Free Hawk's Prize by Elaine Barbieri Page B

to keep him informed of every tidbit of information she was able to obtain about Chantalle and the workings of her house. The sums had increased along with his almost frenetic interest in everything going on there since Whit Hawk and his sister, Jenna Leigh, had returned to Galveston.
    Angie paused with her fist poised to knock on Chantalle’s door. Simon now insisted that she find out all she could about an old, worthless ring that Drew Collins supposedly kept in his money pouch.
    As if she cared.
    She reminded herself belatedly that it didn’t matter if she cared. Simon did, and what Simon wanted, Simon got. If he didn’t, someone would suffer, and she’d be damned if it would be her.
    Knowing only one way to obtain the information Simon wanted—as quickly as he wanted it—Angie knocked on Chantalle’s office door.
    Chantalle frowned when her office door opened and Angie walked into the room. There was never a moment when Angie seemed other than the voluptuous whore she was. A matter as small as the teasing way she flipped her unbound hair, her deliberately casual dishabille, and the open fondling she encouraged from men in the public rooms of the establishment—all were blatant declarations. Chantalle also suspected a part of it was Angie’s desire to irritate her, as was obvious in the attire Angie had chosen to wear this morning.
    If Angie did not serve such a useful function in the house, she would . . .
    Chantalle forced herself to dismiss that thought. Angie did serve a very valuable function, and the girl knew it—but that did not make Chantalle a slave to Angie’s machinations.
    Chantalle raised her brow at Angie’s gaping dressing gown. Angie hastened to tie it closed—too quickly for Chantalle’s comfort. Angie was up to something.
    Chantalle did not have to wait long to find out what it was.
    Angie smiled and said, “I wanted to talk to you, Chantalle . . . about that fella Tricia is taking care of.”
    Immediately alert, Chantalle responded, “What about him?”
    “I feel kind of bad about what I said when he collapsed at the front door the other morning. Now I realize he really was sick.”
    “He’s sick, all right, but Dr. Wesley and Tricia are taking care of him.”
    Angie shrugged. “I suppose that’s fine, but I don’t know how that fella expects to pay for all the service he’s getting, what with him having only a few coins in his money pouch.”
    Chantalle questioned sharply, “How do you know what he has in his money pouch?”
    “You know me. I listen when people talk. It comes in handy sometimes.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning I heard Tricia tell Polly she didn’t even know the fella’s name at first because he didn’t have any identification on him. All he had was a moneypouch with a few coins and an old, damaged ring inside it.”
    “A damaged ring?”
    “With some kind of a crest that has a sailing ship partially visible on it—a piece of junk, if you ask me.”
    Chantalle felt the color drain from her face. Trying to sound uninterested, she said, “I don’t know anything about it . . . and what difference does it make to you?”
    Angie shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just wondered if you all knew something I didn’t know about this fella. Is he really worth all the expense and attention he’s getting? It’s clear to me that if he is, Tricia isn’t the kind to make him comfortable once he’s feeling good again. I figured maybe I should show him that I’m more of what he was looking for when he came here that first day.”
    “I thought he made it clear that he didn’t want you.”
    Angie’s expression stiffened as she said, “That isn’t likely. I’m thinking he was just sick that day. Anyway, I figured you’d have nothing to lose and would tell me the truth about him if I asked.”
    Chantalle was unable to control the subtle curling of her lip as she said, “You know you’re not my favorite person, Angie, but you make us both money here, so I’ll