Sara Craven - Devil And The Deep Sea

‘You’re so much better?’ She sent him a muted glare. ‘But you really don’t have to bother about me. I can take care of myself. And he’s not a wolf,’ she added, reverting in her mind’s eye to the portrait she’d planned. ‘He’s a pig, all pink and smooth, with a snout, and nasty little eyes half buried in fat.’

His brows rose mockingly. ‘You take a scurrilous view of the rest of humanity, mignonne. I hope this time your picture remains in your imagination only. Mr Baxter would be even less amused than I was if he knew how you saw him.’

‘So, you know who he is.’ Samma remembered that brief confrontation at the bar.

‘Who does not?’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘Both he—and his boat—tend to be unforgettable.’

Samma recalled just in time that this man was an enemy, and managed to stifle a giggle.

‘Then perhaps you should know he’s also a member of this poker school you’re so keen to join,’ she said tartly. ‘And he can afford to lose a great deal more than a deckhand’s wages.’

‘So I believe.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But your concern is unnecessary.’

‘I’m not concerned in the slightest,’ Samma denied instantly. ‘It wouldn’t matter to me if you lost every cent you possessed, but you could turn out to be a sore loser,’ she added, with a dubious look at the dark, tough face, and the raw strength of his shoulders.

He said softly, ‘It is true I prefer to win,’ and once again Samma was aware of that swift, appraising glance. She saw with relief that a waiter was approaching.

‘Good evening, sir. What may I get you?’ The cover charge was already noted on his pad as he waited deferentially.

‘A straight Jack Daniels,’ the Frenchman said, looking enquiringly at Samma. But the waiter interposed smoothly.

‘And a champagne cocktail for the lady, sir?’

Her companion shrugged again, his mouth twisting derisively. ‘If that is the usual practice—then by all means.’

Samma would have preferred fruit juice, but she knew protest was useless. She sat in smouldering silence until the drinks arrived, waiting vengefully for him to pick up the bill. But his face was expressionless as he glanced at the total, and it was Samma who found herself gaping, as he produced a bulging billfold, and peeled off the necessary amount, adding, she noticed, a tip for the waiter.

God, it was galling to find that he had all that money to waste on alcohol and gambling, when she was struggling to raise the price of an airfare to the United Kingdom! She tasted her cocktail, repressing a slight shudder. She knew that, if this man had been one of her island friends, she would have swallowed her pride, and asked for a loan.

Oh, why do friends have to be poor, and enemies rich? she wondered bitterly.

‘Well, why don’t you ask me?’ he said, and she bit back a startled gasp, wondering whether he included thought-reading among his other unpleasant attributes.

‘Ask what?’ She took another sip of her drink.

‘How I make my money,’ he drawled. ‘Your face, ma belle, is most revealing. You’re wondering how a humble deckhand could posibly have amassed so much money—or, if your earliest assessment is correct, and it is—pirate’s loot.’

‘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, chérie, 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.’