Except her. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Something flared in those unfathomable eyes. “I wasn’t intending to take you anywhere … only to call for a cab.”
“I can’t afford one,” she said bluntly.
“I’ll pay for your damned cab.”
Tiffany started to protest, and then hesitated. Why shouldn’t he pay for her fare? He’d never coughed up the service tip she needed. Though the disquieting discussion with Renate had made it clear that tips in this place required more service than just a little company over drinks. Renate was clearly going to end up in Sir Julian’s bed tonight. For what? A visit to the races tomorrow … and a wad of cash?
Tiffany had no intention of following suit. She’d rather have her self-respect.
Yet she couldn’t afford to be too proud. She needed every cent she could lay her hands on. For food and accommodation until Monday. If Rafiq gave her the fare for a cab, she could sneak out the back while he was organizing it and hurry to her lodgings on foot. It wouldn’t be dishonest, she assured herself. She’d earned the tip he’d never paid.
“Thanks.” The word almost choked her.
He was suddenly—unexpectedly—close. Too close. Tiffany edged away and suppressed the impulse to tell him to stick his money. Reality set in. The cab fare, together with the miserly rate for tonight’s work, which she’d be able to collect in less than ten minutes, meant she’d be able to pay for her accommodation and buy food for the weekend.
Relief swept through her.
All her problems would be solved.
Until Monday …
Over the weekend, she’d keep trying her father. Surely he’d check his e-mail, his phone messages, sooner or later? Of course, it would mean listening to him tell her he’d been right from the outset, that she wasn’t taking care of herself in the big, bad world. But at least he’d advance her the money to rebook her flights and she’d be able to get back to help her mom.
“I’d appreciate it,” she said, suddenly subdued. Tiffany halted, waiting for him produce his wallet.
“Let’s go.”
His hand came down on the small of her back and the contact electrified her. It was the humidity in the club, not his touch that had caused the flash of heat, she told herself as she tried to marshal her suddenly chaotic thoughts.
Her money.
“Wait—”
Before she could finish objecting he’d propelled her past the bar, through the spectacular mirrored lobby and out into the oppressive heat of the night. Of course there was a cab waiting. For a men like Rafiq there always were.
“Hang on—”
Ignoring her, Rafiq opened the door and ushered her in and all of the sudden he was overwhelming in the confined space.
“Where to?” he asked.
He’d never intended to hand her cash. And she hadn’t had the opportunity to collect her earnings, either.
“I didn’t get my money,” she wailed. Then it struck her that he shouldn’t be sitting next to her with his thigh pressed against hers. “You said you weren’t coming with me.”
“I changed my mind.”
His smile didn’t reach his midnight-dark eyes. Then he closed the door, dousing the interior light. Tiffany didn’t know whether to be relieved or disturbed by the sudden cloak of darkness. So she scooted across the seat, out of his reach, trying to ignore his sheer, overwhelming physical presence by focusing on everything she’d been cheated of. Food. Lodgings. Survival.
She could survive without food until Monday. It wouldn’t kill her. When she went back to the embassy she wouldn’t let pride stop her begging for a handout for a meal. But she needed a roof over her head.
“I’m not going to be able to get that money back.” She hadn’t worked out her shift. “I doubt they’ll take me back tomorrow now.” There were strict rules about telling the management when you were leaving—and with whom. Tiffany had thought it was for the hostess’s protection.
“You don’t want to work there—find somewhere else.” Rafiq murmured something to the cabdriver and the vehicle started to move.
Tiffany didn’t bother to explain that she didn’t have a visa to work in Hong Kong, that she’d only turned up at Le Club for the night as a casual waitress. Worry tugged at her stomach. “I need the money for those hours I spent there tonight.”
“A pittance,” he said dismissively.
Anger splintered through her. “It might be a pittance to you but it’s my pittance. I worked for that money.”
“And for what do you so desperately need cash? An overloaded credit card after frequenting the boutique stores at Harbor City’s Ocean Terminal?”
His drawling cynicism made her want to smack him. Instead she tried to ignore him and huddled down into the corner as far away from him as she could get in the backseat. He was so overbearing. So certain that he was right about everything. Assuming she was a shopaholic airhead. Making decisions for her about where she should work, about when she should go home.
God help any woman silly enough to marry him—he’d be a dictator. Maybe he was already married. The thought caused a bolt of shock.
What did she care whether he was married?
That fierce, dark gaze clashed with hers. “I’m waiting.”
Trying frantically to regroup, she said, “For what?”
“For you to tell me why you’re so desperate for money.”
Tiffany cringed at the idea of telling him. “It makes me sound stupid.”
He arched an eyebrow. “More stupid than working at Le Club?”
She supposed he was right. So she hauled in a deep breath and said reluctantly, “I was mugged yesterday morning. My passport was stolen and my credit cards and my cash.”
It was mortifying. How many times had she been told to keep one card and a copy of her itinerary and travel insurance separate from the rest? How she wished she had. It would have saved a lot of grief. And a host of I-told-you-you-wouldn’t-survive-alones from her father, when she finally managed to locate him.
“All that I had left was twenty Hong Kong dollars that I had in my pocket and I used that for last night’s accommodation.”
“How convenient.”
The mocking note in his voice made it clear Mr. Arrogant Know-all thought she was lying.
“You don’t believe me.”
The seat gave as he shrugged. “It’s hardly an original story. Although I prefer it to a fabricated tale about an ailing grandfather or a brother with leukemia.”
He thought she was angling for sympathy. She stared across the backseat in disbelief. “Good grief, but you’re cynical. I hope I never become like you.”
In the flash of passing lights she glimpsed a flare of emotion in his eyes. Then it vanished as darkness closed around them again. “And I hope, for your sake, that you are not as naive as you pretend to be.”
“I’m not naive,” Tiffany said, annoyed by the nerve he’d unwittingly struck. He sounded exactly like her father.
“Then come up with a better story.”
“It’s true. Do you think I’d