Devil and the Deep Sea (4 page)

'Nothing about you,
monsieur,
would surprise me. But it isn't very

wise to flaunt quite so openly the fact that you're loaded. Aren't you

afraid of being ripped off?'

He said coolly, 'No.' And she had to believe him. If this man chose

to keep a gold ingot as a pet, she couldn't see anyone trying to take

it away from him.

He went on, 'But when I see something I want, I'm prepared to pay

the full price for it.' Across the table his eyes met hers, then with

cool deliberation he counted off some more money and pushed the

bills across to her.

It was only to be expected, working where she was, dressed as she

was, and she knew it, but she was burning all over, rage and

humiliation rendering her speechless.

When she could speak, she said thickly, 'I am—not for sale.'

'And I am not in the market.' He leaned forward. 'Didn't you hear

me say,
cherie,
that I'm here to play poker? No, this is payment for

the sketch you did of me. I presume it is enough. Your artist friend

on the quay told me your usual charges, and where I would find

you.'

More than ever, she wished she'd ripped that particular sketch to

pieces. !I don't want your money.'

'Then you're no businesswoman.' His voice gentled slightly. 'Forget

how much you loathe me, and take the money. You cannot afford

such gestures, and you know it.'

Samma bit her lip savagely, wondering exactly how much Mindy

had told him.

'I make a perfectly good living,' she said defiantly. She gestured

around her. 'As you see, business is booming.'

'I see a great many things,' he said slowly. 'And I hear even more.

So this is your life, Mademoiselle Samantha Briant, and you are

content with it? To sketch in the sunlight by day, and at night lure

the unwary to their doom in a net of smiles and blonde hair?'

No, she thought. It's not like that at all.

Aloud, she said, 'If that's how you want to put it—yes.'

'Did you never have any other ambitions?'

She was startled into candour. 'I wanted originally to teach—art, I

suppose. But I haven't any qualifications.'

'You could acquire some.'

Samma's lips parted impulsively, then closed again. She'd been, she

thought with concern, on the very brink of confessing her financial

plight to this man.

She shrugged. 'Why should I—when I'm having such a wonderful

time?' She pushed back her chair, and got to her feet. 'And you've

acquired an instant portrait—not exclusive rights to my company.

I'm neglecting the other customers.'

As she made to move away, his hand captured her wrist, not hurting

her, but at the same time making it impossible for her to free

herself. The dark eyes were unsmiling as they studied her. 'And

what would a man have to pay for such rights, my little siren?'

She tried to free herself, and failed. 'More than you could afford,'

she said bitingly, and he laughed.

'You estimate yourself highly,
mignonne.
I am not speaking of a

lifetime's devotion, you understand, but perhaps a year out of your

life. What price would you place on that?'

Something inside Samma snapped. Her free hand closed round the

stem of her glass, and threw the remains of her cocktail straight at

his darkly mocking face.

She could hear the sudden stillness all around them as her deed was

registered at the adjoining tables, then the subdued, amused hum of

interest which followed. And, out of the corner of her eye, she saw

Clyde bearing down on her, bursting with righteous indignation.

'Have you taken leave of your senses?' he stormed at her, before

turning deferentially to the Frenchman who was removing the worst

of the moisture with an immaculate linen handkerchief.

'I can't apologise enough,' he went on. 'Naturally, we'll be happy to

arrange any cleaning of your clothes which is necessary, Mr—er . .

.?' He paused.

'Delacroix,' the Frenchman said. 'Roche Delacroix.'

Clyde's mouth dropped open. 'From Grand Cay?' he asked weakly,

and at the affirmative nod he gave Samma an accusing glance.

'You'd better get out of here, my girl. You've done enough damage

for one evening.'

'Don't be too hard on your
belle fille, monsieur,'
Roche Delacroix

said. 'She has been—provoked, I confess.'

'I don't need you to fight my battles for me,' Samma flared hardily.

'And nothing would prevail on me to stay in this place another

moment.'

Her legs were shaking under her, but she managed to walk to the

door, ignoring the murmured comments and speculative looks

following her, then she dashed for the comparative refuge of the

dressing-room.

Margot, one of the other hostesses, was in there, sharing a cigarette

with Cicero the barman. They looked up in surprise as Samma

came bursting in.

'What's the matter, honey?' Cicero asked teasingly. 'Devil chasing

your tail?'

Samma sank down on the nearest chair. She said, 'I've done an

awful thing. I—I threw a drink over a customer.'

'That old Baxter man?' Margot laughed. 'I wish I'd seen it.'

Samma gulped. 'No, it was a stranger—or nearly. I—I had a run in

with him this morning, as a matter of fact.'

'That's not like you.' Margot gave her a sympathetic look. 'What do

they call this man?'

Samma frowned. 'He said his name was Roche Delacroix and that

he came from Grand Cay.'

There was an odd silence, and she looked up to see them both

staring at her. 'Why—what is it?'

'I said the devil was chasing you,' Cicero muttered. 'It's one of those

Devil Delacroixes from Lucifer's own island.'

'You—know him?' Samma asked rather dazedly.

'Not in person, honey, but everyone round here knows the

Delacroix name. Why, his ancestor was the greatest pirate who ever

sailed these waters. Every time he left Grand Cay, a fleet of

merchant ships went to the bottom, and he didn't care whether they

were English or Spanish, or even French like himself. He'd had to

leave France because he'd quarrelled with the King, which was a

mighty bad thing to do in those days, and he figured the whole

world was his enemy. So they called him
Le Diable,
yessir.' Cicero

laughed softly. 'And they called his hideout Lucifer's Cay.'

'Did they, indeed?' Samma said grimly. 'Well, I hope they caught

him and hanged him from his own yardarm.'

'Not on your life,' said Cicero. 'He turned respectable, got a free

pardon, and took up sugar planting. But they say every now and

then the breeding throws up another Devil—a chip off the old

block, like that old pirate.'

He paused. 'This Mr Roche Delacroix now, why, they reckon he's

made more money than old Devil Delacroix himself. He owns the

casino, right there on Grand Cay, and he has a boat-chartering

business as well. He's one rich guy, all right.'

'And he's here in this club right now?' Margot asked huskily, her full

lips curving in a smile. 'This I have to see. Maybe when he's dried

off, he'd like some company.'

'Perhaps—but I think he's more interested in playing poker.' Samma

forced a smile. 'Maybe I should have found someone else to pour a

drink over.'

'You sure should,' Cicero agreed sombrely. 'Why, honey, you don't

ever want to cross anyone from Lucifer's Cay—specially someone

by the name of Delacroix. That was one bad mistake.'

Margot rose, pretty and sinuous as a cat. 'Then I'll have to try and

make up for it,' she said, her lips curving in an anticipatory smile.

'Wish me luck, now.'

She drifted out, and Cicero followed a moment or two later, leaving

Samma alone.

She tore off Nina's dress and bundled it back on a hanger. Never,

ever again would she work at the Black Grotto in any capacity,

although Clyde was unlikely even to ask her again, after tonight's

performance, she reminded herself wryly.

She dragged on her T-shirt and jeans, and walked back through the

grounds towards the small bungalow she shared with Clyde.

She felt restless—on edge, and it was all the fault of that foul man.

In just a few hours, he'd turned the quiet backwater of her life into

some kind of raging torrent, she thought resentfully.

And nothing Cicero had told her had done anything to put her mind

at ease. It was no wonder Roche Delacroix had been annoyed at her

sketch, she thought restively. He probably considered she knew

who he was, and was taking a petty swipe at his family history.

Well, let him think what he wanted. He would be leaving soon and,

anyway, his opinions were of no concern to her. Indeed, she didn't

know why she was wasting a second thought on the creature.

But, at this rate, she wasn't going to sleep tonight. Some hard

physical exercise was what she needed to calm her down, and tire

her out. She turned down the path which led to the hotel's small

swimming pool. She rarely got the chance to use the pool during the

day, but that wasn't too much of a hardship when she could come

down here at night, and have it all to herself. And there was the

added bonus that she didn't have to bother with a costume.

She collected a towel from one of the changing cabins, stripped and

plunged into the water. But, as she struck out with her swift,

practised crawl, she couldn't seem to capture her usual sense of

wellbeing.

Oh, it wasn't fair, she thought with a kind of desperate impatience.

Of all the men who'd passed through Cristoforo, there had never

been one who'd come even close to touching her emotions. Yet, in

the space of a few minutes, Roche Delacroix, of all people, had

given her a swift, disturbing insight into what it might mean to be a

woman—even though he'd treated her for most of the time like a

child, she thought stormily, as she turned for another length.

And then—paradoxically—had come that cynical —that

abominable offer.

'A year out of your life.'
His words seemed to beat a tattoo in her

brain. How dared he? she raged inwardly. Oh, how dared he? And

it was no comfort to tell herself that he'd simply been amusing

himself at her expense. After all, a man like that could have no real

interest in an inexperienced nineteen-year-old. Margot, or even the

absent Nina, would be far more his type.

But soon
Allegra
would be gone, she tried to console herself, and

she would never have to see Roche Delacroix or think about him

again.

She hauled herself out of the water, and began to blot the moisture

from her arms and body, then paused suddenly, a strange prickle of

awareness alerting her nerve-endings as if—as if someone was

watching her.

She stopped towelling her hair, and glanced over her shoulder,

searching for a betraying movement in the shadows, listening for

some sound. But there was nothing.

She was being over-imaginative, she told herself, but she still felt

disturbed, and she resolved to give nude swimming a miss for a

while. If one of the waiters from the club, say, was taking a

short-cut through the garden, there was no need to give him a field

day.

She pulled her clothes on to her still-damp body, and set off back

towards the bungalow, her head high, looking neither to right or

left.

Probably there was no one there at all. But everything was off-key

tonight because of Roche Delacroix, and she would be eternally

grateful when he turned his back on Cristoforo for ever.

Because, to her shame, she knew she would always be left

wondering just what that—that year out of her life might have been

like—with him.

SAMMA was woken from a light, unsatisfactory sleep by a crash,

and a muffled curse. She sat up, glancing at the illuminated dial of

the clock beside her bed, whistling faintly when she saw the time.

The poker game had gone on for longer than usual.

She lay for a few moments, listening to the sounds of movement

from the kitchen, then reached resignedly for her robe.

Clyde was sitting at the table, staring into space, a bottle and glass

in front of him. The eyes he turned on her were glazed and

bloodshot.

He muttered, 'Oh, there you are,' as if he'd been waiting for her to

join him.

She said, 'I'll make some black coffee.'

'No, sit down. I've got to talk to you.'

She said, 'If it's about what happened earlier—I'm sorry . . .'

'Oh, that.' He made a vague, dismissive gesture. 'No, it's something