LITMIR.BIZ

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ma’mselle. You come back in an hour or two.’

      In an hour or two, her courage might have deserted her, she thought. She said with equal firmness, ‘Please tell him I’m here, and I have some money for him.’

      It was partly true. The small roll of bills representing her savings reposed in the pocket of her faded yellow sundress.

      The man gave her another sceptical glance, and vanished. After a few minutes, he returned.

      ‘Come with me, please.’

      The companionway and the passage to the saloon were only too familiar, but she was led further along to another door, standing slightly ajar. The man tapped lightly on the woodwork, said, ‘Your visitor, boss,’ and disappeared back the way he’d come, leaving Samma nervously on her own.

      She pushed open the door, and walked in. It was a stateroom, the first glance told her, and furnished more luxuriously than any bedroom she’d ever been in on dry land.

      And in the sole berth—as wide as any double bed—was Roche Delacroix, propped up against pillows, a scatter of papers across the sheet which barely covered the lower half of his body, a tray of coffee and fruit on the fitment beside him.

      Samma took a step backwards. She said nervously, ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise. I’ll wait outside until you’re dressed.’

      ‘Then you will wait for some considerable time.’ He didn’t even look at her. His attention was fixed frowningly on the document he was scanning. ‘Sit down.’

      Samma perched resentfully on the edge of a thickly padded armchair. Its silky upholstery matched the other drapes in the room, she noticed. She wasn’t passionately interested in interior decoration, but anything was better than having to look at him.

      She thought working in the hotel would have inured her by now to encountering people in various stages of nudity, but none of their guests had ever exuded Roche Delacroix’s brand of raw masculinity. Or perhaps it was the contrast between his deeply bronzed skin, and the white of the bed linen which made him look so flagrantly—undressed.

      The aroma of the coffee reached her beguilingly and, in spite of herself, her small straight nose twitched, her stomach reminding her that she’d eaten and drunk nothing yet that day.

      Nor, it appeared, was she to be offered anything—not even a slice of the mango he was eating with such open enjoyment.

      ‘So—Mademoiselle Briant,’ he said at last, a note of faint derision in his voice. ‘Why am I honoured by this early visit? Have you come to pay your stepfather’s poker debts? I am surprised he could raise such a sum so quickly.’

      ‘Not—not exactly.’ A combination of thirst and nerves had turned her mouth as dry as a desert.

      His brows lifted. ‘What then?’

      She couldn’t prevaricate, and she knew it. She said, ‘I know you’re leaving Cristoforo today. I came to ask you to—take me with you.’

      They were the hardest words she’d ever had to utter, and they were greeted by complete silence.

      He sat up, disposing his pillows more comfortably, and Samma averted her gaze in a hurry. When she glanced back, he was rearranging the sheet over his hips with cynical ostentation.

      ‘Why should I?’ he asked baldly.

      ‘I need a passage out of here, and I need it today.’ She swallowed. ‘I could—pay something. Or I could work.’

      ‘I already have a perfectly adequate crew. And I don’t want your money.’ His even glance didn’t leave her face. ‘So—what else can you offer?’

      She’d been praying he would be magnanimous—let her down lightly, but she realised now it was a forlorn hope.

      She gripped her hands together, hoping to disguise the fact they were trembling.

      ‘Last night—you asked me for a year out of my life.’

      ‘I have not forgotten,’ he said. ‘And you reacted like an outraged nun.’ The bare, shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. ‘But that, of course, is your prerogative.’

      ‘But, it’s also a woman’s prerogative to—change her mind.’

      When she dared look at him again, he was pouring himself some more coffee, his face inscrutable.

      At last he said, ‘I assume there has been some crisis in your life which has made you favour my offer. May I know what it is?’

      She said in a small voice, ‘I think you already know. My stepfather lost everything he possesses to you last night.’

      ‘He did, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Have you come to offer yourself in lieu of payment, chérie? If so, I am bound to tell you that you rate your rather immature charms altogether too highly.’

      This was worse than she could have imagined. She said, ‘He’s going to pay you—everything. But he’s going to borrow—from Hugo Baxter.’

      ‘A large loan,’ he said meditatively. ‘And the collateral, presumably, is yourself?’

      She nodded wordlessly.

      ‘Now I understand,’ he said softly. ‘It becomes a choice, in fact—my bed or that of Hugo Baxter. The lesser of two evils.’

      Put like that, it sounded awful, but it also happened to be the truth, she thought, gritting her teeth. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Naturally, I am flattered that your choice should have fallen on me,’ the smooth voice went on relentlessly. ‘But perhaps you are not the only one to have had—second thoughts. The prospect of being—doused in alcohol for the next twelve months is not an appealing one.’

      ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Her hands were clenched so tightly, the knuckles were turning white. She said raggedly, ‘Please—please take me out of here. I’m—desperate.’ Her voice broke. ‘I’ll do anything you ask—anything …’

      ‘Vraiment?’ He replaced his cup on the tray, and deftly shuffled his papers together. ‘Then let us test your resolve, mignonne. Close the door.’

      In slight bewilderment, she obeyed. Then, as she turned back, realisation dawned, and she stopped dead, staring at him in a kind of fascinated horror.

      He took one of the pillows from behind him, and tossed it down at his side, moving slightly at the same time to make room for her. His arm curved across the top of the pillow in invitation and command.

      ‘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

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