The Bedroom Barter. Sara Craven
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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 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