Devil and the Deep Sea (6 page)

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. Maitre 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,
cherie.
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.'

'Don't you mean—in bed?' She heard the grin in his voice. 'You

know this from bitter experience, perhaps?'

'No.' That ridiculous blush was burning her up again!

'As I thought.' He studied her for a moment, his expression

unreadable. 'So—Samantha,
ma belle,
have you made some resolve

to stay a virgin all your life?'

'No—I—I mean I don't know . . .' She was stammering, and it was

no wonder when his hands were on her shoulders, impelling her

towards him, and every cell in her body seemed to have taken on

quivering, independent life.

His eyes were darkness itself, deep obsidian wells in which she

could be lost for ever. Then he kissed her, and her innocence ended.

As simply as that.

It would have been easier if he'd behaved like the brute she'd

feared, because she could have fought that. But he was terrifyingly

gentle, awesomely persuasive, just brushing his lips across hers at

first, then exploring the softly trembling contours with the tip of his

tongue, coaxing her lips apart.

And when he'd achieved his objective, and gained access to the

moist, inner sweetness she could not deny him, he was still

unhurried, totally in control, his tongue barely flickering against

hers.

His mouth pressed more insistently, became more demanding. He

took her hands and placed them round his neck, pulling her against

him, so that her breasts were crushed achingly against the heated

muscular hardness of his bare chest.

His arms tightened round her, and his kiss deepened beyond all

imagination, draining her dizzily, enforcing a submission which

instinct told her was only a foreshadowing of the ultimate surrender

he would ask of her.

She was breathless. She was going to faint, but if he stopped

kissing her then she would die. She was burning, fevered beyond

control.

With shocking suddenness he lifted his head, then put her away

from him, surveying her with almost clinical detachment.

He said coolly, 'I suspect you could be a willing pupil,
ma belle.

What a pity I have neither the time, nor the patience, to be your

teacher.' He reached out, and almost austerely tucked an errant

strand of hair behind her ear, before straightening the straps of her

dress. He said mockingly, 'Pull yourself together,
ma belle.
We

have guests.'

The saloon door opened, and Clyde came in, followed by Hugo

Baxter.

'SAMMA?' Clyde's voice was aggressive with suspicion. 'What the

hell are you doing here?'

She couldn't find her voice. Physically and emotionally, she was

still reeling.

'Mademoiselle Briant is here at my invitation,' Roche Delacroix said

blandly. 'She has, after all, a vested interest in our negotiations.'

Clyde stared at him. 'The hotel belongs to me, not her.'

'I was not referring to the hotel.' Roche Delacroix's eyes drifted over

Hugo Baxter, inappropriately garbed for his size in Bermuda shorts

and a loud tropical shirt. He gave Clyde a faint smile. 'I am sure we

understand each other. Sit down,
messieurs.'
He clicked his fingers.

'Jerome,' he snapped, indicating briefly that the table should be

cleared.

It was done with the speed of light. Even in those appalling jeans,

Roche Delacroix was every inch the autocrat, accustomed to having

his commands obeyed instantly. She couldn't understand why she

hadn't recognised that when she first saw him.

'I shall be sailing soon, so there is no need for these transactions to

take long,' Roche Delacroix said. 'The terms I have decided on are

quite simple. Your hotel,
monsieur,
belongs to me, and I am not

prepared to sell it. Instead, I shall retain you to run it for me, as my

manager, and at a token salary.' He paused. 'From what I was able

to see last night, some renovation is necessary. This will be carried

out. I intend, you see, that the hotel should make a profit. By