Devil And The Deep Sea

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller."A year out of your life. What price would you ask?"Samma supposed that any other woman would surely slap the face of a man who would pose such a question. But Samma couldn't afford that luxury with Roche Delacroix.With her stepfather ready to sell her «favors» to clear his gambling debts, Roche represented Samma's only avenue of escape from an unthinkable future on Cristoforo Island.Only a few hours earlier, the lips that opened the suggestive negotiation had made Samma so thoroughly aware of being female. Samma couldn't help feeling that life was doubly unfair.

Devil and the Deep Sea Sara Craven

Devil and the Deep Sea

Sara Craven

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.

CHAPTER ONE

THE breeze from the sea whipped a strand of pale fair hair across Samma Briant’s cheek, and she flicked it back impatiently as she bent over her drawing-board.

The waterfront at Cristoforo was crowded, as it always was when a cruise ship was in. Tourists were eagerly exploring the bars and souvenir shops along the quayside, and stopping to look at the stalls which sold locally made jewellery, carvings and paintings of island scenes. And a lot of them lingered where Samma sat on an upturned crate, amused and fascinated by her talent for capturing an instant likeness on paper, and willing to pay the modest fee she charged for her portraits.

She didn’t consider herself to be an artist. She possessed a knack, no more, for fixing on some facial characteristic of each subject, and subtly exploiting it. But she enjoyed her work, and on days like this it was even reasonably lucrative.

She had a small crowd around her already, and her day would have been just about perfect, except for one large, mauve, chrome-glittering cloud on her horizon—Sea Anemone, surely the most vulgar motor yacht in the Caribbean, currently moored a few hundred yards away in Porto Cristo’s marina. Because Sea Anemone’s presence at Cristoforo meant that her owner, the equally large and garish Mr Hugo Baxter, would be at the hotel tonight, playing poker with Samma’s stepfather, Clyde Lawson.

One glimpse of that monstrous mauve hulk lying at anchor had been enough to start Samma’s stomach churning uneasily. It was only six weeks since Hugo Baxter’s last visit. She’d thought they were safe for at least another month or two. Yet, here he was again closing in for the kill, she thought bitterly, as she signed the portrait she’d just finished with a small flourish, and handed it over to her delighted sitter with a brief, professional smile.

The fact was they couldn’t afford another visit from Hugo Baxter. Samma had no idea what her stepfather’s exact financial position was—he would never discuss it with her—but she suspected it might be desperately precarious.

When Clyde had met and married her mother during a visit to Britain, he had been a moderately affluent businessman, owning a small but prosperous hotel, and a restaurant on the small Caribbean island of Cristoforo. The island was just beginning to take off as a cruise ship stopping-point, and the future should have been rosy—except for Clyde’s predilection for gambling. While Samma’s mother had been alive, he’d kept his proclivities more or less under control, but since her death two years earlier things had gone from bad to worse. The restaurant had had to be sold to pay his debts, and the hotel hadn’t had the redecoration and refurbishment it needed, either.

Clyde seemed to win so seldom, Samma thought broodingly, and when Hugo Baxter was in the game his losses worsened to a frightening extent.

She motioned her next customer to the folding chair in front of her, and began to sketch in the preliminary shape of her head and shoulders with rapid, confident strokes.

Clyde’s only remaining asset was the hotel. And if we lose that, she thought despondently, I’m never going to get off this island.

Probably the woman she was sketching would have thrown up her hands in horror at the thought of anyone wanting to leave Cristoforo. ‘Isn’t this paradise?’ was the usual tourist cry.

Well, it was and it wasn’t, Samma thought cynically. During the years when she’d spent her school holidays here, she’d taken the romantic view, too. She’d been in the middle of her A-level course when her mother had collapsed and died from a heart attack. She’d flown to Cristoforo for the funeral, only to discover when it was over that the trust which was paying her school fees had ceased with her mother’s death, and that Clyde had no intention of paying out for her to complete her education.

‘It’s time you started working to keep yourself,’ he told her aggressively. ‘Besides, I need you here to take your mother’s place.’

Sick at heart, confused by her grief for her mother, Samma had agreed to stay. But it had been a serious mistake. When Clyde had spoken of her working for her keep, he meant just that, she’d found. She received no wage for her work at the hotel. The only money she earned was through her sketches, and although she saved as much as she could towards her airfare back to the United Kingdom, it was a wretchedly slow process.

But even if she’d been reasonably affluent, she would still have been disenchanted with Cristoforo. It was a small island, socially and culturally limited, with a hideously high cost of living. And, when the holiday season ended, it was dull.

And working at the hotel, and more particularly in the small nightclub Clyde had opened in the grounds, Samma had been shocked when she’d experienced the leering attentions of many of the male guests. Coming from the comparative shelter of boarding-school, almost overnight she’d discovered that to most of the male visitors to the island she was an object, rather than a person, and she’d been revolted by the blatant sexism of their attitude to her. She’d soon learned to hide herself in a shell of aloof reserve which chilled the ardour of the most determined predator. But she was aware that, by doing so, she was also cutting herself off from the chance of perhaps forming a real and lasting relationship. However, this was a risk she had to take, although she was forced to admit she’d never been even mildly attracted by any of the men who stayed at the hotel, or hung round the bar at the Black Grotto club.

One day, she thought, one day, when she got back to England and found herself a decent job, and a life of her own, she would meet someone she could be happy with. Until then, she’d stay insulated in her cocoon of indifference.

Except when Hugo Baxter was around, she reminded herself uneasily. He seemed impervious to any rebuff, seeking her out, taking any opportunity to touch her, Samma’s skin crawled at the thought. One thing was certain, she was keeping well away from the Black Grotto tonight.

She handed over her completed portrait, and glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon, and people were drifting away in search of lunch and shade. Time for a break, Samma thought, getting to her feet and stretching vigorously. As she lifted her arms above her head, she was suddenly aware she was being watched, and she looked round.

Startled, her eyes met another gaze, dark, faintly amused and totally male in its assessment of the thrust of her rounded breasts against her brief cotton top, Samma realised in the embarrassed moment before she looked away with icy disdain.

But she was left with a disturbing impression of height and strength, and sun-bronzed skin revealed by a brief pair of cut-off denims. As well as an absurd feeling of self-consciousness, she thought resentfully.

She should be used to being looked at. In a community where most people were dark-haired and dark-skinned, her pale skin and blonde hair, as straight and shining as rain water, naturally attracted attention, and usually she could cope with this.

But there had been something so provocatively and deliberately—masculine about this stranger’s regard that it had flicked her on the raw.

And her antennae told her that he was still looking. She picked up her sketch-block, and began drawing at random—the neighbouring stall, where Mindy, its owner, was selling a view of the marina to a tourist couple who were trying and failing to beat him down over the price. But her fingers, inexplicably, were all thumbs, fudging the lines, and she tore the sheet off, crumpling it irritably.

She stole a sideways glance under her lashes, making an assessment of her own. He was leaning on the rail of one of the sleekest and glossiest of the many craft in the marina, and looking totally out of place, she decided critically, although she supposed he was good-looking, in a disreputable way—that was, if you liked over-long and untidy black hair, and a great beak of a nose which looked as if it had been broken at least once in its career.

He was the image, she thought contemptuously, of some old-time pirate chief, surveying the captive maiden from his quarter-deck. He only needed a cutlass and a parrot—and she would give them to him!

Her mouth curving, she drew the preliminary outline, emphasising the stranger’s nose almost to the point of caricature, adding extra rakishness with earrings, and a bandanna swathed round that shock of dark hair. She transformed his expression of faint amusement into an evil leer, gave the parrot on his shoulder a squint, then pinned the sketch up on the display board behind her with a flourish.

He would never see it, of course. The boat’s owner had clearly left him on watch, and probably with good reason. Only a thief bent on suicide would want to tangle with a physique that tough, and shoulders that broad.

She had a quick, retentive eye for detail, but it annoyed her just the same to find how deeply his image had impressed itself on her consciousness. One eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation and a quick sideways glance, and she’d been able to draw him at once, whereas she normally allowed herself a much more searching scrutiny before she began. Yet this sketch had worked, even if it was a shade vindictive.

And, in its way, it turned out to be a good advertisement. People strolling past stopped to laugh, and stayed to be drawn themselves. They seemed to like the element of cartoon she’d incorporated, although Mindy, loping across with a slice of water melon for her, raised his brows when he saw it, and murmured, ‘Friend of yours, gal?’

Another swift glance had revealed, to her relief, that the rail of the boat was now deserted. Doubtless he’d remembered the owner didn’t pay him for standing about, eyeing up the local talent, she thought, scooping a handful of hair back from her face with a slim, suntanned hand.

She was putting the finishing touches to the portrait of a pretty redhead with amazing dimples, undoubtedly on honeymoon with the young man who watched her so adoringly, when a shadow fell across her pad.

Samma glanced up in irritation, the words ‘Excuse me’ freezing unspoken on her lips.

Close to, he was even more formidable. Distance had cloaked the determination of that chin, and the firm, uncompromising lines of his mouth. There was a distinct glitter, too, in those midnight-dark eyes which Samma found distinctly unnerving.

It annoyed her, too, that he was standing over her like this, putting her at a disadvantage. He was the kind of man she’d have preferred to face on equal terms—although to do so she’d probably have to stand on her crate, she thought, her mouth quirking involuntarily.

But there was no answering softness in the face of the man towering over her. He was looking past her at the display board, where the pirate drawing fluttered in the breeze.

He said, ‘I have come to share the joke.’ His voice was low and resonant, with the faintest trace of an accent.

‘Is there one?’ Samma, aware that her fingers were trembling, concentrated hard on the elaborate combination of her initials which she used as a signature, before passing over the new sketch.

‘It seems so.’ His voice cut coldly across the excited thanks of the young couple, as they paid and departed. ‘They say it is always instructive to see oneself through the eyes of another. I am not sure I agree.’

The pirate sketch was outrageous, over the top, totally out of order, and Samma knew that now, but she wasn’t going to apologise. He’d damned well asked for it, staring at her like that. Mentally undressing her, she added for good measure.

She smiled lightly, and got to her feet, hoping he’d step back and give her room, but he didn’t.

‘An interesting philosophical point,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I don’t hang around to debate it with you. It’s time I took a break.’

‘Ideal.’ The brief smile which touched his lips didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I was about to offer you lunch, mademoiselle.’

So, he was French. Samma could see Mindy listening avidly. She said, ‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’

She used the tone of cool, bored finality which worked so well with the would-be Romeos at the hotel, but its only effect on this aggravating man was to widen his smile.

‘Then my interest has waned—sharply,’ Samma snapped. ‘And maybe you should learn to take “no” for an answer.’

He shrugged. His skin was like teak, she noticed irrelevantly, darkened even further by the shadowing of hair on the muscular chest, forearms, and long, sinewy legs.

Before she could guess his intention, or make any more to thwart him, he reached for her, his hands clamping on her waist, hoisting her into the air, and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. For a moment she was stunned, dangling there, staring down at the dusty stones of the quay; then, as he began to move, she came to furious life, struggling, kicking, pummelling the strong, smooth back with her fists.

But it was like punching reinforced concrete, and he didn’t even flinch. To make matters worse, she could hear laughter and even a smattering of applause from the watchers on the quay as he walked off with her.

Mindy was her friend, but he wasn’t lifting a finger to help her, and if he imagined for one moment she relished this kind of treatment then she would be happy to disillusion him, she thought, almost incandescent with rage and humiliation.

She saw the slats of the gangplank beneath her. She expected that he would put her down when they reached the deck, but she was wrong. With alarming effortlessness, he negotiated a companionway, and entered a big, sunny saloon. Then, at last, he lowered her to her feet.

Breathless and giddy, she confronted him. ‘You bastard!’ Her voice shook. ‘How dare you treat me like that?’

He shrugged again. He wasn’t smiling any more. ‘You chose to hold me up to ridicule. You can hardly complain if I make you look a little foolish also.’

‘Well, you’ve achieved your objective,’ Samma said grimly. ‘And now I’m leaving.’

‘But I prefer that you stay.’ His voice was soft, but it held a note which told her that he meant it. That, if she tried to leave, she would be prevented.

‘I don’t know what you hope to gain by this behaviour.’ With an effort, she kept her voice steady.

‘Nothing too devastating, chérie,’ he drawled. ’Merely a companion to share some food and wine with me in the middle of the day.’

Samma lifted her brows. ‘Do you always have to resort to strong-arm tactics when you need company? You must be desperate.’

No, not for a moment she didn’t. This man would only have to click his fingers and women would come running, but she was on the ropes in this bout, and she would say or do anything to escape.

The saloon was enormous, and luxuriously furnished, but somehow he made it seem cramped.

He was too tall, too dominating, the kind of man she would go out of her way to avoid, and she’d been mad to provoke him with the pirate sketch.

But there wasn’t anything too major to worry about, she tried to assure herself. After all, his employer could return at any time, or so she supposed. And, if the going really got tough, she could always scream for Mindy.

She gave him a straight look. ‘Fine—you’ve had your joke. Now, I’d like to get on with my life—quietly, and without hassle.’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘Nothing happens on these islands around noon, or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘You are a permanent resident?’ His tone held a trace of surprise. ‘But you certainly weren’t born here. I thought you were one of the new generation of island-hoppers, drifting from one location to the next like a butterfly—using your—talent—to buy your living.’

There was something in his voice which told Samma he wasn’t referring to her artistic gifts, such as they were, and in spite of herself she felt a hot blush burn her face.

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ she said grittily. ‘And now we’ve cleared up that little misunderstanding, perhaps you’ll let me go. My friends will be wondering where I am.’

Samma almost ground her teeth. Why had she got involved in this kind of verbal sparring? she asked herself despairingly. Why hadn’t she adopted her usual ploy of blank eyes and assumed deafness? Why had she let him get to her like this?

She said quietly, ‘Look, you’ve made your point. Is there any need to go on—punishing me like this?’

‘Punishment?’ His mouth curled, drawing her unwilling attention to the sensual line of his lower lip. ‘Is that how you regard the offer of a meal. The food on Allegra isn’t that bad.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he acknowledged sardonically, ‘So—what do you suppose you deserve for your impudence in drawing me as you did?’

‘I draw what I see,’ Samma flashed. ‘And everything that you’ve said or done since has only convinced me how right I was.’

‘Is that a fact?’ His voice slowed to a drawl. ‘So, you really think I’m a pirate.’ He shrugged. ‘Then it seems I need have no compunction.’

He moved towards her, purposefully, but without haste and Samma backed away, until the pressure of the long, cushioned seat which ran the length of the saloon prevented any further retreat.

‘Keep away from me.’ To her fury, she sounded breathless and very young, her words more an appeal than a command.

‘Make me,’ he invited silkily. There was a disturbing glint in the dark eyes as he moved closer. With one hand, he pushed her gently down on the cushion, then sat beside her.

Samma’s mouth was suddenly dry. For the first time she had to question her actual physical ability to scream if the situation demanded it. She wanted to look away from him, but she couldn’t. It was as if she was mesmerised—like a rabbit with a snake, she thought hysterically. She tried to steady her breathing, to mentally reject the effect his proximity was having on her. She could feel prickles of sweat breaking out all over her body, allied to a strange trembling in her lower limbs, and she tensed, bewildered by the unfamiliarity of her own reactions.

His gaze travelled slowly and relentlessly down her body, and she shivered as if it was his hands which were touching her. Since her return to Cristoforo, she’d never worn a bra, considering her firm young breasts made such a restriction unnecessary. Now, as they seemed to swell and grow heavy against the thin fabric of her top, she began to wish she was encased in whalebone from head to foot—armour-plated, even.

She saw him smile, as if he’d guessed exactly what she was thinking. His eyes continued their downward journey, resting appraisingly on the curve of her hips, and the slender length of her thighs, revealed by her brief white shorts.

She had never, she thought dazedly, been made so thoroughly aware that she was female.

He said softly, ‘There are many ways of taming a woman—and I am tempted. But for an impertinent child—this is altogether more appropriate.’

Before she knew what was happening, Samma found herself face downwards over his knee, suffering the unbearable indignity of half a dozen hard and practised slaps on her rear. The first was enough to drag a startled gasp from her, and she sank her teeth into her lower lip, pride forbidding her to make another sound.

Then, with appalling briskness, he set her upright again, his amused glance taking in her flushed face and watery eyes.

When she could speak, she said chokingly, ‘You swine—you bloody sadist …’

He tutted reprovingly. ‘Your language, mademoiselle, is as ill-advised as your sense of humour. I have taught you one lesson,’ he added coldly. ‘Please do not make it necessary for me to administer another.’

‘I’ll find out who owns this boat,’ she promised huskily. ‘And when I do—I’ll have you fired. I’m sure your boss would be delighted to know you take advantage of his absence by—by abusing girls in his saloon.’

He stared at her for a moment, then began to laugh. ‘Considering the provocation, I think he would say you had got off lightly.’ He paused. ‘Had you been adult, then retribution might have taken a very different form. Perhaps you should think yourself fortunate.’ He gave her a swiftly measuring look. ‘And perhaps, too, you should leave—before I change my mind.’

Uncaring of the few remaining rags of dignity left to her, she half ran, half stumbled to the door, only to hear as she scrambled up the companionway to freedom, fighting angry tears, his laughter following her.

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