The Bedroom Barter. Sara Craven

from a hook on the wall. Once more her hand went involuntarily to her shorn head as she experienced a pang of real pain at the loss.

      Her hair, dark and glossy as a raven’s wing, had been cut in a sleek chin-length bob when she’d arrived here, but Mama Rita had ordered it to be chopped off to make more room for the wig. Lina had been given the scissors and had enjoyed her task, while the others laughed and jeered.

      I’m barely recognisable, she thought.

      But maybe that would be an advantage when the time came to continue her journey—alone.

      Think positive, she adjured herself.

      After all, that was what she had to aim for—to focus on—to the exclusion of everything else. Taking charge of her own destiny once more.

      What had happened with Ramon was a glitch, but no more than that. And she would make damned sure that no other man ever made a fool of her again. Including Sir Galahad downstairs.

      Him, perhaps, most of all.

      She extinguished the light and went quietly down the rickety steps.

      She was halfway along the passage to Mama Rita’s room when Manuel came round the corner.

      Chellie checked instantly at the sight of him, and he stopped too, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

      ’Hola, chica,’ he said. ‘What you doing, huh?’

      From some undiscovered depth Chellie found the strength to smile at him. ‘I thought I’d go down to the bar for a drink.’

      ‘Where’s that hombre who hired you?’ He was frowning.

      ‘Asleep.’ Chellie gave him a long, meaningful look from under her lashes. ‘And not much fun any more.’

      He looked her over. ‘Why you in those clothes? And where your wig? You supposed to be blonde.’

      ‘My dress got torn.’ She shrugged casually. ‘And that wig is so hot. Surely I don’t need it just to buy a beer?’

      A slow, unpleasant grin curled his mouth. ‘I have beer in my room, chica. You want more fun? You have it with me.’

      ‘No.’ Chellie took a step backwards, her hand closing on the strap of her bag in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

      He noticed at once, his gaze speculative. ‘What you got there, hija?’

      ‘Nothing,’ she denied, lifting her chin. ‘And I’m going to have my drink in the bar—without company.’

      For a moment he stared at her, then, to her astonishment, she saw him nod in apparent agreement. It was only when he slid to his knees, eyes glazing, then measured his length completely on the wooden floor that she realised who was standing behind him, grasping one of Mama Rita’s wooden candlesticks and looking down at his victim with grim pleasure.

      She said shakily, ‘My God—is he dead?’

      ‘Not him.’ Ash stirred the recumbent body with a contemptuous foot. ‘I knew what I was doing. He’ll have a bad headache when he wakes up, that’s all.’

      ‘All?’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Breaking and entering, and now GBH. What next, I wonder?’

      ‘Well, I can’t speak for you.’ He went down on one knee, and rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets, producing his keyring with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘But I plan to get out of here before he’s missed.’ He got to his feet, his glance challenging. ‘I have your passport, so are you coming with me? Or would you rather stay here and accept his next invitation? It may not be as cordial as the last,’ he added drily. ‘But perhaps you don’t care.’

      Not just the rock and the hard place, Chellie thought. This was the devil and the deep blue sea, and she was caught between them, as trapped as she’d always been.

      And, it seemed, she had to choose the devil …

      For now, she told herself, but not for ever. That was the thought she had to cling to. The resolution she had to make.

      She felt a small quiver of fear, mixed with a strange excitement, uncurl in the pit of her stomach as she looked back at him, meeting the blue ice of his gaze.

      She said lightly, ‘What are we waiting for, Galahad? Let’s go.’