The Bedroom Barter

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.

CHAPTER TWO (#u4387c566-248c-565c-80e9-55da09967dbc)

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 her into opening his wallet to pay for each further revelation.

And that was what she had to do in order to survive.

She tried desperately to remember what Jacinta had told her. Smile, but don’t look. Raise a mental barricade and keep the greedy, leering eyes at bay. Close yourself off emotionally from all that follows.

Because this is not you, she reminded herself. This is Micaela, and she does not even exist, so that nothing that happens to her can harm you.

Not that the client’s meditative blue gaze held any real hint of incipient lust, or even particular interest in her performance so far. He, too, seemed to be thinking about something else.

He asked for me, Chellie thought, bewildered. So why isn’t he looking at me? Am I boring him? Oh, God, I need—I really need to get this right, or Mama Rita will make me suffer.

She began to move her hips with deliberate sinuousness, her hand smoothing the brief silky skirt against her slender thighs, even pulling it up slightly, then letting it drift back. And saw his brows lift in almost mocking acknowledgement of the teasing promise that her actions implied.

‘Why not come a little closer?’ he invited softly. ‘Or does that cost extra?’

Chellie shook her head, not trusting her voice.

‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ he went on. ‘I don’t bite, unless specifically requested to do so. And, anyway, I believe the rules state that I’m only allowed to watch—not touch.’

Rules? Chellie thought wildly. In a place like this? What rules could possibly apply? Was he crazy or just naïve?

‘Or not without your permission, at least,’ he added almost idly. ‘Which I admit doesn’t seem likely at the moment.’ He took out his billfold. ‘Perhaps this might soften your heart—hmm?’

He extracted some notes and placed them on the table beside the ice bucket. ‘So, maybe we could—move the performance on a little? Just so that my evening isn’t completely wasted.’

In other words, he was telling her to take off her dress.

Chellie’s stomach lurched in swift panic as she remembered how little she was wearing beneath it. She was braless, and the rest of her underwear was little more than a glorified G-string. Which he would undoubtedly want her to remove as well.

It occurred to her that this stranger would be only the second man to see her naked. The first, of course, had been Ramon, but he’d been in too great a hurry to pay much attention.

Her whole body shivered as she recalled how he’d pushed her back on the bed, the weight of his body crushing her into the mattress, the painful, grunting thrusts which she’d thought would never end.

Which she was going to have to endure again …

He said, ‘I’m waiting for you—Micaela.’

If he’d seemed uninterested before, he was certainly giving her his undivided attention now, his mouth oddly hard, the blue eyes implacable, almost analytical—as if he was observing her through a microscope and did not much care for what he saw.

She pivoted slowly in front of him, letting the skirt swing out away from her slim legs. Going blindly, automatically through the motions, while her mind shivered on the edge of chaos.

Oh, God, she thought imploringly. Let this not be happening to me. Let me wake up soon—please …

The zip that fastened her dress was at the side, reaching from breast to hip. Once she began to lower it the dress would simply fall away from her body. And after that there could be no retreat.

Her shaking fingers undid the tiny hook first, then fumbled for the metal tongue of the zip.

And halted as her entire being froze in outrage and rebellion over what she was being made to do. Her eyes met his in a glance that mingled pleading with outright defiance.

She said hoarsely, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just—can’t …’

She sank down on to the carpet, because her legs would no longer support her, and covered her face with her hands.

She was expecting an angry reaction and knew that it would be perfectly justified. He might even be violent. Or he could just walk to the door and summon Mama Rita—or even Manuel. Her teeth bruised her lower lip as she recognised the kind of retribution she was inviting.

Yet, strangely, it made no difference to her decision, she realised with an odd calm. Whatever kind of aftershock it might create, she knew she could not strip in front of this man or any other.

Nor could she—or would she—allow him any of the intimacies his money gave him the right to demand.

She thought, I’d rather die …

Although death might not be the worst thing that could happen to her.

The silence in the room seemed endless. Perhaps he’d simply walked out already, leaving as quietly as he’d arrived, she thought, venturing to look up. Gone to make his complaint and demand his refund.

But he was still there, lounging on the sofa, apparently unmoved by her outburst. And if he was furious with disappointment and thwarted desire then he was masking it well.

When at last he did speak, he had the gall to sound faintly amused.

‘Have you ever considered changing your job?’ he asked. ‘Because you seem to lack total commitment to your current career.’

Somehow she managed to scramble to her feet, glaring at him as she did so.

She said thickly, ‘Don’t you laugh. Don’t you dare laugh at me—you bastard.’

He stood too. He was tall. Even in her heels Chellie found she had to look up at him, and resented it.

He said with sudden harshness, ‘You’re right. This is no laughing matter. And it might be better not to call me names.’ He gestured at the sofa. ‘Sit down.’

‘No.’ She took a step backwards, hugging herself defensively.

‘Do as you’re told,’ he said curtly. ‘Before you fall down again.’ He reached into a back pocket and produced a slender hip flask. ‘Here.’ He removed the stopper. ‘Drink this.’