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passage out of here, and I need it today.' She swallowed. 'I
    could—pay something. Or I could work.'
    'I already have a perfectly adequate crew. And I don't want your
    money.' His even glance didn't leave her face. 'So—what else can
    you offer?'
    She'd been praying he would be magnanimous—let her down
    lightly, but she realised now it was a forlorn hope.
    She gripped her hands together, hoping to disguise the fact they
    were trembling.
    'Last night—you asked me for a year out of my life.'
    'I have not forgotten,' he said. 'And you reacted like an outraged
    nun.' The bare, shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. 'But that, of
    course, is your prerogative.'
    'But, it's also a woman's prerogative to—change her mind.'
    When she dared look at him again, he was pouring himself some
    more coffee, his face inscrutable.
    At last he said, 'I assume there has been some crisis in your life
    which has made you favour my offer. May I know what it is?'
    She said in a small voice, 'I think you already know. My stepfather
    lost everything he possesses to you last night.'
    'He did, indeed,' he agreed. 'Have you come to offer yourself in lieu
    of payment, cherie? If so, I am bound to tell you that you rate your
    rather immature charms altogether too highly.'
    This was worse than she could have imagined. She said, 'He's going
    to pay you—everything. But he's going to borrow—from Hugo
    Baxter.'
    'A large loan,' he said meditatively. 'And the collateral, presumably,
    is yourself?'
    She nodded wordlessly.
    'Now I understand,' he said softly. 'It becomes a choice, in fact—my
    bed or that of Hugo Baxter. The lesser of two evils.'
    Put like that, it sounded awful, but it also happened to be the truth,
    she thought, gritting her teeth. 'Yes.'
    'Naturally, I am flattered that your choice should have fallen on me,'
    the smooth voice went on relentlessly. 'But perhaps you are not the
    only one to have had—second thoughts. The prospect of being
    doused in alcohol for the next twelve months is not an appealing
    one.'
    'I'm sorry about that.' Her hands were clenched so tightly, the
    knuckles were turning white. She said raggedly, 'Please—please
    take me out of here. I'm— desperate.' Her voice broke. 'I'll do
    anything you ask—anything . . .'
    'Vraiment?' He replaced his cup on the tray, and deftly shuffled his
    papers together. 'Then let us test your resolve, mignonne. Close the
    door.'
    In slight bewilderment, she obeyed. Then, as she turned back,
    realisation dawned, and she stopped dead, staring at him in a kind
    of fascinated horror.
    He took one of the pillows from behind him, and tossed it down at
    his side, moving slightly at the same time to make room for her. His
    arm curved across the top of the pillow in invitation and command.
    'Now?' She uttered the word as a croak.
    His dark eyes glittered at her. 'What better way to begin the day?'
    He patted the space beside him. 'Viens, ma belle.' He added, almost
    as an afterthought, 'You may leave your clothes on that chair.'
    Shock held her prisoner. She couldn't deny that she'd invited this,
    but she hadn't expected this kind of demand so soon. Had counted,
    in fact, on being allowed a little leeway. Time to adjust, she
    thought. Time to escape . . .
    'You are keeping me waiting,' his even voice reminded her.
    She took a few leaden steps forward, reached the chair, and paused.
    She could refuse, she supposed, or beg for a breathing space. And
    probably find herself summarily back on the quayside with her
    belongings, she realised, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her
    tongue, as she eased her slender feet out of her espadrilles.
    Her heart was beating rapidly, violently, like a drum sending out an
    alarm signal, a warning tattoo. She had never in her life taken off
    her clothes in front of a man, and she didn't know how to begin:
    What was he expecting? she wondered wildly. Some kind of
    striptease—all
    smiles
    and
    tantalisation?
    Because
    she
    couldn't—couldn't . .