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.’
He laughed softly. ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure a good old-fashioned scream would impress the hell out of the tenants in this Godforsaken place.’ He moved his hand back to her throat, his fingers cupping her face. ‘Hell, I’m only admiring the merchandise. Old Ernst has better taste than I’d have imagined.’
Miranda inhaled sharply. Indignation was rapidly giving way to fear. Was he right about the tenants? No, no, he couldn’t be. This was a bawdy district, yes, but Amsterdam was a safe city. Everyone said so.
‘I’ve never paid for a woman’s favours.’ She blinked and stared up into his face as he bent over her. His eyes were changing colour, going from charcoal to smoke as his gaze drifted over her. ‘And I can’t imagine taking pleasure from another man’s leavings.’ His hand slipped beneath her head, cupping it, raising her from the pillows as his voice fell to a husky whisper. ‘But it does seem a damned shame not to at least take a little taste.’
Miranda’s heart thudded with fear as he leaned towards her. ‘No,’ she cried, but it was too late. His mouth was on hers, the feel of it harsh, his kiss as insolent as it was contemptuous. Panting, she tried twisting free as she pounded her fists against his shoulders, but his body was all hard muscle and her blows were useless. He caught her wrists easily in one hand and drew back a little, just far enough so she could see the cool smile curving across his mouth and the hint of laughter in the smoky depths of his eyes.
‘Don’t fight me, darling,’ he said, ‘just lie back and enjoy.’
‘You—you son of a bitch.’ The hissed words trembled with fear and outrage. ‘You have no right—’
His mouth slanted down across hers again, silencing her. Don’t fight him, she told herself, he’s just playing some awful game. Don’t fight him, and he’ll stop.
She forced herself to lie still as he gathered her closer, forced herself not to try and twist free of his seeking mouth. But she could do nothing to control the shudder of fear that raced through her.
He drew back slightly and looked down at her as she lay stiffly in his arms. His dark brows drew together.
‘What is it?’ he said, and to Miranda’s chagrin tears rose in her eyes and trembled on her lashes. The look of sly amusement faded from his face and something new and unreadable flashed in his eyes, filling them with silver light. ‘Don’t,’ he whispered, and for some foolish reason that only made the tears flow faster. He bent and pressed a soft kiss on each damp eyelid. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said, and suddenly she knew it was true.
Her eyes opened and met his. Time seemed to stand still, and then, with a swiftness that was somehow fierce yet gentle, he gathered her to him and kissed her.
It was a kiss unlike any Miranda had ever known. A flame seemed to leap between them, igniting the very air. His hand tightened in the black cascade of her hair and urged her head back until she was lying across his arm, her half-naked body offered up to him like a pagan sacrifice. Her senses seemed to awaken with an almost incredible alacrity and focus on him and the taste of his mouth.
She heard the sound he made in the back of his throat, felt the sudden heavy race of his heart, and all at once she knew what he was feeling because she was feeling it too, the desire and the need, the sharp, almost desperate urgency rising between them.
Miranda whimpered softly and he caught the sound in his mouth, returning it to her with the first silken thrust of his tongue. She made a little sobbing sound; her hands unknotted, flattened against his chest and slid under his jacket. His heart pounded against her palm.
‘Yes,’ he said thickly, ‘that’s right. Touch me.’
His hand slipped up her midriff and cupped her breast, his touch searing her flesh through the thin cotton smock. She felt herself quicken, felt the stirring of something unknown deep within her body…
God! What was she doing? Sanity came flooding back, as cold as the North Sea. Miranda twisted frantically in his arms. She tore her mouth from his and beat at his shoulders, and he raised his head and stared at her.
Her heartbeat stumbled. His face was taut with passion, his eyes blind to reason, and she thought, for one terrifying second, that her return to sanity had come too late. Then she heard the rasp of his breath in the silence. His throat worked convulsively as he swallowed, and suddenly he let go of her.
She fell back against the pillows, watching as he got to his feet, thrust his hands into his dark hair, and raked it back from his forehead.
‘God.’ He spoke the word hoarsely, an imprecation against the disgust she saw welling in the eyes that swept over her, eyes that were once again flat and cold. ‘You’re good at what you do, lady, I’ll give you that.’
Miranda’s mouth trembled. ‘You’re an animal.’
She had to get out of that shoddy room, get away from that condemning stare. Her hair swung across her face as she rolled to her side and sat up. But she had moved too quickly: the dizziness was back. The room tilted, and she flung out a hand to steady herself.
‘Nice little bit of theatre. Am I supposed to be impressed?’
His voice was as cold and flat as his eyes. Miranda didn’t even bother answering. She had to get across the room to her clothing, then to the door. A million miles, she thought, that’s how far she had to walk to get to it, but there wasn’t any choice. She took a deep breath and got to her feet. One step. Two…
She cried out as the floor swung out from under her feet. Dots danced in front of her, dots that changed into whirling black spirals.
He caught her just before she fell, holding her in the curve of his arm as if she were an unwelcome bundle that had been foisted upon him.
‘What the hell is this?’ he demanded, looking down into her pale face. ‘If it’s some kind of game…’
Miranda closed her eyes in despair. There was no point in pretending. She would never get out of here, not without help. Mina would probably be in their room by now; she’d ask him to phone her and—
‘Answer me, damn you. What are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing at anything.’ Her voice was thin and brittle. ‘I just—I don’t feel very well, that’s all.’
There was a silence, and then he grunted and hoisted her into his arms.
‘Yes,’ he said grimly as he carried her across the room, ‘I can see that.’
‘If
