when you market it so well.’
‘What are you talking about?’
He laughed softly. ‘The boots are a wonderful touch.’ He held her at arm’s length and looked her over slowly once again. ‘High heels, black leather to the knee, the glint of silver at your throat…’ His eyes met hers. ‘I’ve always liked creative women.’
‘Then you’ll be happy to know that that’s just what I am,’ Miranda said coolly, praying that her voice wouldn’t tremble and give her away. ‘I’m an artist, and—’
‘An artist.’ He nodded sombrely, although she could see the laughter in his eyes. ‘Yes, I like that. It’s a new description for an old profession.’
‘You don’t understand. I’m a painter.’
‘A painter. I should have guessed.’ She caught her breath as his hand left her shoulder and drifted to the lapel of the smock. He tugged at it lightly; she caught her breath again at the swift brush of his fingers across her breasts. ‘Of course you are.’
Desperation roughened her voice. ‘Listen, I don’t know anything about Ernst Mueller.’
His easy smile faded. ‘You know enough to be waiting for him without any clothes on.’
‘I’m here to model, that’s all.’
‘A couple of seconds ago you said you were here to paint.’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I—’ Her throat closed. She stared into his cool grey eyes, and suddenly a wave of anger pushed aside her fear. Damn the man! He had no right to bully her this way. ‘Who do you think you are?’ she demanded. ‘You just can’t—’
‘When is Mueller coming back?’
‘How would I know? I hardly know the man.’
‘You hardly know the man.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Yet here you stand, wearing nothing but your skin.’
‘What I do is my business.’
The sudden sharp pressure of his hands bearing down on her shoulders made her cry out.
‘And what do you buy with the money?’
Miranda stared at him. His face was taut with fury. He is crazy, she thought desperately, and her moment of angry bravado was swept away.
‘Let go of me,’ she said, struggling to free herself, but it was useless. He stepped closer to her, half lifting her from the floor as he stared down into her pale face.
‘Well?’ he growled. ‘I’m waiting for an answer. What do you need the money for? Drugs? Booze? What kind of garbage are you into?’
He was shaking her as if she were a rag doll, and all at once it was too much to bear. Fear, anger, and most of all the hunger that had been dogging her for days came rushing together. The room tilted, the man’s face darkened, and Miranda gave him a quick, slightly drunken smile.
Food, she thought, but she didn’t say it. She couldn’t—all she could do was collapse into his arms as the blackness rushed up to meet her.
CHAPTER TWO
A VOICE was calling to Miranda, a deep voice that seemed to be coming from across some great gulf.
‘Open your eyes,’ it kept saying, and she wanted, more than anything, to oblige. Her lids felt heavy as stones, her muscles as insubstantial as water. ‘Come on, now. Open your eyes and look at me.’
She did, finally, fighting her way through the grey fog that surrounded her, and she found herself staring into a pair of cool, darkly lashed grey eyes.
She swallowed, then ran the tip of her tongue along her lips. ‘Wh-what happened?’ she asked in a shaky whisper.
The grey eyes narrowed. ‘You passed out.’ The man’s mouth turned up in a cool little smile. ‘My compliments, darling. It was a very credible Victorian swoon.’
Miranda stiffened. ‘Are you suggesting—?’
‘The only thing that might have made it more effective would have been a long gown and a parasol.’ He smiled again, but there was a hint of something new and dangerous in it this time. ‘But that would have been a pity.’ He looked down, and she felt his slow, assessing gaze travel the full length of her lightly clad body. ‘Just think of the sight I’d have missed.’
She felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘I don’t have to sit here and be insulted.’
The man laughed softly. ‘You’re not sitting at all,’ he said, and she realised with growing horror that she was lying on the bed, Mueller’s bed, half naked in that tangle of sheets and pillows and blankets. He must have carried her there after she’d passed out, Miranda thought, and she closed her eyes against the sudden image of how she must have looked in his arms, her legs bare, her head thrown back so that her dark hair streamed behind her…
‘Only one swoon to a customer,’ he said lightly.
Her eyes flew open. He was leaning over her, one arm on either side of her body, his hands planted firmly palms-down against the mattress. She could see the fabric of his suit straining against his shoulders. His hair was dark, impeccably cut, although just a little too long so that the feathery ends curled lightly where they brushed his nape.
He had a good face, Miranda thought suddenly. His features were regular, almost classically perfect, except for a tiny scar that laced his temple, but somehow that only made his looks more arresting. And then there were those eyes, with their strange, shimmering greyness—it would be a challenge to paint him, she thought suddenly, to capture that blend of male arrogance and power he emanated.
He shifted his weight so that his thigh brushed hers. ‘So?’ he asked with barely concealed amusement. ‘Do I pass muster?’
‘Let me up,’ she said quietly.
‘Now, darling, that’s not very friendly. What would old Ernst think of such poor hospitality?’
His voice had a steely edge to it, despite the lightness of his words. Miranda felt a faint stir of unease. Don’t panic, she told herself, and she took a fortifying breath.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Yes, she thought, that was good. She sounded calm and in control. ‘Thank you for your help, but—’ She gasped as he reached out slowly, almost languorously, and laid his hand against her cheek. ‘Don’t,’ she said sharply, twisting her head away.
His smile was changing, going from wry amusement to something darker as his fingers stroked lightly against her flushed skin.
‘Which is it?’ he said softly. ‘Are you Mueller’s toy for the evening—or his mistress?’
His hand drifted to her jaw, slid along her throat and beneath the open collar of her smock, then cupped her naked shoulder.
‘Stop it.’ Her voice shook with indignation. ‘Stop it, damn you! If you don’t, I’ll—I’ll scream.’
