The Bedroom Barter

She said in a low voice, ‘It’s not funny. He’s really dangerous—worse than Mama Rita.’

He said softly, ‘But I could be dangerous too, songbird.’ He paused. ‘And don’t say that hasn’t already crossed your mind.’

She stared at him, the silence between them crackling like electricity. He knew how to break open a desk, she thought, and he wasn’t scared of knives. Just who was this man—and how soon would she be able to get away from him? And, most of all, how much was it going to cost her? Her throat closed.

She said huskily, ‘Perhaps you just seem—the lesser of two evils.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘I think. Is Mama Rita’s office on this floor, by any chance?’

She nodded. ‘Just along the passage. You—you want me to show you?’

‘It could save time,’ he said. ‘Also it might stop me intruding on anyone else’s intimate moments. I presume this isn’t the only private room?’

‘No,’ Chellie said. ‘But this is reckoned to be the best one. It must have cost you plenty to hire it.’

‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘I expect to get my money’s worth in due course.’ He looked into her startled eyes and grinned. ‘All that home cooking,’ he explained softly.

He kicked the blonde wig out of sight under the sofa. ‘You won’t need that again.’ He looked her over. ‘Do you have other clothes? Because you could change into them while I’m breaking and entering.’

‘I haven’t very much.’ It was humiliating to have to make the admission.

‘Then grab a coat from somewhere,’ he said. ‘We need to make an unobtrusive exit, and you’re far too spectacular like that.’

As Chellie went to the door she was crossly aware that her face had warmed.

The passage outside was thankfully deserted, but there was a lot of noise drifting up from the floor below—music with a strident beat, and male voices laughing and cheering.

He said softly, ‘Let the good times roll—at least until we’re out of here.’

The door of Mama Rita’s office was slightly ajar, and the desk lamp was lit although the room was empty. Apart from the desk there was little other furniture, and most of that, he saw, was junk, with the exception of a nice pair of ornately carved wooden candlesticks standing on a chest against the wall. The air was stale with some cheap incense, and he grimaced faintly.

He said, ‘She doesn’t seem to worry about being robbed.’

‘She doesn’t think anyone would dare. Besides, she has a safe for the money.’ Chellie pointed to the desk. ‘That’s the drawer.’

‘Then I suggest you leave me to it while you go and change. I’ll see you back here in a couple of minutes. And bring the stuff you have on with you,’ he added. ‘If they believe you’re still somewhere on the premises, it will give us extra minutes.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Chellie hesitated. ‘Be—be careful.’ Her tone was stilted.

He said softly, ‘Why, darling, I didn’t know you cared.’

‘I don’t,’ she said with a snap. ‘You’re my way out of here, that’s all. So I don’t want anything to go wrong.’

He grinned at her. ‘You’re all heart.’

She looked back at him icily. ‘You said it yourself. The rock and the hard place. That’s the choice, but I don’t have to like it.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not that keen myself, but there’s no time to debate the situation now. We’ll talk once the boat has sailed.’

Biting her lip, Chellie left him to it.

Once alone, Ash crossed to the door and listened for a moment before pushing it almost shut. Then he went back to the desk, swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and extracting the flat pouch he had taped to his waist. He chose one of the skeleton keys it contained and opened the drawer that Chellie had indicated.

Inside, lying on the untidy jumble of papers, was a large-bladed knife, businesslike and menacing at the same time.

Ash’s lips pursed in a silent whistle. ‘Songbird,’ he said softly, ‘I think you may have underestimated Mama Rita.’

There were several passports in the drawer but only one with the distinctive maroon cover. He opened it, swiftly checking the details with a nod of satisfaction.

So far, so good, he told himself.

He gave the photograph a cursory glance, then paused, studying it more closely. The girl in the picture looked back at him, a faint, almost defiant smile playing about the corners of her mouth, the green eyes cool and candid. And totally unafraid.

His mouth curled cynically. ‘But that was then, darling,’ he told the photograph. ‘How things can change.’

He closed the passport, slipping it into his back pocket, then replaced his keys in their pouch, retaping it to his skin.

He took the knife and used it to force open the other drawers in the desk, scattering their contents all over the floor to give the impression of opportunist theft. Then he closed the top drawer and forced that too, using the tip of the knife to damage the lock.

He felt brief sympathy for the other girls whose passports had been stolen and held against their good behaviour, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Besides, none of them were rich men’s daughters.

Only you, songbird, he thought. And you’re coming with me, whether you like it or not.

Chellie’s heart was racing as she went up to her room, and she made herself breathe deeply and evenly, trying to calm down and be sensible. As she opened the door she braced herself against the usual scuttling noises, her skin crawling with revulsion.

At least on the boat she’d be spared that particular nightmare, she thought, switching on the naked lightbulb which dangled from the ceiling. But vulnerable to plenty of others in its place, an unwanted voice in her head reminded her.

She knew nothing about her rescuer—not even his name. There was no guarantee that he’d keep any of his side of the bargain. In fact, by trusting him even marginally, she could find herself in a far worse mess.

He looked tough enough, she admitted unwillingly. His body was lean and muscular, with wide shoulders and a strong chest. But then the life he’d chosen—delivering other people’s boats, with some petty thieving on the side—was a pretty chancy existence.

Under normal circumstances he was the last man in the world she would ever have turned to for help.

But she couldn’t let herself worry about that now. Desperate situations required desperate measures, and she had to get away from this place, whatever the means.

Once I’m out of here, and I have my passport back, I can think again, she told herself with a touch of grimness.

It was amazing the effect that even a whisper of hope could have. After these weeks of fear she was beginning to feel a resurgence of her old spirit. The conviction that her life belonged to her again, and she was back in control.

Swiftly, she stripped off what little she was wearing and put on the underwear—white cotton bra and pants—she’d washed earlier in the day. They still felt damp, but that couldn’t be helped. She dragged her one and only tee shirt over her head, and pulled on a brief denim skirt. She stowed the black dress and G string in her canvas shoulder bag, along with her few toiletries and what little money she had left.

Then she took her sandals from the cupboard, banging them together

to dislodge any lurking cockroaches, and slipped them on to her feet.

‘Ready to go,’ she said, half under her breath.