Devil and the Deep Sea (15 page)

and more.'

'Even if it's my roof?' She took a deep breath. 'Roche, I—I don't

want her here any more . . .'

He said flatly, 'That is unfortunate,' and walked past her to the door.

He glanced back. 'But it is not your choice.'

She said huskily, 'But I can choose, and I do. If Elvire stays here,

I—I won't let you touch me again.'

There was a loaded silence, then he shrugged. 'Then that is your

decision,
ma jemme.
However, I promise your nights will be

lonelier than mine,' he added with cynical mockery, ignoring her

little wounded gasp. He paused. 'When Elvire returns, you may tell

her I shall not be here for dinner this evening. She is still our

housekeeper, and the domestic arrangements are her concern, so be

civil, if you please.'

Samma looked at him, misery clenching inside her like a fist. Now,

it seemed, it had been her turn to gamble—and lose. She realised

how Clyde must have felt.

'Very well.' She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

'Will—will you be back later?'

'At bedtime, you mean?' he asked derisively. 'Perhaps,
madame.

But, under the circumstances, why should you care?' He gave her a

mirthless smile and pointed to the communicating door. 'Your room

is there,' he added curtly, and left her.

By the time Samma got downstairs, Roche was already leaving, his

car disappearing down the drive in a faint cloud of dust.

She didn't even know why she'd followed him— what she could

have said even if she'd managed to detain him. But she was too late,

anyway.

She wanted, she found, quite desperately to cry, and turned back

into the silent house, seeking the refuge of the
salon.

Lying across one of its sofas, she gave way to all the emotional

confusion and uncertainty of the past few days, letting it wash out

of her in a storm of weeping which left her drained but calm, once

its force had been spent.

She had not, she realised at last, been crying wholly for herself, but

for the look of bleak and lonely bitterness she had seen on Roche's

face as he'd turned away from her.

Just for a moment, she'd seen a crack in the tough, self-assured,

dominating facade he presented to the world. For an instant, he'd

been vulnerable, and if she'd pulled herself together in time there

might have been something she could have done to draw them

together, not just physically, but in some deeper, more important

way.

But who was she trying to fool? she thought, as she sat up, pushing

the hair back from her tear-wet face. Elvire was there ahead of her,

so deeply entrenched in his heart and life, it seemed, that there was

no room for anyone else.

She'd been a fool to attack Elvire directly, she castigated herself

with bitterness. She should have realised that Roche would defend

his mistress and believe no wrong of her, no matter what the

evidence might be against her. Yet there was no real

evidence—except that Marie-Christine had clearly had access to

alcohol, and a set of car keys which should not have been lying

around—and certainly no proof.

She remembered Liliane Duvalle's half-embarrassed remarks about

scandal and rumour. Was it any wonder? she asked herself with a

sigh.

But if there had been any real case against Elvire, even if it was

only negligence, wouldn't the authorities have taken some action?

Or would they have hesitated to cause even greater offence to the

wealthy and powerful Delacroix name, and settled thankfully for a

verdict of accidental death?

Samma thought about Elvire, and her serene beauty. Was she really

capable of fuelling Marie-Christine's drinking problem, then

encouraging her to drive to St Laurent?

Or was she just inventing a case against Elvire, because they were

rivals?

Except that it was no contest, she reminded herself painfully. Roche

had shown her plainly where his loyalties, and whatever love he

was capable of, truly lay.

That afternoon, he'd decided to satisfy the transient desire that he

could have felt for any nubile girl who'd crossed his path, and

Samma knew she ought to hate and despise herself for surrendering

so readily to his passion, when she knew he didn't really care about

her.

And if she
had
given herself to him, what kind of life could she

have expected afterwards? Would she have had to share him with

Elvire—establish some kind of
menage a trois?
Roche with his

harem, she thought, shuddering. Even the thought of it made her

feel physically sick.

Yet she couldn't escape the fact that she loved him, and wanted him

more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

But, if she was to keep her sanity and her self-respect, she had to

remain aloof, she thought drearily.

As she got to her feet, she caught a glimpse of herself in the big

mirror above the empty fireplace, and grimaced. With her

tear-stained face and swollen eyes, she looked barely older than

Solange herself.

She would have to wash this evidence of her wretchedness away,

she thought. They would be back soon, and she didn't want Elvire

to have the satisfaction of seeing she'd been crying.

She went upstairs, letting the silence of Belmanoir enfold her. For a

place with such a chequered history, it had an extraordinarily

peaceful atmosphere, she thought, as she went along to her room,

and across it to the bathroom beyond. She pushed open the

bathroom door, then stopped with a little cry.

Scrawled crudely in lipstick—her lipstick—across the mirror above

the vanity unit was the message, 'You are cursed. Go now.'

Oh, really? Samma thought wrathfully, picking up the ruins of her

lipstick and examining it. I think it's time I did some cursing on my

own account.

The fact that only the bottom section of the mirror had been used,

and that there was a certain awkwardness about some of the

lettering, pointed the finger, as she'd already suspected, directly at

Solange.

Her previous companions must have been a pretty poor lot if they'd

let themselves be chased away by something as rudimentary and

obvious as this, she thought, looking at the mess with disfavour. But

perhaps this was just for starters. Well, it could end there, too!

She washed her face and hands, brushed her hair, and was on her

way downstairs again when she heard the sound of a car drawing

up outside. For a moment, her heart leapt, as she hoped,

desperately, that it might be Roche.

Then she heard Solange's excited voice, and realised her mistake.

The child flew into the hall as Samma reached the bottom of the

stairs. 'Look at me!' she called out triumphantly.

'I am,' Samma assured her. She could hardly believe the difference

the new hairstyle had made, and not just to Solange's physical

appearance. She seemed altogether more confident, almost

incandescent with happiness.

'Where is Papa?' she was demanding imperiously. '1 want to show

him how I look.'

Samma bit her lip. 'Actually, he's not here right now. He had to go

back to St Laurent for an important meeting,' she improvised

hastily, only too aware of Elvire, a silent audience in the doorway.

'Not here?' The delight faded from Solange's face, as if a lamp had

been switched off inside her. 'But why has he gone? Why couldn't

he wait to see me?'

'He'll be back later,' Samma said, mentally crossing her fingers.

'You can put on your prettiest dress, and dazzle him then.'

Solange's scowl was fixed on her with the force of a laser beam.

'I have no pretty dresses, and I don't believe Papa has a meeting at

all. I think you quarrelled with him, like Maman, and now he has

gone away again.'

Samma felt a hint of betraying colour rise in her face, but she kept

her voice level. 'You are being rude, Solange.'

'Then send me to my room. Isn't that what usually happens?'

'I suppose so,' Samma acknowledged drily. 'But this time I'm going

to send you to
my
room. My bathroom to be exact.' She turned to

Elvire. 'Please would you ask one of the maids to take Solange

some cleaning stuff. She's had an accident with my lipstick, and I

think she should be the one to clear it up.'

There was a long silence, and Solange stared down at the tiled

floor, her face crimson. 'I don't know what you mean,' she said

sullenly, at last.

'I think you do,' Samma said quietly. 'And please don't play any

more tricks like that, because they won't work. I'm here, and I mean

to stay.'

And Elvire, who was listening to the interchange with obvious

astonishment, could take that last remark to heart as well, she

thought.

Solange, reduced to a guilty silence, trailed reluctantly upstairs.

When she had gone, Elvire said quietly, 'You must excuse her,

madame.
She gets so little of Roche's attention, and yet it means the

whole world to her.'

And to me, Samma thought desolately. And to you.

Aloud, she said, 'You really don't have to tell me that.'

'No.' Elvire's tone was curiously dry. She paused. 'Will Roche, in

fact, be home for dinner?'

Samma shook her head with an effort. Even that much of an

admission was torture, she thought, making herself meet Elvire's

gaze. But there was none of the thinly veiled triumph she'd

expected. Instead Samma saw bewilderment, and something which

could almost have been compassion, before Elvire shrugged and

turned away. 'Then I will warn Roxanne.'

Samma wanted to ask, Did you leave Solange at the hairdressers'

and come back here? Were you hiding down at the pool, watching

us?

But her own common sense told her it just wasn't possible. Perhaps

Roche was right, she thought, with a sigh. Perhaps all this talk of

pirates and curses was making her imagination run away with her.

The bathroom mirror was restored to its usual pristine state, but

Solange refused point-blank to come down to dinner, so Samma ate

a solitary meal in the big dining-room, forcing the food down her

taut throat.

She was sorely tempted to sacrifice her pride, and follow Roche to

St Laurent, but what if he wasn't at the casino at all? And, anyway,

what could she possibly say or do to bridge the gulf yawning

between them?

I could try the truth, she thought, biting her lip. I could tell him I

love him.

But he might not believe her. Or, even worse, he might be

embarrassed or irritated by such a declaration from her. And she

couldn't risk that.

At the same time, she wasn't prepared to sit passively by, and

concede victory to Elvire.

So she would offer him what she knew he wanted—her body.

She spent a long and restless evening, trying to figure out how to

approach him. She could try flinging herself into his arms, she

thought, but they might not be open to receive her, after the way she

and Roche had parted earlier. Or she could be matter-of-fact, and

tell him she hadn't meant what she had said, and wait for him to

make the next move. Except that he might thank her politely, and

walk away again.

Eventually, just after midnight, she decided what she would do.

She went up to her room, bathed and scented herself, and brushed

her hair over her shoulders until it shone. Then she went on bare

and silent feet across her room, into his, and stood for a long

moment, looking at the empty, moonlit bed.

Trembling a little, she slipped off her nightgown and dropped it

beside the bed, where he would be bound to see it.

Then she slid under the covers, and lay there waiting.

It was a long time later, and she was almost asleep when the sound

of the car jolted her back to awareness.

She tensed, imagining him entering the house, making his way up

the stairs, and along the gallery to his door. By the time the door

actually opened, she was as taut as a bowstring. She closed her

eyes, willing herself to relax, her every sense conscious of his tall

figure standing there in the shadows, watching her. Unmoving.

Perhaps she should sit up, she thought confusedly. Hold out her

arms to him. Say his name.

And then she heard it. The slight click of the door as it closed