The Bedroom Barter
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE waterfront was crowded, the air full of the reek of alcohol, greasy food, and the sultry rhythms of local music. People had spilled out of the crowded bars and sleazy clubs, forming shifting and edgy groups in the stifling humidity of the South American night.

Like a powder keg that only needed a spark was Ash Brennan’s wry assessment.

He moved easily but with purpose, at a pace barely above a saunter, over the uneven flagstones, his cool blue glance flicking over the gaudy neon signs advertising booze and women, ignoring the glances that came his way, some measuring, some inviting. All the time maintaining his own space.

Logistically it was only about a mile from the Santo Martino marina, where millionaires moored their yachts and where all the nightspots and casinos which catered for well-heeled tourists were sited. In reality it was light years away, and any tourist foolhardy enough to venture down here would need to take to his expensive heels or risk being mugged or worse.

Ash reckoned that he blended sufficiently well. The sun-bleached tips of his dark blond hair brushed the collar of the elderly blue shirt, which lay open at the throat to reveal a tanned muscular chest. Faded khaki pants clung to lean hips and long legs. His feet were thrust into ancient canvas shoes, and a cheap watch encircled his wrist.

His height and the width of his shoulders, as well as his air of self-possession, suggested a man who could take care of himself and, if provoked, would do so.

He looked like a deckhand in need of rest and recreation, but selective about where he found them.

And tonight his choice had apparently fallen on Mama Rita’s. He went past the display boards studded with photographs of girls in various stages of undress and down two steps into the club, where he paused, looking round him.

It was the usual sort of place, with a long bar and, closely surrounded by tables with solely male occupants, a small stage lit by powerful spots, with a central pole where the dancers performed.

The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the stink of cheap spirit. And, apart from the sound of the piano being played by a small sad-faced man with a heavy moustache, there was little noise. For the main part, the clientele sat brooding over their drinks.

Waiting for the girls to come on, Ash surmised.

Just inside the door, an enormous woman sat behind a table. Her low-cut sequinned dress in lime-green billowed over her spectacular rolls of fat as if it had been poured there, and her curly hair was dyed a rich mahogany. Her lips were stretched in a crimson-painted smile which never reached eyes that resembled small dark currants sunk into folds of pastry.

Mama Rita, I presume, Ash thought with an inward grimace.

She beckoned to him. ‘You pay the cover charge, querido.’ It was an instruction rather than a question, and Ash complied, his brows lifting faintly at the amount demanded.

‘I only want a drink, Mama. I’m not putting in an offer for your club.’

The smile widened. ‘You get a drink, my man. My best champagne, and a pretty girl to drink it with you.’

‘Just a beer.’ Ash met her gaze. ‘And I’ll decide if I want company.’

For a moment their glances clashed, then she shrugged, sending the sequins rippling and sparkling. ‘Anything you say, querido.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Manuel—find a good table for this beautiful man.’

Manuel, tall, handsome and sullen, set off towards the front row of tables clustering round the stage, but Ash detained him curtly.

‘This will do,’ he said, taking a seat at the back of the room. Manuel shrugged and went off to the bar while Ash, leaning back in his chair, took more careful stock of his surroundings.

He’d been told that Mama Rita had the pick of all the girls who came to Santo Martino, and it seemed to be true. A few of them were already sitting with customers, encouraging them to run up bar bills of cosmic proportions, but there were several lined up at the bar and Ash surveyed them casually as he took out a pack of thin cheroots and lit one, dropping the empty book of matches into the ashtray.

They were a fairly cosmopolitan mix, he thought. All of them young and most of them pretty.

He spotted a couple of North Americans and a few Europeans, as well as the local chicas who’d strayed into port from farms and plantations of looking for an alternative to early marriage and endless childbirth. Well, they’d found that all right, he thought cynically, stifling a brief pang of regret. Because he wasn’t there to feel compassion. He couldn’t afford it.

‘You see something you like, señor?’ Manuel was back with his beer, his smile knowing.

‘Not yet,’ Ash returned coolly, tapping the ash from his cheroot. ‘When I do, I’ll let you know.’

Manuel shrugged. ‘As you wish, señor. You have only to speak.’ He nodded towards an archway with a beaded curtain behind the stage. ‘We have rooms—very private rooms—where the girls would dance for you alone,’ he added with blatant insinuation. ‘I can arrange. At a price, naturalemente.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Ash. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

The beer was surprisingly good, and wonderfully cold, and he took several long deep swallows, turning his attention away from the flashing smiles of the hopeful girls and focussing instead on the piano player who was still doggedly persisting with a range of old standards in spite of the indifference of his audience.

I hope the old witch at the door pays you well, brother, Ash told him silently as he stubbed out the cheroot. You deserve it.

The pianist reached the end of his set and half-rose to acknowledge the non-existent applause. He seated himself again, and struck a chord loudly.

The bead curtain shivered and admitted a girl.

At her entrance a strange sound like a low growl went through the room. The predators scenting their prey, Ash thought with distaste, then paused, eyes narrowing as he saw her properly.

She was blonde, and slightly less than medium height in spite of her high heels, her slim, taut body complemented by the fluid lines of the brief black dress she was wearing. The strapless bodice was cut straight across the swell of her high rounded breasts, making her skin glow like ivory. The silky fabric clung to her slender hips, ending just below mid-thigh, giving the troubling impression that beneath it she was naked.

But she did not climb up on the stage and begin her routine. Instead, head slightly bent, looking at no one and ignoring the whistles and ribald shouts, she skirted the edge of the platform until she reached the piano. She leaned back against it, as if glad of its support, while the pianist played the introduction to ‘Killing Me Softly’.

She had an incredible face, Ash thought frowningly, his attention completely caught. In contrast to the tumble of fair hair on her shoulders her brows and lashes were startlingly dark, fringing eyes as green and wary as a cat’s. She had exquisite cheekbones, and her mouth was painted a hot, sexy pink.

And she was scared witless.

He’d known it from the moment of her entrance. Even across the crowd of waiting men he’d felt the force of her fear like a cold hand laid on his shoulder. Now he noticed the small hands balled into fists among the folds of her skirt, the blank, tense smile on her lips.

She was like a small animal, he thought, caught in the headlights of a car and powerless to move.

But there was no problem with her voice when she began to sing. It was low-pitched, powerful and faintly husky. The kind of voice a man would want to hear moaning his name at the moment of climax, Ash thought, his mouth curving in self-contempt.

Her audience was listening while she sang, but with a faint restiveness. However appealing her voice might be, it was the promise offered by the skimpy dress that mattered to them. They couldn’t believe it was just a song that was on offer. All the other girls took off their clothes, so why shouldn’t she?

She moved effortlessly into the next song—‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. She was no longer staring at the floor. Her head was up, and she seemed to be looking far beyond the confines of the club with a wistfulness and undisguised yearning that matched the words of the song.

And in that moment, as her voice trembled into silence, Ash’s gaze met hers over the heads of the crowd. Met—and held it for one endless, breathless moment.

Now, he thought, I know why I came here tonight.

The number over, she ducked her head swiftly and shyly in response to the sprinkling of applause, and went back the way she had come. Ash waited to see if she would glance back at him, but she did not, simply vanishing behind the curtain, followed by catcalls and shouts of disappointment.

Ash drained his beer and got to his feet. Mama Rita looked up at his approach, her eyes sharp and shrewd.

‘You want something, querido?’

‘I want the songbird,’ Ash said levelly.

She considered that. ‘To sit with you—have a few drinks—be nice?’

‘Nice, yes,’ Ash told her. ‘But in one of your private rooms, Mama. I want her to dance for me. Alone.’

Her brows lifted and she began to laugh, the sequins shaking and flashing. ‘She’s my newest girl. She still learning, mi corazón. And maybe I’m saving her for a rich customer, anyway. You couldn’t afford her.’

He said softly, ‘Try me.’

‘Crazy man,’ she said. ‘Why spend all your money? Choose another girl. One who dances good.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The songbird. I’ll pay the price for her.’

She looked him over. ‘You got that sort of money?’ There was frank disbelief in her voice.

‘You know that I have.’ Ash took a billfold from his back pocket, peeled off some notes, and tossed them on to the table in front of her. ‘And I know what I want.’

She picked them up swiftly. ‘That for me,’ she said. ‘Commission. You pay her too. Whatever she worth. Whatever you get her to do. Should be easy,’ she added. ‘Beautiful man like you, querido.’ She chuckled again. ‘Teach her some lessons, Sí?’

‘Sí,’ Ash said softly. ‘The lessons of a lifetime.’ He paused. ‘Does she have a name?’

She tucked the money he’d given her into her cleavage and surged to her feet. ‘She called Micaela.’ She leered triumphantly at him. ‘You have another beer—on the house. I go tell your songbird that she’s lucky girl.’

I only hope, Ash said silently, watching Mama Rita’s departure, that she thinks so too.

But that, he thought as he went back to his table, was in the lap of the gods—like so much else. And he ordered his beer and settled down to wait.

Chellie sank on to the stool in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the dressing table until the shaking stopped. It was nearly a month since she’d started singing in the club, and she ought to be used to it by now. But she wasn’t, and maybe she never would be.

It was the men’s faces—the hot, hungry eyes devouring her—that she couldn’t handle, the things they called out to her that she was thankful she couldn’t understand properly.

‘How do you bear it?’ she’d asked Jacinta, one of the pole dancers and the only girl working at Mama Rita’s to be even marginally friendly.

Jacinta had shrugged. ‘I don’t see,’ she’d replied brusquely. ‘I smile, but I don’t look at them. I look past—think my own thoughts. Is better that way.’

It seemed wise advice, and Chellie had followed it. Until tonight, that was, when, totally against her will, she’d found herself being drawn almost inexorably to a man’s gaze. True, he’d been sitting by himself at one of the rear tables, in itself unusual, as most of the male clientele liked to bunch at the front, baying like wolves for every inch of exposed flesh. But that wasn’t the only thing that had seemed to set him apart.

For one thing, he was clearly a European, and they didn’t get many at the club.

For another, he was strikingly—almost dangerously attractive, his surface good looks masking a toughness as potent as a clenched fist.

Even across the crowded club he’d made her aware of that.

She thought in bewilderment, Somehow he made me look at him …

So, what could have brought him to seek the tawdry erotic stimulus of a place like Mama Rita’s?

Chellie’s experience of men was frankly limited, but instinct told her that this was the last man on earth who would need to buy his pleasures.

Oh, God, she thought impatiently, things must be bad if you’re starting to fantasise about a customer.

And things were indeed about as bad as they could get. Her life had become a nightmare without end, she realised as she peeled off the loathsome blonde wig, and ran her fingers thankfully through the short feathery spikes of raven hair that it concealed.

Mama Rita had been adamant about that. Brunettes were no novelty in this part of the world. The men who came to her club wanted blondes, and pale-skinned blondes at that.

It had seemed such a small concession at the time, and she’d been so desperate—so grateful for a place to stay and the chance to earn some money—that she’d probably have agreed to anything. Especially as she was being given the chance to sing. She’d thought it was the end of the disasters that had befallen her. Instead, it had only been the beginning.

She wouldn’t need to stay at the club long, she’d told herself with supreme confidence. She’d soon save enough for an air ticket out of here.

Only it hadn’t worked out like that. The money she received had seemed reasonable when it was first offered, but once Mama Rita had exacted rent for that tiny cockroach-ridden room on the top floor of the club, money for the hire of the tacky dresses she insisted that Chellie wore, and payment for the services of Gomez the piano player—which she was convinced he never saw—Chellie barely had enough left to feed herself.

And, worst of all, Mama Rita had taken her passport, which was about all she had left in the world, and locked it away in her desk, making her a virtual prisoner.

The trap had opened and she’d walked straight into it, she realised bitterly.

There was always the option of earning more, of course, as Mama Rita had made clear from the start. Chellie could be friendly, and sit with the customers, encourage them to buy bogus and very expensive champagne. But even if the thought of it hadn’t made her flesh crawl she’d been warned off by Jacinta.

‘You earn more—she takes more,’ the other girl had said with a shrug.

‘You sit with a customer one day; you take your clothes off next. Because you don’t get out of here unless Mama Rita says so. And she chooses when and where you go. And you ain’t served your time yet.’

She’d paused, giving Chellie a level look. ‘There are worse places than this, believe it. And don’t try running away, because she always finds you, and then you will be sorrier than you ever dreamed.’

I think I’ve already reached that point, Chellie thought bleakly. And who ever said blondes had more fun?

She sighed, then got up and began to root along the dress rail in the corner. She performed two sets each evening and had to wear something different for every appearance, which presented its own problems. When she’d begun, she’d worn evening dresses, but these had gradually been taken away and replaced by the kind of revealing costumes the dancers and hostesses wore. Which severely restricted her choice.

She bit her lip hard when she came to the latest addition, a micro-skirt in shiny black leather topped by a bodice that was simply a network of small black beads. She might as well wear nothing at all, but she supposed that was the point Mama Rita was making.

But that’s never going to happen, she told herself with grim determination. I’m going to get away from here somehow, whatever the risk. And from now on I’m trusting no one. Especially men …

Her whole body winced as she thought of Ramon. She tried very hard not to think of him, but that wasn’t always possible, although the physical memory of him was mercifully fading with every day that passed. She could barely recall what he looked like, or the sound of his voice. One day she might forget his touch, she thought with a shiver, or even the painful delusion that she’d been in love with him.

In a way, she acknowledged, everything that had occurred between them seemed remote—as if it had happened to two other people in some separate lifetime.

Only it hadn’t, of course. And that was why she found herself here, duped, robbed and dumped, in this appalling mess.

It might be humiliating to retrace the steps that had brought her here, but it was also salutary.

After all, she’d needed to escape from her life in England and the future that was being so inexorably planned for her. In spite of everything, she still believed that. It was just unfortunate that, through Ramon, all she’d done was jump out of the frying pan into a fire like the flames of hell.

But somehow she was going to wrench her life back into her own control.

I’ll survive, she told herself with renewed determination.

As she hung the black dress back on the rail the flimsy curtain over the dressing room entrance was pushed aside and Lina, one of the lap dancers, came in.

‘Mama Rita wants to see you, girl, in her office—now.’

Chellie’s brows snapped together. It was the first time she’d been summoned like this. Usually a girl was called up because of some misdemeanour, she thought, tensing in spite of herself. She’d seen several of the girls with scratched faces and bruised and bleeding mouths after an encounter with Mama Rita’s plump ring-laden hands.

Aware that the dancers operated a grapevine second to none, she strove to keep her voice level. ‘Do you know why?’

Lina’s eyes glinted with malice. ‘Maybe you’re going to start working for your living, honey, like the rest of us.’

Chellie faced her, lifting her chin. ‘I do work—as a singer.’

‘Yeah?’ Lina’s tone was derisive. ‘Well, all that may be about to change. The word is that some guy wants to know you better.’

Chellie felt the colour drain from her face. ‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Take it up with Mama Rita.’ Lina shrugged indifferently. ‘And don’t keep her waiting.’

The office was one floor up, via a rickety iron staircase. Chellie approached it slowly, the beat of her heart like a trip-hammer. Surely—surely this couldn’t be happening, she thought. Surely Lina was just being malicious. Because Mama Rita had told her at the beginning that there were plenty of willing girls at the club, and that she would never be pressured into anything she did not want.

And Chellie had believed that. In fact, she’d counted on it.

There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and Manuel came into view.

Chellie stepped back to allow him to pass, trying not to shrink too visibly. From the moment she’d started working at the club she’d found him a problem. If she hadn’t already been repelled by his coarse good looks, then his constant attempts to get her into corners and fondle her would have aroused her disgust.

The first night in her cramped and musty room, some instinct had prompted her to wedge a chair under the handle of her door. And some time in the small hours she’d woken from an uneasy sleep to hear a stealthy noise outside, and the sound of the handle being tried in vain. She’d observed the same precaution ever since.

There was no point in complaining to Mama Rita either, because the other girls reckoned Manuel was her nephew—some even said her son.

Now, he favoured her with his usual leer. ‘Hola, honey girl.’

‘Good evening.’ Chellie kept her tone curt, and his unpleasant grin widened.

‘Oh, you’re so high—so proud, chica. Too good for poor Manuel. Maybe tomorrow you sing a different tune.’ He licked his lips. ‘And you’ll sing it for me.’

She controlled her shiver of revulsion. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

The office door was open and Mama Rita was sitting at her desk, using her laptop. She greeted Chellie with a genial smile. ‘You were a big hit tonight, hija. One of the customers liked you so much he wants a private performance.’

Chellie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Any particular song?’ She sounded more cool than she felt.

‘You making a joke with me, querida?’ The geniality was suddenly in short supply. ‘He wants that you dance for him.’ The mountainous body mimed grotesquely what was required.

Chellie shook her head. ‘I don’t dance,’ she said, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘I—I never have. I don’t know how …’

‘You have watched the others.’ Mama Rita shrugged. ‘And he don’t want some high-tone ballerina. You have a good body. Use it.’

Yes, Chellie thought, but I’ve only watched the girls table dancing in the club itself. That has limits. The private room thing is totally different …

She said desperately, ‘But you employ me as a singer. That was the deal. We have a contract …’

Mama Rita laughed contemptuously. ‘Sí, but the terms just changed.’

‘Then you’re in breach, and that cancels any agreement between us.’ Chellie kept her hands bunched in the folds of her skirt to conceal the fact that they were trembling. ‘So, if you’ll return my passport, I’ll leave at once,’ she added with attempted insouciance.

‘You think it that simple?’ The older woman shook her head almost sorrowfully. ‘You dream, hija.’

‘I fail to see what’s so complicated.’ Chellie lifted her chin. ‘Legally, you’ve broken the association between us. End of story.’

‘This my club. I make the law here.’ Mama Rita leaned forward, her eyes glittering like her sequins. ‘And you go nowhere. Because I keep your passport as security until you pay your debts here.’

Chellie was suddenly very still. ‘But the rent—everything is paid in advance.’

Mama Rita sighed gustily. ‘Not everything, chica. There is your medical bill.’

‘Medical bill?’ Chellie repeated in total bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’

There was a tut of reproof. ‘You have a short memory. When you first come here I call a doctor to examine you. To check whether you sick with pneumonia.’

Chellie recalled with an inward grimace a small fat man with watery, bloodshot eyes and unpleasantly moist hands, who’d breathed raw alcohol into her face as he bent unsteadily over her.

She said, ‘I remember. What of it?’

Mama Rita handed her a sheet of paper. ‘See—this is what you owe him.’

Chellie took it numbly, her lips parting in shock as she read the total.

She said hoarsely, ‘But he can’t ask this. He was only with me for about two minutes—he prescribed none of the stuff listed here—and he was drunk. You know that.’

‘I know that you were sick, girl, needing a doctor. And Pedro Alvarez is good man.’ She nodded, as if enjoying a private joke. ‘Plenty discreet. You may be glad of that one day.’

She paused, studying Chellie with quiet satisfaction. ‘But you don’t leave owing all this money, chica. So, you have to earn to pay it. And this man who wants you has cash to spend. Good-looking hombre too.’ A laugh shook her, sending the rolls of fat wobbling. ‘Be nice—you could make all you need in one night.’

‘No.’ Chellie shook her head almost violently, her arms crossing over her body in an unconsciously defensive gesture. ‘I can’t. I won’t. And you can’t make me.’

‘No?’ The small eyes glared at her with sudden malevolence. Mama Rita brought the flat of her hand down hard on the desk. ‘I patient with you, chica, but no more. You do what you’re told—understand?’ She sat back, breathing heavily. ‘Maybe I give you to Manuel first—let him teach you to be grateful. You want that?’

‘No,’ Chellie said, her voice barely audible. ‘I don’t.’

Mama paused. ‘Or I send you to my friend Consuela.’ She gave a grating laugh. ‘She don’t ask you to sing or dance.’

Oh, God, Chellie thought, her throat closing in panic as she remembered overheard dressing room gossip. Not that—anything but that.

She bent her head defeatedly. ‘No,’ she said. Then, with difficulty, ‘Please …’

‘Now you begin think sense.’ Mama nodded with satisfaction. ‘Lina will take you to room. Then I send him to you.’

Lina was waiting in the passage outside. She gave Chellie a contemptuous grin. ‘Joining the real world, honey? After tonight, maybe you won’t be looking down your nose at the rest of us.’

‘Is that what I did?’ Chellie asked numbly. ‘I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

Lina looked at her sharply. ‘Hey, you’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Because Mama would not find that funny.’

‘No,’ Chellie said, with an effort. ‘I’ll try and stay conscious.’

‘What’s the big problem, anyway?’ Lina threw open a door at the end of the passage. ‘You must’ve known Mama wasn’t running no charity. So, why come here?’

Chellie looked around her, an icy finger tracing her spine. The room, with its heavily shaded lamps, wasn’t large, and was totally dominated by a wide crimson couch with heaped cushions that stood against one wall. Music with a slow Latin beat was playing softly, and a bottle of champagne on ice with two glasses waited on a small side table.

She said wearily, ‘It wasn’t exactly my choice. I was robbed, and I went to the police. One of them said he’d find me a safe place to stay while they traced my money. And this was it.’

‘That figures.’ Lina shrugged. ‘It’s how Mama gets a lot of her girls—she pays the police to send her the debris that washes up on the beach.’

Chellie bit her lip. ‘Thanks.’

‘De nada.’ Lina walked to the door, then hesitated. ‘Look, honey, it’s no big deal. Just smile and make like you’re enjoying yourself. It’s not your first time—right?’

‘No.’ Chellie tried not think about those few humiliating, uncomfortable nights with Ramon. At the time she’d thought nothing worse could happen to her. How wrong could anyone be? she asked herself with bitter irony.

‘If things get heavy there’s a panic button under the table,’ Lina added. ‘But don’t press unless you actually need to, or Manuel won’t like it. And you really don’t want to upset him. He’s one of the bad guys.’ She fluttered her fingers in mocking farewell. ‘So—good luck.’

All the walls were hung with floor-length drapes, so it was impossible to tell where the window was—if it existed at all. And past experience suggested it would be locked and barred even if Chellie could find it—before the client found her.

But she could really do with some fresh air. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, and thick with some musky scent. She began to walk round the edge of the room, her heels sinking into the soft thick carpet, lifting the curtains and finding only blank wall to her increasing frustration.

She wasn’t sure of the exact moment when she realised she wasn’t alone any longer.

She hadn’t heard the door, and the carpet must have muffled the sound of his footsteps. Yet he was there—behind her. Waiting. She knew it as surely as if he’d come across the room and put a hand on her shoulder.

For a moment she felt the breath catch in her throat, then she allowed the curtain she was holding to drop back into place and turned slowly and reluctantly to face him.

And paused, her eyes widening in total incredulity as she recognised him. As she registered all over again, but this time at much closer quarters, the cool, uncompromising good looks—the high-bridged nose, the strong lines of jaw and cheekbones. The face of a man who did not take no for an answer.

He was lounging on the sofa, totally at his ease. There was even a faint smile playing round his firmly sculpted mouth.

She was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life—her whole body shaking—embarrassed to the point of nausea—yet for one moment her overriding emotion was disappointment.

She’d thought he’d strayed into the club by mistake, but she was wrong. He was no better than the whooping, slavering crowd bunched round the stage. And regret sliced at her.

He said softly, ‘Buenas noches, Micaela.’

Her throat muscles were too taut for words, so she ducked her head in a brief, awkward nod of response.

Micaela, she thought. That was her name in this place—her identity. And her shield. If she could just hide behind it, she could perhaps make herself believe that none of this was happening to her. That she was someone altogether different, in another place, just as she did when she sang. And somehow she would be able to—endure …

He was silent for a moment, the cool blue gaze travelling over her so slowly and thoroughly that it made removing her clothes seem almost unnecessary.

Beneath the fragile covering of the black dress Chellie felt her skin tingle and burn under his absorbed scrutiny. She knew she should begin the pretence. Micaela would force her mouth into a smile, but Chellie found it impossible.

Although this was not the worst that could happen to her, and she knew it. Outside this room, in the real world, was the threat of Manuel and the woman Consuela, and all the other unnamed horrors they implied.

She thought, I must do this. I have no choice …

His own smile widened a little. He said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to offer me a drink?’

‘Oh—yes.’ She moved to the table, stumbling a little in her haste. Glad of a momentary reprieve. ‘Would you like some champagne?’

And in her head she heard the echo of another girl—her father’s hostess, making sure his guests had all they needed. A girl she had wanted to leave behind.

Beware what you wish for, someone had once told her. Because it might come true.

‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘But don’t let me stop you. You look as if you need it.’

Chellie paused uncertainly. One of the club rules, she knew, was that the champagne was for the client. The girl did not drink alone, if at all.

She slid the bottle back into the melting ice. She said huskily, ‘I—I’m not thirsty.’

‘That makes two of us,’ he said. ‘See how much we have in common already?’ There was faint mockery in his voice. He looked her over again, almost meditatively, his eyes half closed.

‘I know you can sing,’ he said. ‘So, shall we discover what other talents you possess?’ He leaned back against the cushions—a man preparing himself for enjoyment. ‘Starting now?’ he added gently.

It was not a request, but a demand. She bent her head in acquiescence and came to stand in front of him, just out of reach but no more than that. Then, slowly, she began to move to the beat of the music.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE had not told Mama Rita the truth when she’d said she couldn’t dance. Because dancing had been one of her passions in that other, seemingly far-off lifetime.

Then, she’d turned herself deliberately into a party animal, going whenever she could to clubs and discos, losing herself totally in the pounding noise and frenetic rhythms of the music. Using the fevered momentum of her body to exorcise her teeming frustrations over her abortive singing career—as well as all the other limitations that being her father’s daughter had imposed on her life.

But this was not the same kind of music at all. This was slow and swaying, and deliberately, infinitely seductive. It wasn’t meant to induce forgetfulness. It had the opposite purpose—to entice the man watching her into opening his wallet to pay for each further revelation.

And that was what she had to do in order to survive.

She tried desperately to remember what Jacinta had told her. Smile, but don’t look. Raise a mental barricade and keep the greedy, leering eyes at bay. Close yourself off emotionally from all that follows.

Because this is not you, she reminded herself. This is Micaela, and she does not even exist, so that nothing that happens to her can harm you.

Not that the client’s meditative blue gaze held any real hint of incipient lust, or even particular interest in her performance so far. He, too, seemed to be thinking about something else.

He asked for me, Chellie thought, bewildered. So why isn’t he looking at me? Am I boring him? Oh, God, I need—I really need to get this right, or Mama Rita will make me suffer.

She began to move her hips with deliberate sinuousness, her hand smoothing the brief silky skirt against her slender thighs, even pulling it up slightly, then letting it drift back. And saw his brows lift in almost mocking acknowledgement of the teasing promise that her actions implied.

‘Why not come a little closer?’ he invited softly. ‘Or does that cost extra?’

Chellie shook her head, not trusting her voice.

‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ he went on. ‘I don’t bite, unless specifically requested to do so. And, anyway, I believe the rules state that I’m only allowed to watch—not touch.’

Rules? Chellie thought wildly. In a place like this? What rules could possibly apply? Was he crazy or just naïve?

‘Or not without your permission, at least,’ he added almost idly. ‘Which I admit doesn’t seem likely at the moment.’ He took out his billfold. ‘Perhaps this might soften your heart—hmm?’

He extracted some notes and placed them on the table beside the ice bucket. ‘So, maybe we could—move the performance on a little? Just so that my evening isn’t completely wasted.’

In other words, he was telling her to take off her dress.

Chellie’s stomach lurched in swift panic as she remembered how little she was wearing beneath it. She was braless, and the rest of her underwear was little more than a glorified G-string. Which he would undoubtedly want her to remove as well.

It occurred to her that this stranger would be only the second man to see her naked. The first, of course, had been Ramon, but he’d been in too great a hurry to pay much attention.

Her whole body shivered as she recalled how he’d pushed her back on the bed, the weight of his body crushing her into the mattress, the painful, grunting thrusts which she’d thought would never end.

Which she was going to have to endure again …

He said, ‘I’m waiting for you—Micaela.’

If he’d seemed uninterested before, he was certainly giving her his undivided attention now, his mouth oddly hard, the blue eyes implacable, almost analytical—as if he was observing her through a microscope and did not much care for what he saw.

She pivoted slowly in front of him, letting the skirt swing out away from her slim legs. Going blindly, automatically through the motions, while her mind shivered on the edge of chaos.

Oh, God, she thought imploringly. Let this not be happening to me. Let me wake up soon—please …

The zip that fastened her dress was at the side, reaching from breast to hip. Once she began to lower it the dress would simply fall away from her body. And after that there could be no retreat.

Her shaking fingers undid the tiny hook first, then fumbled for the metal tongue of the zip.

And halted as her entire being froze in outrage and rebellion over what she was being made to do. Her eyes met his in a glance that mingled pleading with outright defiance.

She said hoarsely, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just—can’t …’

She sank down on to the carpet, because her legs would no longer support her, and covered her face with her hands.

She was expecting an angry reaction and knew that it would be perfectly justified. He might even be violent. Or he could just walk to the door and summon Mama Rita—or even Manuel. Her teeth bruised her lower lip as she recognised the kind of retribution she was inviting.

Yet, strangely, it made no difference to her decision, she realised with an odd calm. Whatever kind of aftershock it might create, she knew she could not strip in front of this man or any other.

Nor could she—or would she—allow him any of the intimacies his money gave him the right to demand.

She thought, I’d rather die …

Although death might not be the worst thing that could happen to her.

The silence in the room seemed endless. Perhaps he’d simply walked out already, leaving as quietly as he’d arrived, she thought, venturing to look up. Gone to make his complaint and demand his refund.

But he was still there, lounging on the sofa, apparently unmoved by her outburst. And if he was furious with disappointment and thwarted desire then he was masking it well.

When at last he did speak, he had the gall to sound faintly amused.

‘Have you ever considered changing your job?’ he asked. ‘Because you seem to lack total commitment to your current career.’

Somehow she managed to scramble to her feet, glaring at him as she did so.

She said thickly, ‘Don’t you laugh. Don’t you dare laugh at me—you bastard.’

He stood too. He was tall. Even in her heels Chellie found she had to look up at him, and resented it.

He said with sudden harshness, ‘You’re right. This is no laughing matter. And it might be better not to call me names.’ He gestured at the sofa. ‘Sit down.’

‘No.’ She took a step backwards, hugging herself defensively.

‘Do as you’re told,’ he said curtly. ‘Before you fall down again.’ He reached into a back pocket and produced a slender hip flask. ‘Here.’ He removed the stopper. ‘Drink this.’

Chellie stayed where she was. ‘What is it?’

‘Brandy,’ he said. ‘And a damned sight safer than your boss’s inferior and possibly drugged champagne.’ He paused, surveying her pale face and shocked emerald eyes. ‘Go on—have some. You need it.’

She shook her head. ‘My troubles are just beginning,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Brandy won’t cure them.’ She swallowed. ‘I—I’d better go. Do you want me to send you one of the other girls?’

‘If so, I’d have asked for them in the first place,’ he returned brusquely. ‘But I picked you.’

‘I know.’ Chellie caught her trembling lower lip in her teeth. ‘And I’m sorry. I thought I could do this—I—I really meant to—but …’

‘For a moment there, I thought so too.’ He slanted a wry smile. ‘You almost had me fooled. However, I’m trying to live with the disappointment.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re saying that you knew I wouldn’t go through with it?’ Her voice shook.

‘Of course.’ He shrugged. ‘Now, sit down and drink some brandy.’

Chellie obeyed reluctantly, her gaze mutinous and suspicious. What was going on here? she asked herself. She’d been bought and paid for. Why didn’t he insist that she kept the bargain? And how could be possibly have known that she’d fall at the first hurdle?

The brandy was powerful stuff, and she nearly choked as she swallowed it, but she felt it warming her, thawing the icy core lodged deep inside her.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiltedly, as she handed back the flask.

He shrugged again. ‘De nada.’ He sat down too, but at the opposite end of the sofa, deliberately creating a distance between there. It should have reassured her, but it didn’t—because he was still there in her sightline—in her space.

‘Tell me something,’ he said, after a moment, ‘do you suppose this room is bugged in any way?’

She gasped. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It surely isn’t that hard to comprehend.’ He spoke with an edge. ‘Does Mama Rita use hidden cameras—microphones? Check what’s happening?’

Slowly, Chellie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. The other girls would have mentioned it, if so.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’

Tinglingly aware of his continuing scrutiny, Chellie tugged ineffectually at her skirt, trying to pull it down over her knees.

She said uncertainly. ‘Why are you staring at me?’

‘Because I’ve paid for the privilege,’ he said. ‘So I may as well take advantage of the time I have left.’

Her lips parted in sheer astonishment. ‘That’s all you want?’ she queried huskily.

‘It will do,’ he said. ‘Unless, of course, you’d like to take something off for me?’

There was a silence, then she said in a small, stifled voice, ‘I should have known that—all this was too good to be true. Was the brandy meant to give me Dutch courage?’

He said coolly, ‘I was actually hoping that you’d remove that ghastly wig. Or are you going to pretend that it’s your natural hair?’

She was startled into a faint giggle. ‘No—no, of course it isn’t. But Mama Rita insists I wear it.’ She pulled the wig off and tossed it on to the floor, running awkward fingers through her dark hair.

‘Good,’ he approved softly. ‘That’s an amazing improvement.’

Her face warmed, but she said nothing.

She still didn’t understand or trust this volte face. And even now her reprieve might only be temporary, she reminded herself. He was only at arm’s length. Perhaps he was just lulling her into a false sense of security. Whatever, she could not afford to relax.

A fact apparently not lost on him. He said softly, ‘You’re like a wire stretched to snapping point.’

Chellie sent him a fulminating glance. ‘Does that really surprise you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘What does puzzle me is how you come to be in this hellhole. I’m sure you’ll tell me it’s none of my business, but, as a life-choice, it seems a seriously bad move.’

‘Choice?’ she repeated with stunned disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’ Her voice rose. ‘Do you honestly think that if it had been down to me I’d ever have set foot in a place like this?’

‘If that’s truly the case,’ he drawled, ‘why do you stay?’

Her hands gripped each other until they ached. ‘Because I can’t leave,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I have no money, no passport, and no other option.’

His brows lifted. ‘Were you robbed?’

‘Mama Rita took my passport.’ Chellie bent her head. ‘Someone—someone else had my money. As a result I was turned out of my hotel room, and they kept my luggage.’

She paused. ‘I’d been suffering from a virus, anyway, so I wasn’t exactly thinking straight.’ Quite apart, she thought, from realising that Ramon had walked out on me. Left me broke and stranded.

But she couldn’t afford to think about that—about her sheer criminal stupidity. Or she might break down—lose it completely in front of this stranger.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders. ‘I knew I needed to find the British consul pretty urgently,’ she went on. ‘So I stopped this police car to ask the way.’

‘Not very wise,’ he said.

‘So I found out.’ She shivered. ‘At first the policeman threatened to jail me for vagrancy. Then he seemed to relent. He said the consul’s office was closed for the day, but he’d take me somewhere safe in the meantime.’

She tried to smile. ‘I can even remember feeling grateful to him. Only he brought me here, where I’ve been ever since.’

‘Hardly your lucky day.’ His voice was expressionless.

‘No,’ Chellie admitted tautly. ‘But I know there are worse places than this, because Mama Rita has already threatened me with them if I don’t do as she says. I could have ended up in one of them instead.’ And it could still happen …

Her voice broke slightly. ‘You know—I—I really believed she was going to let me sing my way out of here. We had this deal—in writing.’ She attempted a laugh. ‘How naïve can you get?’

His tone was dry. ‘Mama Rita is a woman who believes in exploiting all the assets at her disposal.’ He paused. ‘The only question is—do you intend to stay here as one of those assets?’

‘You mean—why don’t I run away?’ Chellie shook her head. ‘With no passport I wouldn’t get very far. And she’d simply find me and bring me back—or hand me over to her friend Consuela,’ she added, shuddering.

He said softly, ‘In an ideal world, how far would you like to run?’

She lifted her chin. ‘For preference—to the other side of the universe.’

He said, ‘I can’t promise that—but there’s always St Hilaire, instead.’

Her brow creased. ‘Where is that? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ he returned. ‘It’s in the Windward Islands, and not terribly big. I’m taking a boat there for its owner.’ He paused, giving her a level look. ‘You could always go with me.’

Chellie stared at him. She said uncertainly ‘Go—with you?’ She shook her head. ‘I—I don’t think so.’

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘And listen well. I may be the first man to pay for your company, but I certainly won’t be the last. And the next guy along may not respect your delicate shrinkings. In fact, he could even find them a turn-on,’ he added laconically. ‘And expect a damned sight more pleasure from you than I’ve had. Are you prepared for that?’

Colour flooded into her face. ‘You don’t mince your words.’

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m letting you down lightly.’

She was quiet for a moment. ‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Because you can.’ The blue eyes met hers in a single, arrogant clash, and Chellie found herself looking away hurriedly, aware of the sudden thud of her heart against her ribcage. Even if he wasn’t here alone with her, she thought, he would still be one of the most disturbing men she had ever encountered.

She lifted her chin. ‘I’ve trusted other people recently. It’s been a disaster every time.’

He shrugged. ‘Your luck has to change some time,’ he said. ‘Why not now?’

She hesitated again. ‘When you say—go with you …’ She paused, her colour deepening. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

His mouth curled. ‘Listen, songbird, if I really wanted you, I’d have had you by now.’ He paused, allowing her to assimilate that. ‘The boat has more than one cabin, so you can have all the privacy you want. I’m offering you safe passage to St Hilaire and that’s all. There’s nothing more. So—take it or leave it.’

She should have been relieved at his reassurance. Instead she was aware of an odd feeling closely resembling pique.

She was angry with herself because of it, which in turn sparked a sudden sharpness in her voice. ‘You don’t look much like a philanthropist to me.’

‘Well, sweetheart,’ he said, ‘your own appearance is open to misinterpretation—wouldn’t you say?’

He seemed to have an answer for everything, she thought with growing resentment.

She said, ‘It’s just that—I can’t pay you—as you must know.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he directed lazily. ‘I’m sure we can reach some mutually agreeable arrangement.’ And, as her lips parted indignantly, he added, ‘Can you cook?’

‘Yes,’ she said swiftly, and on the whole, untruthfully.

‘Problem solved, then. You provide three meals a day for Laurent and myself, and you’ll have paid for your trip several times over.’

‘Laurent?’

‘The other crew member. Great bloke, but not gifted in the galley.’ He paused. ‘Well?’

No, she thought, that’s not the word at all. ‘Dangerous’ comes to mind. But so does ‘tempting’ at the same time.

She said slowly, ‘I—I don’t understand. Why should you want to help me? We’re total strangers to each other.’

‘We share a nationality,’ he said. ‘We’re both a long way from home. And one look tonight told me you were in deep trouble. I thought maybe you might need a helping hand.’

She stared at him. ‘Your name isn’t Galahad, by any chance?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Any more than yours is Micaela.’

Chellie bit her lip, once again at a loss. ‘I’m still not sure about this …’ she began.

He gave a quick, impatient sigh. ‘Understand this, darling.’ His tone bit. ‘I’m not about to force you on board La Belle Rêve. And I’m not going to beg you on my knees either. It all depends on how badly you want to get out of your current situation. But I’m sailing tonight, whether you’re with me or not.’

He paused. ‘So—no more discussion. We’re wasting valuable time. I’m the rock. This is the hard place. You have to make the decision, and make it now.’

‘And when we get to St Hilaire?’ she asked jerkily. ‘What then?’

‘There’ll be other choices to consider,’ he said. ‘There always are.’

‘You forget,’ Chellie said. ‘I still have no passport, which reduces my options to zero. Unless, of course, St Hilaire has openings for singers,’ she added wryly.

He was silent for a moment. ‘You say Mama Rita took it from you. Do you know where she keeps it?’

‘In her desk—locked in the top right-hand drawer. She showed it to me once.’ Chellie bit her lip. ‘To convince me she still had it, and therefore still had me. Playing cat and mouse.’

‘And the key to her desk? Where’s that?’

Chellie grimaced. ‘On a long chain round her neck.’

He shuddered. ‘Which is where it can definitely remain.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Where will Mama Rita be now?’

‘Down in the club. She’ll come up at the end of the night to count the takings, but that’s usually the only time. She considers she’s one of the features of the place. That people come just to see her.’

‘Well,’ he said softly, ‘she could be right. After all, something brought me here this evening. So let’s hope that her ego keeps her right there in front of her admiring public.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘Break into that desk, of course.’ His tone was almost casual.

Her jaw dropped. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘Well, we can hardly take the damned thing with us. People might notice.’ He gave her a dispassionate look. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t tried to get into it yourself.’

His faint note of criticism needled her. ‘Because I wouldn’t know how,’ she said tautly. ‘Unlike you, it seems.’

‘Merely one of the skills I’ve acquired along the way.’ He shrugged, apparently unfazed. ‘For which you should be grateful.’ He gave her a questioning look. ‘I hope there’s a back way out of here?’

‘Yes, but that’s always locked too, and Manuel has the key.’

‘Well, that shouldn’t be a serious problem.’ He got to his feet, and Chellie rose too.

She said breathlessly, ‘You don’t know him. He’s always hanging round—and he has a knife.’

‘I’m sure he has,’ he returned with indifference. ‘I thought when I saw him that serving drinks couldn’t be the entire sum of his talents.’

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.

On her way to the door she caught sight of herself in the piece of broken mirror which hung from a hook on the wall. Once more her hand went involuntarily to her shorn head as she experienced a pang of real pain at the loss.

Her hair, dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, had been cut in a sleek chin-length bob when she’d arrived here, but Mama Rita had ordered it to be chopped off to make more room for the wig. Lina had been given the scissors and had enjoyed her task, while the others laughed and jeered.

I’m barely recognisable, she thought.

But maybe that would be an advantage when the time came to continue her journey—alone.

Think positive, she adjured herself.

After all, that was what she had to aim for—to focus on—to the exclusion of everything else. Taking charge of her own destiny once more.

What had happened with Ramon was a glitch, but no more than that. And she would make damned sure that no other man ever made a fool of her again. Including Sir Galahad downstairs.

Him, perhaps, most of all.

She extinguished the light and went quietly down the rickety steps.

She was halfway along the passage to Mama Rita’s room when Manuel came round the corner.

Chellie checked instantly at the sight of him, and he stopped too, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

’Hola, chica,’ he said. ‘What you doing, huh?’

From some undiscovered depth Chellie found the strength to smile at him. ‘I thought I’d go down to the bar for a drink.’

‘Where’s that hombre who hired you?’ He was frowning.

‘Asleep.’ Chellie gave him a long, meaningful look from under her lashes. ‘And not much fun any more.’

He looked her over. ‘Why you in those clothes? And where your wig? You supposed to be blonde.’

‘My dress got torn.’ She shrugged casually. ‘And that wig is so hot. Surely I don’t need it just to buy a beer?’

A slow, unpleasant grin curled his mouth. ‘I have beer in my room, chica. You want more fun? You have it with me.’

‘No.’ Chellie took a step backwards, her hand closing on the strap of her bag in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

He noticed at once, his gaze speculative. ‘What you got there, hija?’

‘Nothing,’ she denied, lifting her chin. ‘And I’m going to have my drink in the bar—without company.’

For a moment he stared at her, then, to her astonishment, she saw him nod in apparent agreement. It was only when he slid to his knees, eyes glazing, then measured his length completely on the wooden floor that she realised who was standing behind him, grasping one of Mama Rita’s wooden candlesticks and looking down at his victim with grim pleasure.

She said shakily, ‘My God—is he dead?’

‘Not him.’ Ash stirred the recumbent body with a contemptuous foot. ‘I knew what I was doing. He’ll have a bad headache when he wakes up, that’s all.’

‘All?’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Breaking and entering, and now GBH. What next, I wonder?’

‘Well, I can’t speak for you.’ He went down on one knee, and rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets, producing his keyring with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘But I plan to get out of here before he’s missed.’ He got to his feet, his glance challenging. ‘I have your passport, so are you coming with me? Or would you rather stay here and accept his next invitation? It may not be as cordial as the last,’ he added drily. ‘But perhaps you don’t care.’

Not just the rock and the hard place, Chellie thought. This was the devil and the deep blue sea, and she was caught between them, as trapped as she’d always been.

And, it seemed, she had to choose the devil …

For now, she told herself, but not for ever. That was the thought she had to cling to. The resolution she had to make.

She felt a small quiver of fear, mixed with a strange excitement, uncurl in the pit of her stomach as she looked back at him, meeting the blue ice of his gaze.

She said lightly, ‘What are we waiting for, Galahad? Let’s go.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE air outside was warm and so thick she could almost chew it, but Chellie drew it into her lungs as if it was pure oxygen.

She thought, I’m free. And that’s the way I’m going to stay. For a moment, she felt tears of sheer relief prick at her eyes, but she fought them back. Because there was no time to cry. Instead she had to make good her escape. Or the first part of it, anyway.

Getting out of the club had been just as nerve-racking as everything that had gone before it. They had dragged Manuel, who had already begun to stir and mutter incoherently, into the office and locked him there with his own keys.

The way to the back door led past the girls’ dressing room, so they’d had to waste precious seconds waiting for the coast to be clear. He’d gone first, to unlock the rear door, and had slipped past unseen. But when it had been Chellie’s turn she’d found herself catching Jacinta’s startled gaze.

She’d made herself smile, and even give a little wave, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but there was no certainty that the other girl wouldn’t mention what she’d seen once Chellie’s absence had been discovered. In fact, she might not be given a choice, Chellie told herself with a pang.

However, she needed to put space between Mama Rita’s and herself and waste no time about it, she thought, breaking into a run.

‘Take it easy.’ The command was low-voiced but crisp, and her companion’s hand clamped her wrist, bringing her to a breathless halt.

‘What are you doing? We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming after us …’

‘Probably,’ he returned. ‘So the last thing we want is to draw attention to ourselves. If we run in this heat, we’ll be remembered. If we walk, we’re just another anonymous couple among hundreds of others. So slow down and try and look as if you want to be with me. And for God’s sake stop peering back over your shoulder. Your whole body language is shouting “They’re after me”,’ he added, his tone faintly caustic.

‘Oh, please excuse me,’ Chellie hit back, heavily sarcastic. ‘But the role of fugitive is still rather new to me.’

‘Just as well,’ he returned, unmoved. ‘Hopefully you won’t have to play it for long.’

He released his grip on her wrist and clasped her fingers instead, drawing her closer to him, adapting his long stride to her shorter pace. Making it seem, she realised unwillingly, as if they were indeed a pair of lovers with the rest of the night to spend together.

On balance, Chellie thought she preferred a bruised wrist to this implied intimacy. The touch of his hand, the brush of his bare arm against hers was sending a tantalising ripple of awareness through her senses, which, frankly, she didn’t need or understand.

Life had taught her to be wary of strangers—to maintain her cool in unfamiliar situations. After all, it had taken a long time for Ramon to get under her guard, until, unluckily, she’d taken his persistence for devotion rather than greed.

But now she’d been thrown into the company of this stranger. Condemned, it seemed, to endure the proximity of a man who had no apparent compunction about committing burglary or hitting over the head anyone who got in his way. And knowing it had been done for her benefit hardly seemed an adequate excuse.

Someone who’d just walked in off the street and apparently felt sufficient compassion to take up her cause, she thought uneasily. And, on the face of it, how likely was that?

Sure, he’d offered her a way out, and she’d taken it. Yet she was risking a hell of a lot to accept his help, and she knew it. Which made her undeniable physical reaction to him all the more inexplicable. But if she was honest she’d been conscious of it—of him—since that first moment in the club when their eyes had met. And she’d found herself unable to look away.

When she was a small child, someone had warned her about wishing for things, in case her wish was granted in a way she did not expect. And Nanny had been quite right, she thought ruefully.

Because only a couple of hours ago Chellie had sung about wanting ‘someone to watch over her’, and that was precisely what she’d got. And every instinct was warning her that, among so many others, this could be her worst mistake so far.

The sooner I get away from him, the better, she thought, her throat muscles tightening. But that’s not going to be so easy. Because I seem to have passed seamlessly from Mama Rita’s clutches into his.

Oh, God, how could I have been such a fool? And is it too late to redress the situation somehow?

She drew a breath. ‘What did you do with Manuel’s keys?’

‘Threw them into an open drain.’

‘Oh.’ She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘That’s—good.’

‘I thought so,’ he returned with a touch of dryness.

She looked down at the cobbles. ‘This boat we’re leaving on—where is it exactly?’

‘It’s moored at the marina,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that the first place they’ll look?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Because they have no reason to connect me with boats.’

‘You don’t seem very concerned.’

‘And you’re tying yourself into knots over possibilities,’ he retorted.

Chellie subsided into silence again, biting her lip. Then she said, ‘My passport—you did find it?’

He sighed. ‘I told you so.’

‘Then—could I have it, please?’

He gave her a swift sideways glance. ‘Thinking of making an independent bid for freedom, songbird?’ He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t get half a mile.’

Knowing he was right did nothing to improve her temper. Or alleviate the feeling that she was cornered.

‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘like Mama Rita, I feel I need something to guarantee your good behaviour.’

She gasped. ‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’ she demanded huskily.

‘Not as far as I could throw you with one hand, sweetheart.’ He paused. ‘Any more than you trust me.’ He slanted a grin at her. ‘Grind your teeth if you like, but I’m still your best bet for getting out of here unscathed, and you know it. And what’s a little mutual suspicion between friends?’

‘I,’ Chellie stated with cool clarity, ‘am not your friend.’

He shrugged again. ‘Well, my Christmas card list is full anyway.’

‘However,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I’d still like my passport back.’ She paused. ‘Please.’

‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘The authentic note of the autocrat. That didn’t take long to emerge. From downtrodden victim to “she who must be obeyed” in one easy step.’ His voice hardened. ‘And what am I supposed to do now, darling? Turn pale and grovel? You should have tried it with Manuel. He’d have been most impressed.’

‘How dare you.’ Her voice shook.

They had stopped walking. Suddenly Chellie found herself being propelled across the quayside and into the shadows between two wooden buildings, where he faced her, his eyes glittering, his hands gripping her shoulders, immobilising her completely. Making her look back at him.

‘Oh, I dare quite easily,’ he said. ‘Because someone should have stopped you in your tracks a long time ago. And then perhaps you wouldn’t need me to get you out of this mess now.’

‘I don’t need you,’ Chellie flung back at him recklessly. ‘There’ll be other boats. I can find a passage out of here without your questionable assistance.’

‘Yes,’ he said, grimly. ‘But probably not tonight. And that’s only one of your problems. Because how long can you afford to wait? How long before word gets round that a girl with eyes like a cat and a bad haircut is trying to leave port and Mama Rita tracks you down?’

He paused. ‘And there’s the small question of cost,’ he went on remorselessly. ‘You’ve no real cash, so are you really prepared to pay the alternative price you might be charged? If so, you could find it a very long voyage.’

‘You’re vile.’ She choked out the words.

‘I’m a realist,’ he returned implacably. ‘Whereas you …’ He gave a derisive laugh. ‘In spite of everything that’s happened, you still haven’t learned a bloody thing, have you, sweetheart?’

She said in a stifled voice, ‘Please—please let go of me.’

‘Afraid I might want to teach you a valuable lesson?’ He shook his head derisively. ‘Not a chance, sweetheart. You’re not my type.’

But he made no attempt to release her, and Chellie, trapped between the hard male warmth of his body and the wall of rough planking behind her, felt herself begin to tremble inside.

Suddenly the world had shrunk to this dark corner, and the paler oval of his face looking down at her. The sheer physical nearness of him.

She was dimly aware of other things too. Men’s voices shouting angrily and the loud blare of a vehicle horn. But all that seemed to be happening in another world—another universe that had no relevance to her or the quiver of need that was growing and intensifying within her.

She saw his head turn sharply, heard him swear quietly and succinctly under his breath, then, before she could even contemplate resistance, he swooped down on her, and for one startled, breathless moment her mouth was crushed under his.

But not in anything that could be recognised as a kiss. That was the real shock of it all. Because the tight-lipped pressure of his mouth on hers was simply that—physical contact without an atom of desire or sensuality.

A harsh, untender parody of a caress.

And one that was over almost as soon as it had begun.

Chellie leaned back against the wall, her legs barely able to support

her, looking up at him, trying and failing to read his face.

She said in a voice she barely recognised, ‘What was—that about?’

He said, ‘That was Manuel in a Jeep, with another guy driving him.’ He paused. ‘Bald, built like a bull. Do you know him?’

‘Rico. He’s a bouncer at the club.’ Chellie spoke numbly, trying to drag together the remnants of her composure without success. ‘Did they see us?’

‘I think they might have stopped if so,’ he said drily. ‘Besides, I made sure you were well hidden.’

‘Yes,’ she said. And, again, ‘Yes.’ So that was why … She shivered.

He took her hand again. ‘Come on.’

She hung back, staring up at him, her eyes blank with fright. ‘What are we going to do now?’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

He shrugged. ‘We go down to the marina and get aboard the boat, as planned. What else?’

‘But—everything’s changed.’ Her voice was a little wail of protest. ‘They’ll be there first—waiting for us.’

‘Then we’ll make damned sure they don’t see us.’ He sounded appallingly calm. ‘But I’d bet any money that they’re not going anywhere near the marina. Trust me on that, if nothing else.’

He put his arm round her and set off down the quay again at a brisker pace. ‘On the other hand, I’d prefer us not to be loitering around on their return journey. Going on a wild goose chase often brings out the worst in people,’ he added wryly.

Chellie went with him mechanically, her thoughts in turmoil. But it wasn’t simply the threat of discovery that plagued her. Because, to her own amazement, that no longer seemed to be her first priority.

Instead, she found she was reliving the moment when she’d stood with him in the darkness with his mouth on hers. Examining—analysing every trembling second of it.

And realising, to her horror, that she’d wanted more. That she’d needed him to recognise that she was female to his male. That she—wanted him.

The breath caught in her throat.

My God, she thought, with a touch of hysteria. It’s completely crazy. How can I be feeling like this? I—I don’t even know his name.

Nevertheless, that was the shaming truth she had to face—to endure. That there’d been more than a moment when she’d actually wanted her lips to part under his, inviting—imploring his deeper and more intimate invasion. When she’d longed to feel his hands on her body—the sting of his thighs against hers.

A soft, aching instant when she’d been ready to go wherever he might lead.

A small sound escaped her, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

He noticed instantly. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Chellie disclaimed instantly. ‘At least—I—don’t think I’m handling this situation very well.’

He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was abrupt. ‘You’re doing all right.’

It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She’d hardly expected praise of the highest order, but she’d hoped, at least, for a little warmth and reassurance.

She thought, I wanted him to smile at me as if he meant it …

But I mustn’t think like that, she told herself in sudden anguish. It isn’t right. And it certainly isn’t safe.

Although his arm round her felt safe. Safe—but oddly impersonal. Just as his kiss had been.

Well, now she knew the reason for that totally sexless performance. I made sure you were well hidden.

Someone to watch over me, she thought wearily. That’s what I wanted, so I can hardly complain about the way he does it. And it was only a minute ago, anyway, that he told me I wasn’t his type.

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