The Bedroom Barter

The Bedroom Barter
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE waterfront was crowded, the air full of the reek of alcohol, greasy food, and the sultry rhythms of local music. People had spilled out of the crowded bars and sleazy clubs, forming shifting and edgy groups in the stifling humidity of the South American night.

Like a powder keg that only needed a spark was Ash Brennan’s wry assessment.

He moved easily but with purpose, at a pace barely above a saunter, over the uneven flagstones, his cool blue glance flicking over the gaudy neon signs advertising booze and women, ignoring the glances that came his way, some measuring, some inviting. All the time maintaining his own space.

Logistically it was only about a mile from the Santo Martino marina, where millionaires moored their yachts and where all the nightspots and casinos which catered for well-heeled tourists were sited. In reality it was light years away, and any tourist foolhardy enough to venture down here would need to take to his expensive heels or risk being mugged or worse.

Ash reckoned that he blended sufficiently well. The sun-bleached tips of his dark blond hair brushed the collar of the elderly blue shirt, which lay open at the throat to reveal a tanned muscular chest. Faded khaki pants clung to lean hips and long legs. His feet were thrust into ancient canvas shoes, and a cheap watch encircled his wrist.

His height and the width of his shoulders, as well as his air of self-possession, suggested a man who could take care of himself and, if provoked, would do so.

He looked like a deckhand in need of rest and recreation, but selective about where he found them.

And tonight his choice had apparently fallen on Mama Rita’s. He went past the display boards studded with photographs of girls in various stages of undress and down two steps into the club, where he paused, looking round him.

It was the usual sort of place, with a long bar and, closely surrounded by tables with solely male occupants, a small stage lit by powerful spots, with a central pole where the dancers performed.

The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the stink of cheap spirit. And, apart from the sound of the piano being played by a small sad-faced man with a heavy moustache, there was little noise. For the main part, the clientele sat brooding over their drinks.

Waiting for the girls to come on, Ash surmised.

Just inside the door, an enormous woman sat behind a table. Her low-cut sequinned dress in lime-green billowed over her spectacular rolls of fat as if it had been poured there, and her curly hair was dyed a rich mahogany. Her lips were stretched in a crimson-painted smile which never reached eyes that resembled small dark currants sunk into folds of pastry.

Mama Rita, I presume, Ash thought with an inward grimace.

She beckoned to him. ‘You pay the cover charge, querido.’ It was an instruction rather than a question, and Ash complied, his brows lifting faintly at the amount demanded.

‘I only want a drink, Mama. I’m not putting in an offer for your club.’

The smile widened. ‘You get a drink, my man. My best champagne, and a pretty girl to drink it with you.’

‘Just a beer.’ Ash met her gaze. ‘And I’ll decide if I want company.’

For a moment their glances clashed, then she shrugged, sending the sequins rippling and sparkling. ‘Anything you say, querido.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Manuel—find a good table for this beautiful man.’

Manuel, tall, handsome and sullen, set off towards the front row of tables clustering round the stage, but Ash detained him curtly.

‘This will do,’ he said, taking a seat at the back of the room. Manuel shrugged and went off to the bar while Ash, leaning back in his chair, took more careful stock of his surroundings.

He’d been told that Mama Rita had the pick of all the girls who came to Santo Martino, and it seemed to be true. A few of them were already sitting with customers, encouraging them to run up bar bills of cosmic proportions, but there were several lined up at the bar and Ash surveyed them casually as he took out a pack of thin cheroots and lit one, dropping the empty book of matches into the ashtray.

They were a fairly cosmopolitan mix, he thought. All of them young and most of them pretty.

He spotted a couple of North Americans and a few Europeans, as well as the local chicas who’d strayed into port from farms and plantations of looking for an alternative to early marriage and endless childbirth. Well, they’d found that all right, he thought cynically, stifling a brief pang of regret. Because he wasn’t there to feel compassion. He couldn’t afford it.

‘You see something you like, señor?’ Manuel was back with his beer, his smile knowing.

‘Not yet,’ Ash returned coolly, tapping the ash from his cheroot. ‘When I do, I’ll let you know.’

Manuel shrugged. ‘As you wish, señor. You have only to speak.’ He nodded towards an archway with a beaded curtain behind the stage. ‘We have rooms—very private rooms—where the girls would dance for you alone,’ he added with blatant insinuation. ‘I can arrange. At a price, naturalemente.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Ash. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

The beer was surprisingly good, and wonderfully cold, and he took several long deep swallows, turning his attention away from the flashing smiles of the hopeful girls and focussing instead on the piano player who was still doggedly persisting with a range of old standards in spite of the indifference of his audience.

I hope the old witch at the door pays you well, brother, Ash told him silently as he stubbed out the cheroot. You deserve it.

The pianist reached the end of his set and half-rose to acknowledge the non-existent applause. He seated himself again, and struck a chord loudly.

The bead curtain shivered and admitted a girl.

At her entrance a strange sound like a low growl went through the room. The predators scenting their prey, Ash thought with distaste, then paused, eyes narrowing as he saw her properly.

She was blonde, and slightly less than medium height in spite of her high heels, her slim, taut body complemented by the fluid lines of the brief black dress she was wearing. The strapless bodice was cut straight across the swell of her high rounded breasts, making her skin glow like ivory. The silky fabric clung to her slender hips, ending just below mid-thigh, giving the troubling impression that beneath it she was naked.

But she did not climb up on the stage and begin her routine. Instead, head slightly bent, looking at no one and ignoring the whistles and ribald shouts, she skirted the edge of the platform until she reached the piano. She leaned back against it, as if glad of its support, while the pianist played the introduction to ‘Killing Me Softly’.

She had an incredible face, Ash thought frowningly, his attention completely caught. In contrast to the tumble of fair hair on her shoulders her brows and lashes were startlingly dark, fringing eyes as green and wary as a cat’s. She had exquisite cheekbones, and her mouth was painted a hot, sexy pink.

And she was scared witless.

He’d known it from the moment of her entrance. Even across the crowd of waiting men he’d felt the force of her fear like a cold hand laid on his shoulder. Now he noticed the small hands balled into fists among the folds of her skirt, the blank, tense smile on her lips.

She was like a small animal, he thought, caught in the headlights of a car and powerless to move.

But there was no problem with her voice when she began to sing. It was low-pitched, powerful and faintly husky. The kind of voice a man would want to hear moaning his name at the moment of climax, Ash thought, his mouth curving in self-contempt.

Her audience was listening while she sang, but with a faint restiveness. However appealing her voice might be, it was the promise offered by the skimpy dress that mattered to them. They couldn’t believe it was just a song that was on offer. All the other girls took off their clothes, so why shouldn’t she?

She moved effortlessly into the next song—‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. She was no longer staring at the floor. Her head was up, and she seemed to be looking far beyond the confines of the club with a wistfulness and undisguised yearning that matched the words of the song.

And in that moment, as her voice trembled into silence, Ash’s gaze met hers over the heads of the crowd. Met—and held it for one endless, breathless moment.

Now, he thought, I know why I came here tonight.

The number over, she ducked her head swiftly and shyly in response to the sprinkling of applause, and went back the way she had come. Ash waited to see if she would glance back at him, but she did not, simply vanishing behind the curtain, followed by catcalls and shouts of disappointment.

Ash drained his beer and got to his feet. Mama Rita looked up at his approach, her eyes sharp and shrewd.

‘You want something, querido?’

‘I want the songbird,’ Ash said levelly.

She considered that. ‘To sit with you—have a few drinks—be nice?’

‘Nice, yes,’ Ash told her. ‘But in one of your private rooms, Mama. I want her to dance for me. Alone.’

Her brows lifted and she began to laugh, the sequins shaking and flashing. ‘She’s my newest girl. She still learning, mi corazón. And maybe I’m saving her for a rich customer, anyway. You couldn’t afford her.’

He said softly, ‘Try me.’

‘Crazy man,’ she said. ‘Why spend all your money? Choose another girl. One who dances good.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The songbird. I’ll pay the price for her.’

She looked him over. ‘You got that sort of money?’ There was frank disbelief in her voice.

‘You know that I have.’ Ash took a billfold from his back pocket, peeled off some notes, and tossed them on to the table in front of her. ‘And I know what I want.’

She picked them up swiftly. ‘That for me,’ she said. ‘Commission. You pay her too. Whatever she worth. Whatever you get her to do. Should be easy,’ she added. ‘Beautiful man like you, querido.’ She chuckled again. ‘Teach her some lessons, Sí?’

‘Sí,’ Ash said softly. ‘The lessons of a lifetime.’ He paused. ‘Does she have a name?’

She tucked the money he’d given her into her cleavage and surged to her feet. ‘She called Micaela.’ She leered triumphantly at him. ‘You have another beer—on the house. I go tell your songbird that she’s lucky girl.’

I only hope, Ash said silently, watching Mama Rita’s departure, that she thinks so too.

But that, he thought as he went back to his table, was in the lap of the gods—like so much else. And he ordered his beer and settled down to wait.

Chellie sank on to the stool in front of the mirror, gripping the edge of the dressing table until the shaking stopped. It was nearly a month since she’d started singing in the club, and she ought to be used to it by now. But she wasn’t, and maybe she never would be.

It was the men’s faces—the hot, hungry eyes devouring her—that she couldn’t handle, the things they called out to her that she was thankful she couldn’t understand properly.

‘How do you bear it?’ she’d asked Jacinta, one of the pole dancers and the only girl working at Mama Rita’s to be even marginally friendly.

Jacinta had shrugged. ‘I don’t see,’ she’d replied brusquely. ‘I smile, but I don’t look at them. I look past—think my own thoughts. Is better that way.’

It seemed wise advice, and Chellie had followed it. Until tonight, that was, when, totally against her will, she’d found herself being drawn almost inexorably to a man’s gaze. True, he’d been sitting by himself at one of the rear tables, in itself unusual, as most of the male clientele liked to bunch at the front, baying like wolves for every inch of exposed flesh. But that wasn’t the only thing that had seemed to set him apart.

For one thing, he was clearly a European, and they didn’t get many at the club.

For another, he was strikingly—almost dangerously attractive, his surface good looks masking a toughness as potent as a clenched fist.

Even across the crowded club he’d made her aware of that.

She thought in bewilderment, Somehow he made me look at him …

So, what could have brought him to seek the tawdry erotic stimulus of a place like Mama Rita’s?

Chellie’s experience of men was frankly limited, but instinct told her that this was the last man on earth who would need to buy his pleasures.

Oh, God, she thought impatiently, things must be bad if you’re starting to fantasise about a customer.

And things were indeed about as bad as they could get. Her life had become a nightmare without end, she realised as she peeled off the loathsome blonde wig, and ran her fingers thankfully through the short feathery spikes of raven hair that it concealed.

Mama Rita had been adamant about that. Brunettes were no novelty in this part of the world. The men who came to her club wanted blondes, and pale-skinned blondes at that.

It had seemed such a small concession at the time, and she’d been so desperate—so grateful for a place to stay and the chance to earn some money—that she’d probably have agreed to anything. Especially as she was being given the chance to sing. She’d thought it was the end of the disasters that had befallen her. Instead, it had only been the beginning.

She wouldn’t need to stay at the club long, she’d told herself with supreme confidence. She’d soon save enough for an air ticket out of here.

Only it hadn’t worked out like that. The money she received had seemed reasonable when it was first offered, but once Mama Rita had exacted rent for that tiny cockroach-ridden room on the top floor of the club, money for the hire of the tacky dresses she insisted that Chellie wore, and payment for the services of Gomez the piano player—which she was convinced he never saw—Chellie barely had enough left to feed herself.

And, worst of all, Mama Rita had taken her passport, which was about all she had left in the world, and locked it away in her desk, making her a virtual prisoner.

The trap had opened and she’d walked straight into it, she realised bitterly.

There was always the option of earning more, of course, as Mama Rita had made clear from the start. Chellie could be friendly, and sit with the customers, encourage them to buy bogus and very expensive champagne. But even if the thought of it hadn’t made her flesh crawl she’d been warned off by Jacinta.

‘You earn more—she takes more,’ the other girl had said with a shrug.

‘You sit with a customer one day; you take your clothes off next. Because you don’t get out of here unless Mama Rita says so. And she chooses when and where you go. And you ain’t served your time yet.’

She’d paused, giving Chellie a level look. ‘There are worse places than this, believe it. And don’t try running away, because she always finds you, and then you will be sorrier than you ever dreamed.’

I think I’ve already reached that point, Chellie thought bleakly. And who ever said blondes had more fun?

She sighed, then got up and began to root along the dress rail in the corner. She performed two sets each evening and had to wear something different for every appearance, which presented its own problems. When she’d begun, she’d worn evening dresses, but these had gradually been taken away and replaced by the kind of revealing costumes the dancers and hostesses wore. Which severely restricted her choice.

She bit her lip hard when she came to the latest addition, a micro-skirt in shiny black leather topped by a bodice that was simply a network of small black beads. She might as well wear nothing at all, but she supposed that was the point Mama Rita was making.

But that’s never going to happen, she told herself with grim determination. I’m going to get away from here somehow, whatever the risk. And from now on I’m trusting no one. Especially men …

Her whole body winced as she thought of Ramon. She tried very hard not to think of him, but that wasn’t always possible, although the physical memory of him was mercifully fading with every day that passed. She could barely recall what he looked like, or the sound of his voice. One day she might forget his touch, she thought with a shiver, or even the painful delusion that she’d been in love with him.

In a way, she acknowledged, everything that had occurred between them seemed remote—as if it had happened to two other people in some separate lifetime.

Only it hadn’t, of course. And that was why she found herself here, duped, robbed and dumped, in this appalling mess.

It might be humiliating to retrace the steps that had brought her here, but it was also salutary.

After all, she’d needed to escape from her life in England and the future that was being so inexorably planned for her. In spite of everything, she still believed that. It was just unfortunate that, through Ramon, all she’d done was jump out of the frying pan into a fire like the flames of hell.

But somehow she was going to wrench her life back into her own control.

I’ll survive, she told herself with renewed determination.

As she hung the black dress back on the rail the flimsy curtain over the dressing room entrance was pushed aside and Lina, one of the lap dancers, came in.

‘Mama Rita wants to see you, girl, in her office—now.’

Chellie’s brows snapped together. It was the first time she’d been summoned like this. Usually a girl was called up because of some misdemeanour, she thought, tensing in spite of herself. She’d seen several of the girls with scratched faces and bruised and bleeding mouths after an encounter with Mama Rita’s plump ring-laden hands.

Aware that the dancers operated a grapevine second to none, she strove to keep her voice level. ‘Do you know why?’

Lina’s eyes glinted with malice. ‘Maybe you’re going to start working for your living, honey, like the rest of us.’

Chellie faced her, lifting her chin. ‘I do work—as a singer.’

‘Yeah?’ Lina’s tone was derisive. ‘Well, all that may be about to change. The word is that some guy wants to know you better.’

Chellie felt the colour drain from her face. ‘No,’ she said hoarsely. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Take it up with Mama Rita.’ Lina shrugged indifferently. ‘And don’t keep her waiting.’

The office was one floor up, via a rickety iron staircase. Chellie approached it slowly, the beat of her heart like a trip-hammer. Surely—surely this couldn’t be happening, she thought. Surely Lina was just being malicious. Because Mama Rita had told her at the beginning that there were plenty of willing girls at the club, and that she would never be pressured into anything she did not want.

And Chellie had believed that. In fact, she’d counted on it.

There was a clatter of feet on the stairs and Manuel came into view.

Chellie stepped back to allow him to pass, trying not to shrink too visibly. From the moment she’d started working at the club she’d found him a problem. If she hadn’t already been repelled by his coarse good looks, then his constant attempts to get her into corners and fondle her would have aroused her disgust.

The first night in her cramped and musty room, some instinct had prompted her to wedge a chair under the handle of her door. And some time in the small hours she’d woken from an uneasy sleep to hear a stealthy noise outside, and the sound of the handle being tried in vain. She’d observed the same precaution ever since.

There was no point in complaining to Mama Rita either, because the other girls reckoned Manuel was her nephew—some even said her son.

Now, he favoured her with his usual leer. ‘Hola, honey girl.’

‘Good evening.’ Chellie kept her tone curt, and his unpleasant grin widened.

‘Oh, you’re so high—so proud, chica. Too good for poor Manuel. Maybe tomorrow you sing a different tune.’ He licked his lips. ‘And you’ll sing it for me.’

She controlled her shiver of revulsion. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

The office door was open and Mama Rita was sitting at her desk, using her laptop. She greeted Chellie with a genial smile. ‘You were a big hit tonight, hija. One of the customers liked you so much he wants a private performance.’

Chellie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Any particular song?’ She sounded more cool than she felt.

‘You making a joke with me, querida?’ The geniality was suddenly in short supply. ‘He wants that you dance for him.’ The mountainous body mimed grotesquely what was required.

Chellie shook her head. ‘I don’t dance,’ she said, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘I—I never have. I don’t know how …’

‘You have watched the others.’ Mama Rita shrugged. ‘And he don’t want some high-tone ballerina. You have a good body. Use it.’

Yes, Chellie thought, but I’ve only watched the girls table dancing in the club itself. That has limits. The private room thing is totally different …

She said desperately, ‘But you employ me as a singer. That was the deal. We have a contract …’

Mama Rita laughed contemptuously. ‘Sí, but the terms just changed.’

‘Then you’re in breach, and that cancels any agreement between us.’ Chellie kept her hands bunched in the folds of her skirt to conceal the fact that they were trembling. ‘So, if you’ll return my passport, I’ll leave at once,’ she added with attempted insouciance.

‘You think it that simple?’ The older woman shook her head almost sorrowfully. ‘You dream, hija.’

‘I fail to see what’s so complicated.’ Chellie lifted her chin. ‘Legally, you’ve broken the association between us. End of story.’

‘This my club. I make the law here.’ Mama Rita leaned forward, her eyes glittering like her sequins. ‘And you go nowhere. Because I keep your passport as security until you pay your debts here.’

Chellie was suddenly very still. ‘But the rent—everything is paid in advance.’

Mama Rita sighed gustily. ‘Not everything, chica. There is your medical bill.’

‘Medical bill?’ Chellie repeated in total bewilderment. ‘What are you talking about?’

There was a tut of reproof. ‘You have a short memory. When you first come here I call a doctor to examine you. To check whether you sick with pneumonia.’

Chellie recalled with an inward grimace a small fat man with watery, bloodshot eyes and unpleasantly moist hands, who’d breathed raw alcohol into her face as he bent unsteadily over her.

She said, ‘I remember. What of it?’

Mama Rita handed her a sheet of paper. ‘See—this is what you owe him.’

Chellie took it numbly, her lips parting in shock as she read the total.

She said hoarsely, ‘But he can’t ask this. He was only with me for about two minutes—he prescribed none of the stuff listed here—and he was drunk. You know that.’

‘I know that you were sick, girl, needing a doctor. And Pedro Alvarez is good man.’ She nodded, as if enjoying a private joke. ‘Plenty discreet. You may be glad of that one day.’

She paused, studying Chellie with quiet satisfaction. ‘But you don’t leave owing all this money, chica. So, you have to earn to pay it. And this man who wants you has cash to spend. Good-looking hombre too.’ A laugh shook her, sending the rolls of fat wobbling. ‘Be nice—you could make all you need in one night.’

‘No.’ Chellie shook her head almost violently, her arms crossing over her body in an unconsciously defensive gesture. ‘I can’t. I won’t. And you can’t make me.’

‘No?’ The small eyes glared at her with sudden malevolence. Mama Rita brought the flat of her hand down hard on the desk. ‘I patient with you, chica, but no more. You do what you’re told—understand?’ She sat back, breathing heavily. ‘Maybe I give you to Manuel first—let him teach you to be grateful. You want that?’

‘No,’ Chellie said, her voice barely audible. ‘I don’t.’

Mama paused. ‘Or I send you to my friend Consuela.’ She gave a grating laugh. ‘She don’t ask you to sing or dance.’

Oh, God, Chellie thought, her throat closing in panic as she remembered overheard dressing room gossip. Not that—anything but that.

She bent her head defeatedly. ‘No,’ she said. Then, with difficulty, ‘Please …’

‘Now you begin think sense.’ Mama nodded with satisfaction. ‘Lina will take you to room. Then I send him to you.’

Lina was waiting in the passage outside. She gave Chellie a contemptuous grin. ‘Joining the real world, honey? After tonight, maybe you won’t be looking down your nose at the rest of us.’

‘Is that what I did?’ Chellie asked numbly. ‘I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

Lina looked at her sharply. ‘Hey, you’re not going to pass out on me, are you? Because Mama would not find that funny.’

‘No,’ Chellie said, with an effort. ‘I’ll try and stay conscious.’

‘What’s the big problem, anyway?’ Lina threw open a door at the end of the passage. ‘You must’ve known Mama wasn’t running no charity. So, why come here?’

Chellie looked around her, an icy finger tracing her spine. The room, with its heavily shaded lamps, wasn’t large, and was totally dominated by a wide crimson couch with heaped cushions that stood against one wall. Music with a slow Latin beat was playing softly, and a bottle of champagne on ice with two glasses waited on a small side table.

She said wearily, ‘It wasn’t exactly my choice. I was robbed, and I went to the police. One of them said he’d find me a safe place to stay while they traced my money. And this was it.’

‘That figures.’ Lina shrugged. ‘It’s how Mama gets a lot of her girls—she pays the police to send her the debris that washes up on the beach.’

Chellie bit her lip. ‘Thanks.’

‘De nada.’ Lina walked to the door, then hesitated. ‘Look, honey, it’s no big deal. Just smile and make like you’re enjoying yourself. It’s not your first time—right?’

‘No.’ Chellie tried not think about those few humiliating, uncomfortable nights with Ramon. At the time she’d thought nothing worse could happen to her. How wrong could anyone be? she asked herself with bitter irony.

‘If things get heavy there’s a panic button under the table,’ Lina added. ‘But don’t press unless you actually need to, or Manuel won’t like it. And you really don’t want to upset him. He’s one of the bad guys.’ She fluttered her fingers in mocking farewell. ‘So—good luck.’

All the walls were hung with floor-length drapes, so it was impossible to tell where the window was—if it existed at all. And past experience suggested it would be locked and barred even if Chellie could find it—before the client found her.

But she could really do with some fresh air. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, and thick with some musky scent. She began to walk round the edge of the room, her heels sinking into the soft thick carpet, lifting the curtains and finding only blank wall to her increasing frustration.

She wasn’t sure of the exact moment when she realised she wasn’t alone any longer.

She hadn’t heard the door, and the carpet must have muffled the sound of his footsteps. Yet he was there—behind her. Waiting. She knew it as surely as if he’d come across the room and put a hand on her shoulder.

For a moment she felt the breath catch in her throat, then she allowed the curtain she was holding to drop back into place and turned slowly and reluctantly to face him.

And paused, her eyes widening in total incredulity as she recognised him. As she registered all over again, but this time at much closer quarters, the cool, uncompromising good looks—the high-bridged nose, the strong lines of jaw and cheekbones. The face of a man who did not take no for an answer.

He was lounging on the sofa, totally at his ease. There was even a faint smile playing round his firmly sculpted mouth.

She was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life—her whole body shaking—embarrassed to the point of nausea—yet for one moment her overriding emotion was disappointment.

She’d thought he’d strayed into the club by mistake, but she was wrong. He was no better than the whooping, slavering crowd bunched round the stage. And regret sliced at her.

He said softly, ‘Buenas noches, Micaela.’

Her throat muscles were too taut for words, so she ducked her head in a brief, awkward nod of response.

Micaela, she thought. That was her name in this place—her identity. And her shield. If she could just hide behind it, she could perhaps make herself believe that none of this was happening to her. That she was someone altogether different, in another place, just as she did when she sang. And somehow she would be able to—endure …

He was silent for a moment, the cool blue gaze travelling over her so slowly and thoroughly that it made removing her clothes seem almost unnecessary.

Beneath the fragile covering of the black dress Chellie felt her skin tingle and burn under his absorbed scrutiny. She knew she should begin the pretence. Micaela would force her mouth into a smile, but Chellie found it impossible.