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.
Although this was not the worst that could happen to her, and she knew it. Outside this room, in the real world, was the threat of Manuel and the woman Consuela, and all the other unnamed horrors they implied.
She thought, I must do this. I have no choice …
His own smile widened a little. He said, ‘Aren’t you supposed to offer me a drink?’
‘Oh—yes.’ She moved to the table, stumbling a little in her haste. Glad of a momentary reprieve. ‘Would you like some champagne?’
And in her head she heard the echo of another girl—her father’s hostess, making sure his guests had all they needed. A girl she had wanted to leave behind.
Beware what you wish for, someone had once told her. Because it might come true.
‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘But don’t let me stop you. You look as if you need it.’
Chellie paused uncertainly. One of the club rules, she knew, was that the champagne was for the client. The girl did not drink alone, if at all.
She slid the bottle back into the melting ice. She said huskily, ‘I—I’m not thirsty.’
‘That makes two of us,’ he said. ‘See how much we have in common already?’ There was faint mockery in his voice. He looked her over again, almost meditatively, his eyes half closed.
‘I know you can sing,’ he said. ‘So, shall we discover what other talents you possess?’ He leaned back against the cushions—a man preparing himself for enjoyment. ‘Starting now?’ he added gently.
It was not a request, but a demand. She bent her head in acquiescence and came to stand in front of him, just out of reach but no more than that. Then, slowly, she began to move to the beat of the music.
SHE had not told Mama Rita the truth when she’d said she couldn’t dance. Because dancing had been one of her passions in that other, seemingly far-off lifetime.
Then, she’d turned herself deliberately into a party animal, going whenever she could to clubs and discos, losing herself totally in the pounding noise and frenetic rhythms of the music. Using the fevered momentum of her body to exorcise her teeming frustrations over her abortive singing career—as well as all the other limitations that being her father’s daughter had imposed on her life.
But this was not the same kind of music at all. This was slow and swaying, and deliberately, infinitely seductive. It wasn’t meant to induce forgetfulness. It had the opposite purpose—to entice the man watching
