Devil And The Deep Sea

‘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.’