Devil and the Deep Sea (14 page)

hands, but his fingers closed round her slender wrists with almost

insulting ease.

He said huskily, 'I have dreamed of seeing you like this once more,

Samantha,
ma belle.
You will not deny me now.' He stroked her

face with his free hand, then let his forefinger glide lightly down her

throat to the valley between her bare breasts.

She had almost stopped breathing. The thud of her pulses seemed to

fill the universe as Roche began to caress her breasts, his fingers

moulding and shaping her startled flesh into delight. She felt the

moist warmth of his tongue against her hardening nipples, and a

little stifled cry of bewildered pleasure was torn out of her. His

mouth moved on her almost fiercely in response, indulging himself

in shameless pleasure, while the exploring hands feathered over her

ribcage and abdomen to her hips, then down to her thighs, already

involuntarily parting to receive his homage.

All her life, she thought, from some dazed and whirling corner of

her mind . . . All her life, she'd been waiting for this. For the touch

of those subtle, expert fingers, discovering, delighting every secret

inch of her.

The last vestiges of apprehension about the sensual mystery into

which she was being initiated were dissolving away, along with the

remnants of her self-control.

Her body was twisting restlessly against the tormenting, arousing

pressure of his fingers. She was making demands of her own now,

arching towards him as she offered her breasts to his heated kisses,

her total womanhood for his possession.

'Doucement, mignonne, doucement,'
he muttered hoarsely. She

could sense the hunger in him, like a leashed tiger, and in some

strange way it added to her own excitement, her own urgency. 'I

want to make it good for you.'

It was good already. Her entire body was melting, coming alive in a

special way totally outside her experience or imagination, each new

intimacy adding to the ferment within her.

Her need, exquisite and all-encompassing, matched his. She knew

that now, in some strange way had known it from that first moment

on the quay at Cristoforo.

There were no doubts left. Even without Hugo Baxter's

intervention, she would have gone with Roche, she knew. She

would have been with him here and now, on any terms he offered,

her senses frantic, starving for the fulfilment he was offering.

He lifted himself away from her slightly to strip off his trunks. He

was trembling now, his own restraint at breaking point.

Last night—a lifetime ago—Samma would have been too shy to

look at him. Now she stared without guile, filling her eyes with the

sheer magnificence of his body.

But as he came down to her, drawing her back into his arms, she

tensed suddenly, an odd frisson lifting the hair on the back of her

neck.

'Qu'est-ce que tu as?'
Immediately he sensed the change in her, the

withdrawal.

She said breathlessly, 'Someone's watching us.'

'No,
ma belle.'
His lips soothed hers. 'We are quite alone, I

promise. Now come to me . . .'

'No.'
She tried to push him away, looking round desperately for

something with which to cover herself. 'There is someone. I knew it

that night at the hotel when you watched me—and I know it now . .

.'

He said tautly, 'Are you trying to punish me for that? Be still,

cherie.
I need you so much. Let me show you—let me love you . . .'

'I can't!' Samma shook her head in violent negation. 'Not

with—someone there. It must be the gardener . . .'

'I gave orders we were not to be disturbed. Neither Hippolyte nor

anyone else would dare to intrude. I tell you, there's no one . . .'

'But there is.' She pounded on the cushion with her clenched fist.

'Someone revolting—watching us.'

Roche said something under his breath, then reached for his towel,

knotting it round his hips.

Samma watched him stride round the pool, pausing every now and

then to examine the tall shrubs which gave the area its privacy. But

she knew he wouldn't find anyone. The tension had relaxed

suddenly. Whatever presence had been there had now gone.

By the time he returned, Samma had dragged on her
maillot
and

covered it with her shift, and was sitting nervously, her arms

clasping her knees to her chin.

His anger as he looked down at her was almost tangible.

'No one,' he shot at her. 'As I predicted. Or was it just a ploy to

keep me at arm's length yet again, my reluctant bride?'

She shrank. 'You—know it wasn't.'

'Do I?' His voice was harsh with cynicism. 'Perhaps you thought it

would be amusing,
ma chere,
to make me suffer a little for a

change. To get your own back for having been—forced into this

marriage. If so, your plan has been singularly effective.
Dieu,
' he

added bitingly, 'I haven't ached like this since adolescence! Next

time I attempt to distress you with my attentions, why not simply

use your knee? It has much the same effect.'

Samma shook her head, unable to speak because sudden tears were

choking her throat, and stinging her eyes.

'Oh, spare me that,' he tossed at her contemptuously. 'I thought I

had made it clear I am not impressed by weeping, or hysterics. Or

by an overwrought imagination,' he added crushingly.

Samma straightened, her face flushing, 'First you imply I'm lying.

Now you insinuate I'm seeing things. Well, I'm not. I don't believe

in ghosts—or
Le Diable.
And I won't be driven away by these

stories—or frightened to death, either.'

He squatted beside her, taking her chin in a bruising grip, making

her face him. 'What do you mean?'

She couldn't draw back now, so she said, 'Marie-Christine—why

didn't you tell me about—the way she died?'

'Because I hoped it would not be necessary for you to know,' he

said grimly. 'Clearly, someone has wasted no time.'

'You can't expect to keep something like that quiet.'

'Perhaps.' He sighed harshly. 'It was a bad time in my life. I did not

want it revived, even in the telling.'

'But hadn't I a right to know—to be told—for Solange's sake, if

nothing else? It—it must have been a terrible experience for her.'

'Is that really your concern?' Roche's mouth was hard. 'Or are you

asking yourself, as so many did, not least
la famille
Augustin,

whether my violent ancestry suddenly reasserted itself and I

supplied the means to rid myself of Marie-Christine?'

'No.' Samma shook her head violently. 'No, that never occurred to

me.'

He released her almost contemptuously. 'I wonder if I believe you.'

He shrugged. 'Make no mistake,
ma chere.
I hated Marie-Christine

enough to kill her with my own hands. But I hated the bitch she'd

been, not the pathetic wreck of a woman who came to Grand Cay.'

He paused. 'She was drinking herself to death, Samantha. There

was no need for me to hasten the process.'

She shivered. 'That's—horrible.'

'It was a glimpse of hell,' he said. 'Her death—the inquiries which

followed—the rumours and suspicion.

I felt dirty. And guilty, too.' His mouth twisted. 'Almost the guilt of

a murderer, although my hands were clean. The week before her

death, she had been phoning me each day, begging me to let her

leave Belmanoir, and move to a hotel in St Laurent. She was

irrational, incoherent, and I wouldn't listen to her. She had appeared

at the casino a few times during her early months on Grand

Cay—made scenes—been ill. I could not face that again. I did not

realise her rantings were a cry for help that I could not give.' He

sighed. 'She phoned me that last night, but I was busy and I refused

to take the call. Somehow, she obtained the keys of Elvire's car and

set out—presumably to find me. But she never reached St Laurent.'

He gave her a hard look. 'So, now you know.'

'But why did she want to leave Belmanoir so badly?'

He rose to his feet. 'I thought you had already guessed,
cherie.'
His

tone flicked at her like a whip. 'She was frightened—scared of the

Delacroix curse. What else?'

He turned and walked away, leaving Samma, white-faced and

shaking, staring after him.

For a time, Samma stayed where she was, her mind in total turmoil,

looking blindly into space; then she got to her feet, and made her

way stumblingly back to the house.

She went upstairs, and along the gallery to their suite, where she

knocked on Roche's door. There was no answer, but she could hear

the distant sound of running water, so she opened the door and

Walked in. As she'd expected, the room was empty, but the

bathroom door was ajar, and it was clear Roche was using the

shower.

Samma lifted a hand and pushed her sweat-dampened hair back

from her face with a small, weary gesture. She was still trembling,

and her awakened body ached for fulfilment. The temptation to

strip off what she was wearing and join him under that cool rush of

water was almost overwhelming, but she resisted it.

She had to keep her mind clear. She must say what she had to say

before her courage deserted her.

It seemed a long time before he came back into the room. He was

already half dressed, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a shirt, and

he checked abruptly when he saw her, his brows snapping together.

She hurried into speech. 'Roche—we must talk . . .'

'1 thought we just had,' he said curtly. 'I regret I do not share your

apparent fascination with the supernatural.'

Samma bit her lip. 'I don't believe in that, either,' she said, her voice

quivering slightly. 'There was someone watching us. I swear there

was.'

He gave her a sceptical look, and began to tuck his shirt into the

band of his cream trousers.

'Is that what you came to say?'

'No.' In the folds of her shift, Samma's hands clenched into nervous

fists. 'There are some things—about Marie-Christine—which don't

make any sense.'

'Now there we are in agreement.' Roche picked up a tie, and began

to knot it round his neck. 'Which things in particular?'

Down by the pool—all the way back to the house, she'd been

thinking over what she'd been told, adding up the facts and reaching

some disturbing totals.

Dry-mouthed, she said slowly, 'Elvire was supposed to be looking

after her, wasn't she? Yet Marie-Christine was drunk again—and

the keys of the car were—there for her.'

There was a silence, then he said too quietly, 'What are you trying

to say? Be very careful,
ma belle.'

She tried again. 'Was Elvire—a stranger to you when she came

here?'

'No.' Still that soft, dangerous voice. 'I had—known her for some

time. But she had been away from Grand Cay to train as a nurse.

Didn't your—informant tell you that?'

'Yes.' Samma swallowed, aware she was in deep water and out of

her depth. 'As a nurse, shouldn't she have kept a closer eye on her

patient—guarded against that kind of thing?'

'She was also trying to look after Solange,' he said curtly. 'She had

searched Marie-Christine's usual hiding places for bottles, and

found nothing, and the car keys were a spare set. She was putting

the child to bed when Marie-Christine left the house.' His eyes

narrowed. 'What exactly are you implying,
ma chere?'

She spread her hands desperately, 'Roche, I know you care for

her—I'm not a fool—but hasn't it ever occurred to you that your

relationship might have made her feel possessive about

Belmanoir—resentful of Marie-Christine?'

'You don't know what you are talking about,' he said harshly. 'It is

because of our relationship that I would trust Elvire with my life.'

And with Marie-Christine's? she thought, but did not dare utter it

aloud. Instead she said, 'If she's a trained nurse, isn't she rather

wasted here as a housekeeper? Isn't it time she was getting back to

her career?'

'I think that is a decision she must make.' He picked up his jacket.

'Now, if you will excuse me . . .'

She said in a little rush, 'And if I say I'd prefer her to leave—what

then?'

Roche's face darkened. He said with icy emphasis, 'Elvire stays

here for as long as she wishes. May I remind you, Samantha, this

was her home before it was yours. I owe her a roof over her head,