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‘And I am not in the market.’ He leaned forward. ‘Didn’t you hear me say, chérie, that I’m here to play poker? No, this is payment for the sketch you did of me. I presume it is enough. Your artist friend on the quay told me your usual charges, and where I would find you.’
More than ever, she wished she’d ripped that particular sketch to pieces. ‘I don’t want your money.’
‘Then you’re no businesswoman.’ His voice gentled slightly. ‘Forget how much you loathe me, and take the money. You cannot afford such gestures, and you know it.’
Samma bit her lip savagely, wondering exactly how much Mindy had told him.
‘I make a perfectly good living,’ she said defiantly. She gestured around her. ‘As you see, business is booming.’
‘I see a great many things,’ he said slowly. ‘And I hear even more. So this is your life, Mademoiselle Samantha Briant, and you are content with it? To sketch in the sunlight by day, and at night lure the unwary to their doom in a net of smiles and blonde hair?’
No, she thought. It’s not like that at all.
Aloud, she said, ‘If that’s how you want to put it—yes.’
‘Did you never have any other ambitions?’
She was startled into candour. ‘I wanted originally to teach—art, I suppose. But I haven’t any qualifications.’
‘You could acquire some.’
Samma’s lips parted impulsively, then closed again. She’d been, she thought with concern, on the very brink of confessing her financial plight to this man.
She shrugged. ‘Why should I—when I’m having such a wonderful time?’ She pushed back her chair, and got to her feet. ‘And you’ve acquired an instant portrait—not exclusive rights to my company. I’m neglecting the other customers.’
As she made to move away, his hand captured her wrist, not hurting her, but at the same time making it impossible for her to free herself. The dark eyes were unsmiling as they studied her. ‘And what would a man have to pay for such rights, my little siren?’
She tried to free herself, and failed. ‘More than you could afford,’ she said bitingly, and he laughed.
‘You estimate yourself highly, mignonne. I am not speaking of a lifetime’s devotion, you understand, but perhaps a year out of your life. What price would you place on that?’
Something inside Samma snapped. Her free hand closed round the stem of her glass, and threw the remains of her cocktail straight at his darkly mocking face.
She could hear the sudden stillness all around them as her deed was registered at the adjoining tables, then the subdued, amused hum of interest which followed. And, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clyde bearing down on her, bursting with righteous indignation.
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he stormed at her, before turning deferentially to the Frenchman who was removing the worst of the moisture with an immaculate linen handkerchief.
‘I can’t apologise enough,’ he went on. ‘Naturally, we’ll be happy to arrange any cleaning of your clothes which is necessary, Mr—er …?’ He paused.
‘Delacroix,’ the Frenchman said. ‘Roche Delacroix.’
Clyde’s mouth dropped open. ‘From Grand Cay?’ he asked weakly, and at the affirmative nod he gave Samma an accusing glance. ‘You’d better get out of here, my girl. You’ve done enough damage for one evening.’
‘Don’t be too hard on your belle fille, monsieur,’ Roche Delacroix said. ‘She has been—provoked, I confess.’
‘I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,’ Samma flared hardily. ‘And nothing would prevail on me to stay in this place another moment.’
Her legs were shaking under her, but she managed to walk to the door, ignoring the murmured comments and speculative looks following her, then she dashed for the comparative refuge of the dressing-room.
Margot, one of the other hostesses, was in there, sharing a cigarette with Cicero the barman. They looked up in surprise as Samma came bursting in.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’ Cicero asked teasingly. ‘Devil chasing your tail?’
Samma sank down on the nearest chair. She said, ‘I’ve done an awful thing. I—I threw a drink over a customer.’
‘That old Baxter man?’ Margot laughed. ‘I wish I’d seen it.’
Samma gulped. ‘No, it was a stranger—or nearly. I—I had a run in with him this morning, as a matter of fact.’
‘That’s not like you.’ Margot gave her a sympathetic look. ‘What do they call this man?’
Samma frowned. ‘He said his name was Roche Delacroix and that he came from Grand Cay.’
There was an odd silence, and she looked up to see them both staring at her. ‘Why—what is it?’
‘I said the devil was chasing you,’ Cicero muttered. ‘It’s one of those Devil Delacroixes from Lucifer’s own island.’
‘You—know him?’ Samma asked rather dazedly.
‘Not in person, honey, but everyone round here knows the Delacroix name. Why, his ancestor was the greatest pirate who ever sailed these waters. Every time he left Grand Cay, a fleet of merchant ships went to the bottom, and he didn’t care whether they were English or Spanish, or even French like himself. He’d had to leave France because he’d quarrelled with the King, which was a mighty bad thing to do in those days, and he figured the whole world was his enemy. So they called him Le Diable, yessir.’ Cicero laughed softly. ‘And they called his hideout Lucifer’s Cay.’
‘Did they, indeed?’ Samma said grimly. ‘Well, I hope they caught him and hanged him from his own yardarm.’
‘Not on your life,’ said Cicero. ‘He turned respectable, got a free pardon, and took up sugar planting. But they say every now and then the breeding throws up another Devil—a chip off the old block, like that old pirate.’
He paused. ‘This Mr Roche Delacroix now, why, they reckon he’s made more money than old Devil Delacroix himself. He owns the casino, right there on Grand Cay, and he has a boat-chartering business as well. He’s one rich guy, all right.’
‘And he’s here in this club right now?’ Margot asked huskily, her full lips curving in a smile. ‘This I have to see. Maybe when he’s dried off, he’d like some company.’
‘Perhaps—but I think he’s more interested in playing poker.’ Samma forced a smile. ‘Maybe I should have found someone else to pour a drink over.’
‘You sure should,’ Cicero agreed sombrely. ‘Why, honey, you don’t ever want to cross anyone from Lucifer’s Cay—specially someone by the name of Delacroix. That was one bad mistake.’
Margot rose, pretty and sinuous as a cat. ‘Then I’ll have to try and make up for it,’ she said, her lips curving in an anticipatory smile. ‘Wish me luck, now.’
She drifted out, and Cicero followed a moment or two later, leaving Samma alone.
She tore off Nina’s dress and bundled it back on a hanger. Never, ever again would she work at the Black Grotto in any capacity, although Clyde was unlikely even to ask her again, after tonight’s performance, she reminded herself wryly.
She dragged on her T-shirt and jeans, and walked back through the grounds towards the small bungalow she shared with Clyde.
She felt restless—on edge, and it was all the fault of that foul man. In just a few hours, he’d turned the quiet backwater of her life into some kind of raging torrent, she thought resentfully.
And nothing Cicero had told her had done anything to put her mind at ease. It was no wonder Roche Delacroix had been annoyed at her sketch, she thought restively. He probably considered she knew who he was, and was taking a petty swipe at his family history.
Well, let him think what he wanted. He would be leaving soon and, anyway, his opinions were of no concern to her. Indeed, she didn’t know why she was wasting a second thought on the creature.
But, at this rate, she wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Some hard physical exercise was what she needed to calm her down, and tire her out. She turned down the path which led to the hotel’s small swimming pool. She rarely got the chance to use the pool during the day, but that wasn’t too much of a hardship when she could come down here at night, and have it all to herself. And there was the added bonus that she didn’t have to bother with a costume.
She collected a towel from one of the changing cabins, stripped and plunged into the water. But, as she struck out with her swift, practised crawl, she couldn’t seem to capture her usual sense of wellbeing.
Oh, it wasn’t fair, she thought with a kind of desperate impatience. Of all the men who’d passed through Cristoforo, there had never been one who’d come even close to touching her emotions. Yet, in the space of a few minutes, Roche Delacroix, of all people, had given her a swift, disturbing insight into what it might mean to be a woman—even though he’d treated her for most of the time like a child, she thought stormily, as she turned for another length.
And then—paradoxically—had come that cynical—that abominable offer.
‘A year out of your life.’ His words seemed to beat a tattoo in her brain. How dared he? she raged inwardly. Oh, how dared he? And it was no comfort to tell herself that he’d simply been amusing himself at her expense. After all, a man like that could have no real interest in an inexperienced nineteen-year-old. Margot, or even the absent Nina, would be far more his type.
But soon Allegra would be gone, she tried to console herself, and she would never have to see Roche Delacroix or think about him again.
She hauled herself out of the water, and began to blot the moisture from her arms and body, then paused suddenly, a strange prickle of awareness alerting her nerve-endings as if—as if someone was watching her.
She stopped towelling her hair, and glanced over her shoulder, searching for a betraying movement in the shadows, listening for some sound. But there was nothing.
She was being over-imaginative, she told herself, but she still felt disturbed, and she resolved to give nude swimming a miss for a while. If one of the waiters from the club, say, was taking a short-cut through the garden, there was no need to give him a field day.
She pulled her clothes on to her still-damp body, and set off back towards the bungalow, her head high, looking neither to right or left.
Probably there was no one there at all. But everything was off-key tonight because of Roche Delacroix, and she would be eternally grateful when he turned his back on Cristoforo for ever.
Because, to her shame, she knew she would always be left wondering just what that—that year out of her life might have been like—with him.
CHAPTER THREE (#ua1db9062-2319-5d92-a394-cb4f8dd65f57)
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?
