imperative that she should get away from Cristoforo, and fast.
But without money, how can I? she thought despairingly. And I can’t even do my portraits for the next few days because of that damned Frenchman.
She bit her lip. Meeting an—animal like him was another incentive for her to get back to civilisation without delay.
She might have behaved badly—she was prepared to admit that, but his reaction had been unforgivable. Clearly he was the kind of man who was unable to overlook any slight to his self-esteem, which made him both macho and humourless, she thought—faults which far outweighed the overwhelming physical attraction which she’d been unable to deny, or even resist.
In the same way, she was unable to escape a lingering curiosity about him. He looked tough, and eminently capable, the typical roughneck who made a precarious living, crewing on charter hire boats for fair-weather sailors. But his voice had been educated, she thought frowning, so that didn’t add up.
Perhaps, like herself, he was trying to scrape together the fare back to Europe, she decided with a mental shrug. In the event, speculation was useless. She would never see him again. Fortunately, the Black Grotto kept away his sort of man, with its hefty cover charge and loaded drinks prices.
She could only wish it kept away Hugo Baxter’s kind of man, too.
But that, of course, was too much to hope for, she realised some hours later, watching his plump figure make its way across the crowded club to her side, a self-satisfied smile on his full lips.
‘Well, sweet Samantha.’ His eyes were all over her, missing nothing, from the casual blonde top-knot into which she’d twisted her hair, to the slender, strappy sandals on her bare feet. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He leered at Nina’s horror of a dress—black, and almost transparent, with a sprinkling of sequins to veil the wearer’s breasts and form a coy band round the hips. It would take all her reserves of coolness to enable her to carry the tacky thing off with any degree of sang-froid she had thought wretchedly, viewing herself in the dressing-room mirror.
She said, ‘Good evening, Mr Baxter.’
‘Oh, come on, sweetheart. Why so formal? Surely you know me well enough by now to be—a little more friendly.’ He paused. ‘I looked for you on the quay this afternoon. Had a fancy to have my portrait drawn,’ he added, as if conferring an immense honour.
‘I have all the commissions I can handle,’ Samma told him untruthfully. The thought of committing his unprepossessing features to paper was totally unappealing, although she knew how she would do it, she thought, a little curl of malicious glee unwinding inside her.
His face fell. ‘That’s too bad. So—how about a little dance with me, then?’
The prospect of being held in his arms, his paunch pressing against her slenderness, made Samma feel as if a sudden outbreak of maggots was crawling over her skin. She stepped back instinctively, aware that he’d registered her hurried recoil.
‘I’m sorry—’ she began, but he interrupted.
‘You will be, sweetheart, if you start giving me the runaround. I’m a good customer of this club, and you’re a hostess—right? And if I want to buy some of your time tonight, there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it—right, too?’
‘Quite right, monsieur, except that the lady’s time this evening has already been bought—by me.’
The voice came from behind, but even without that betraying ‘monsieur’ she would have recognised it anywhere.
As she swung round, she stiffened, her eyes blanking out with shock as she saw him. He must be well paid on Allegra—either that or he’d raided his employer’s wardrobe. His lightweight suit was expensive, his open-necked shirt pure silk, and his shoes handmade. He looked like someone to be reckoned with in his own right, she thought, rather than simply another man’s deckhand.
Hugo Baxter was gaping indignantly at him. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he demanded aggressively.
‘Perhaps.’ The Frenchman shrugged faintly, indicating how little it mattered. He turned to Samma, the dark eyes sweeping over her in amused and ironic comprehension. ‘I am sorry I am late, chérie.’ He ran a finger lazily and intimately down the curve of her cheek. ‘It was good of you to wait for me.’
She was stranded, Samma thought hysterically, between the devil and the deep sea. She said, ‘What did you expect?’
‘Now that is something we could more profitably discuss over a drink.’ His hand grasped her elbow, urging her away from the bar and towards a vacant table at the edge of the small dance-floor. ‘But my expectations did not include this—metamorphosis,’ he added, a note of unholy amusement in his voice. ‘Are you sure, mademoiselle, you have no younger sister?’
She was sorely tempted to tell him she had, but her previous experience at his hands warned her it might be unwise to play any more games.
She said coolly, ‘I don’t know why or how you found your way here, but if you’ve come to score points, maybe I should warn you it’ll cost you a week’s wages, plus an arm and a leg. I should get back to the waterfront. You’ll find the bars cheaper there.’
‘Yes, I heard this was a clip-joint,’ he said, unruffled. ‘But it makes no difference. I came because poker is a favourite relaxation of mine, and I am told there is a game here tonight.’
There is.’ Samma raised her eyebrows. ‘But I think you’ll find the other players take it rather more seriously than that.’
‘They may need to.’ A faint smile twisted round the corners of the firm mouth. ‘So—how do you fit into this set-up?’
‘My stepfather owns the hotel, and the club,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I help out when necessary.’
‘I see.’ His glance rested briefly and intimately on the flimsy sequin flowers which cupped her breasts, and Samma choked back a little gasp, thankful the club’s dim lighting masked the colour rising hotly in her face.
She said tautly, ‘I doubt it. Anyway, I don’t have to explain myself to you, so perhaps you’ll go now and leave me in peace.’
His sardonic gaze took in the crowded, smoke-filled room, where a buzz of laughing, chattering voices vied for supremacy with the band.
‘This is your idea of peace, chérie?’ he drawled. ‘I had a different impression of you this morning.’
‘I remember it well,’ Samma flashed. ‘I still have the bruises.’
‘I think you exaggerate. Besides,’ he glanced towards the bar, where Hugo Baxter still glowered in their direction, ‘you surely do not wish to be left to the mercies of that wolf?’
‘You’re so much better?’ She sent him a muted glare. ‘But you really don’t have to bother about me. I can take care of myself. And he’s not a wolf,’ she added, reverting in her mind’s eye to the portrait she’d planned. ‘He’s a pig, all pink and smooth, with a snout, and nasty little eyes half buried in fat.’
His brows rose mockingly. ‘You take a scurrilous view of the rest of humanity, mignonne. I hope this time your picture remains in your imagination only. Mr Baxter would be even less amused than I was if he knew how you saw him.’
‘So, you know who he is.’ Samma remembered that brief confrontation at the bar.
‘Who does not?’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘Both he—and his boat—tend to be unforgettable.’
Samma recalled just in time that this man was an enemy, and managed to stifle a giggle.
‘Then perhaps you should know he’s also a member of this poker school you’re so keen to join,’ she said tartly. ‘And he can afford to lose a great deal more than a deckhand’s wages.’
‘So I believe.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But your concern is unnecessary.’
‘I’m not concerned in the slightest,’ Samma denied instantly. ‘It wouldn’t matter to me if you lost every cent you possessed, but you could turn out to be a sore loser,’ she added, with a dubious look at the dark, tough face, and the raw strength of his shoulders.
He said softly, ‘It is true I prefer to win,’ and once again Samma was aware of that swift, appraising glance. She saw with relief that a waiter was approaching.
‘Good evening, sir. What may I get you?’ The cover charge was already noted on his pad as he waited deferentially.
‘A straight Jack Daniels,’ the Frenchman said, looking enquiringly at Samma. But the waiter interposed smoothly.
‘And a champagne cocktail for the lady, sir?’
Her companion shrugged again, his mouth twisting derisively. ‘If that is the usual practice—then by all means.’
Samma would have preferred fruit juice, but she knew protest was useless. She sat in smouldering silence until the drinks arrived, waiting vengefully for him to pick up the bill. But his face was expressionless as he glanced at the total, and it was Samma who found herself gaping, as he produced a bulging billfold, and peeled off the necessary amount, adding, she noticed, a tip for the waiter.
God, it was galling to find that he had all that money to waste on alcohol and gambling, when she was struggling to raise the price of an airfare to the United Kingdom! She tasted her cocktail, repressing a slight shudder. She knew that, if this man had been one of her island friends, she would have swallowed her pride, and asked for a loan.
Oh, why do friends have to be poor, and enemies rich? she wondered bitterly.
‘Well, why don’t you ask me?’ he said, and she bit back a startled gasp, wondering whether he included thought-reading among his other unpleasant attributes.
‘Ask what?’ She took another sip of her drink.
‘How I make my money,’ he drawled. ‘Your face, ma belle, is most revealing. You’re wondering how a humble deckhand could posibly have amassed so much money—or, if your earliest assessment is correct, and it is—pirate’s loot.’
‘Nothing about you, monsieur, would surprise me. But it isn’t very wise to flaunt quite so openly the fact that you’re loaded. Aren’t you afraid of being ripped off?’
He said coolly, ‘No.’ And she had to believe him. If this man chose to keep a gold ingot as a pet, she couldn’t see anyone trying to take it away from him.
He went on, ‘But when I see something I want, I’m prepared to pay the full price for it.’ Across the table his eyes met hers, then with cool deliberation he counted off some more money and pushed the bills across to her.
It was only to be expected, working where she was, dressed as she was, and she knew it, but she was burning all over, rage and humiliation rendering her speechless.
When she could speak, she said thickly, ‘I am—not for sale.’
