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Yesterday And Forever
Sandra Marton
Daniel Thorpe was tall, dark and gorgeous, with money to burn. And from the first moment he saw Miranda Stuart–naked!–he knew she was going to be trouble…and that he wanted her whatever the cost!Miranda might be financially challenged, but that didn't mean she was ready to be bought! However, when a man like Daniel offered to take you to Paris, it was tempting to accept, and think about what he really had in mind–later…



“You don’t have the money for a doctor, do you?”
“What I have or don’t have is none of your—”
“Answer the question, Miss Stuart. Have you money or haven’t you?” Miranda glared at him, and a muscle knotted in his jaw. “That’s what I thought. All right. I’ll pay.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
He smiled. “I don’t mean for your services. I’ll take care of the cost of a doctor.”
Her cheeks flushed wildly. “Are you crazy? In the first place, I’m not ill. And in the second place—”
“I give money to charity each year, Miss Stuart.” His nostrils flared as if the scent of something unpleasant were in the air. “Let’s just say that this time you’ll be a direct recipient.”
She stared at him in disbelief, and then, with one quick effort, wrenched free of his hands.
“I do not need your charity,” she said coldly.
“You sure as hell need someone’s.”
Dear Reader,
People sometimes ask if writers are born with the ability to tell stories or if the talent develops over time. The answer—for me, anyway—is a little of each. I wrote my first story when I was seven years old. One way or another, I’ve been writing ever since. But a writer’s style—what most of us call her “voice”—does change.
I wrote Yesterday and Forever after a trip to Europe where I was fascinated by all the artists I saw sketching copies of famous paintings in museums. One, in particular, made me pause. I knew she was American by the way she spoke. She was also beautiful, very young, and something about her told me she didn’t have much money. A man was standing nearby, supposedly studying a painting but really watching the girl. He was incredibly handsome and well dressed, but there was something a little dangerous about him, and that got the storyteller in me playing “What if?” What if a young woman a long way from home and desperate for money were to meet a gorgeous, fascinating stranger who offered to open her eyes to a new and more exciting world….
Welcome to Amsterdam and Paris, and the passionate love story of Daniel and Miranda.
With love,


(You can write to Sandra Marton at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, CT 06268. Please enclose an SASE for a reply.)
Yesterday and Forever
Sandra Marton



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE
MIRANDA had always thought that the first time she stood naked before a man it would be for love, not money—which only went to show how much she’d changed during the months she’d been in Amsterdam.
A light breeze blew across the Herengracht, ruffling the canal’s dark green water. Miranda felt its damp touch against her skin and she shuddered.
Would Ernst Mueller’s hand be as clammy against her flesh?
Her footsteps faltered, then stopped. Turn back, a little voice inside her whispered, turn back while you can. A swaying tram lumbered by, its warning bell sounding an alarm that seemed meant especially for her.
There was still time. All she had to do was swing around, retrace her steps, and show up for lunch with her friends at the little café near the Rijksmuseum where all the art students gathered because a roast beef sandwich and hot chocolate were just a few guilders.
Yes, she thought, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll turn around and go back. Her heart lifted…
Miranda puffed out her breath. Never mind your heart, she thought grimly. It was her stomach she had to worry about, and she couldn’t fill that when all the money she had in the world was seven guilders.
The tail-end of the tram lurched past and she stepped briskly off the kerb. Thinking about what lay ahead would only make it worse. It was too late to agonise over her decision and, anyway, what choice did she have?
None. None at all.
‘Tell Herr Mueller I accept his offer,’ she’d told Mina, and that had been that.
The truth was, she’d run out of options days ago; it had been sheer stubbornness or maybe just plain stupidity that had kept her from facing reality, but finally she’d had to look her situation squarely in the eye. She was on her own in a strange country, with only a handful of coins standing between her and desperation. Mina had picked up her half of the rent on the room they shared but now she was broke, too, and if past practice meant anything Miranda knew that the next instalment from the scholarship fund wouldn’t reach her for at least another ten days.
What did an hour with Ernst Mueller mean when measured against all that?
The Damrak was even more crowded with strollers and shoppers than usual today. People were laughing and smiling, and Miranda’s heart tightened a little. If it weren’t for what awaited her she’d have been smiling, too. She’d been in Amsterdam through its most bitter winter months.
‘Just wait until spring,’ people had kept saying as they shivered in the cold, and Miranda had done just that, surviving the bleak days and cold nights by imagining the narrow canals free of ice, the skies sunny and bright, the kiss of a warm golden sun overhead.
Now all that had come to pass. The city was transformed, its face gilded by the first blush of spring. The wind blowing in from the North Sea smelled of green growing things. Tulips nodded in shop stalls and peeped from behind stiffly starched white curtains. Amsterdam had become the magical Venice of the north Miranda had always known it would be.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Mina had said a few mornings ago, when she’d awakened to find Miranda kneeling in the window-seat of their room, her elbows on the sill and her chin propped on her hands, gazing enraptured at the scene below. ‘It’s like something Rembrandt might have painted.’
Miranda had flung her arms wide as she had swung around to face her room-mate.
‘Like something he did paint, you mean. Isn’t Amsterdam wonderful?’
Yawning, Mina pushed back the blankets and rose from the bed. ‘Remember those happy words when your tummy starts growling about ten o’clock tonight.’
Miranda laughed as she padded across the pegged board floor. ‘You can’t discourage me this morning,’ she said. ‘Everything’s too perfect.’
Mina made a face. ‘Keep it up and the scholarship committee will hire you to write its next brochure.’
Miranda sank down in the centre of her bed, crossed her legs under her, and put her hand over her heart.
‘“The Harrington Scholarship makes it possible for deserving young artists to develop their talent,’” she said in a deeply dramatic voice, ‘“to paint where the Masters painted and to study works of genius first-hand. Grant recipients will have the opportunity to spend a year in the art centres of Europe—’”
‘And maybe starve and sleep on the streets of those centres as part of the experience.’ Mina began stripping off her cotton pyjamas. ‘Too bad the committee didn’t mention that.’
The smile dropped from Miranda’s face. ‘OK,’ she said glumly, ‘that did it.’ She fell backwards on the bed, arms outstretched, and stared at the stained ceiling. ‘How can they do this to us? Don’t they know we’ve run out of funds?’
‘This guy I’ve been posing for was here on a Harrington fellowship a couple of years ago. He says the red tape’s unbelievable, that the cheques just get later from quarter to quarter.’
Sighing, Miranda sat up and swung her legs to the floor. ‘Maybe if we call the New York office again and talk to the secretary—’
‘What for? So she can tell us what she told us last week?’
‘“The cheques are in the mail.” Right. Isn’t there some kind of awful old joke about that being one of life’s three greatest lies?’
‘Well,’ Mina said, slipping into a cotton blouse, ‘joke or not, we’re stuck with it.’ She fluffed her short auburn hair away from her face. ‘What about phoning the American Embassy?’
Miranda shook her head. ‘They can’t help unless you’re desperate. Flat broke, no funds, no way to get home…’
‘And we’re not. Not according to the way it looks on paper, anyway. We’ve got scholarships, guaranteed plane fare back to the States—’
‘Which we can’t use until our scholarships expire,’ Miranda said. She laughed. ‘Unless, of course, we expire first—from starvation. How’d that guy you mentioned get by? The one you’re posing for?’
Mina grinned. ‘He wrote home to Daddy. Daddy is R-I-C-H.’
‘Mmm.’ Miranda got to her feet, walked to the old-fashioned wardrobe on the far side of the sunny bedroom, and pulled a black cotton turtleneck sweater and a voluminous denim skirt from its depths. ‘Well, that method won’t work for me. My parents haven’t got a dime to spare. And I wouldn’t want them to know how close to the edge I’m living.’
‘They’d worry?’
Miranda smiled. ‘Even more than they already do. They’re convinced you have to be crazy to want to be a painter.’
Mina chuckled. ‘Sounds about right to me.’
‘Anyway, the starving students’ diet isn’t so bad,’ Miranda said lightly as she untied her robe and let it slip from her shoulders. ‘We get a huge Dutch breakfast, a late-afternoon roast beef broodje, and a mug of hot cocoa before bedtime.’
‘Breakfast and cocoa courtesy of Mevrouw De Vries.’
‘Courtesy has nothing to do with it. The board comes with the room.’ Miranda’s voice grew muffled as she pulled the sweater over her head. ‘If the rent money doesn’t get here,’ she said as her head popped through the opening, ‘neither will breakfast and bedtime cocoa.’ She flashed Mina a quick smile as she stepped into the skirt and zipped it closed. ‘But look at the positive side. The starving students’ diet is guaranteed to melt away weight and bring out your cheekbones.’
The other girl peered into the chipped mirror that hung drunkenly beside the dresser. ‘As if you needed either,’ she said, touching her fingers to her softly rounded cheeks. ‘I’m the one who could use the diet, not you.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Miranda plucked up a pair of silver hoop earrings and slipped them into her ears. ‘You’re the only painter I know who poses almost as often as she paints.’
‘Mmm. Yeah, well, I’m lucky.’ Mina smiled. ‘Some guys are still into the Rubens woman.’ Her eyes met Miranda’s in the mirror. ‘But there are lots of others who like ’em skinny but curvy, like you.’
‘Not enough,’ Miranda said. She put a heavy beaten-silver chain around her neck, then bent and dragged a pair of high-heeled black leather boots from under her bed and slipped them on. ‘I’ve only been asked to sit twice the past month.’
Mina swung around and looked at her. ‘Wasn’t I with you when you bought that stuff?’
‘What stuff?’
‘The jewellery. And the clothes. Didn’t you get them at the Waterlooplein flea market?’
Miranda made a face. ‘Where else do we ever shop?’
Her room-mate sighed. ‘How come on me it all just looks like the second-hand junk it is, while on you it looks exotic?’
‘Wearing somebody’s cast-offs isn’t exotic,’ Miranda said firmly. ‘Neither is worrying that you might end up sleeping on the streets.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then Mina spoke. ‘But posing undraped is?’ she said softly.
Miranda turned around. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘Mueller’s been at it again.’
‘Mmm hmm. Yesterday, as a matter of fact.’
‘Well,’ Miranda said, getting to her feet and quickly smoothing out the bedclothes, ‘the man’s persistent, if nothing else.’
‘He’s more than that and you know it.’
‘Exactly. They say he’s been mixed up in some pretty shady stuff.’
‘Come on, Miranda, that’s nothing but talk. The man’s a good painter, and he pays his models well.’
‘I don’t pose nude, Mina. I told him that the first time he asked me, and I told you to tell him—’
‘Hey, take it easy. I did tell him. I’m only the messenger here, remember?’
Miranda held up her hand. ‘Sorry, sorry—I didn’t mean to take your head off. Look, do me a favour. Just tell Mueller—’
‘I have, half a dozen times, but that hasn’t stopped him. He keeps asking if you’ve changed your mind. He says your face has some special quality he needs.’
‘He can have my face any time he wants it,’ Miranda said as she ran a comb through the black, glossy curls that tumbled below her shoulders. ‘It’s the rest of me that’s off limits.’
‘I told him that.’
‘And?’
Mina shrugged. ‘And he said to tell you he’s willing to pay you double the standard fee.’
The comb in Miranda’s hand stilled. She turned around slowly, her sapphire-blue eyes wide under their dark fringe of lashes.
‘You’re joking! Double?’
‘Yup. I’ve got to admit, it makes me gnash my teeth with envy, but that’s what he said.’ Mina sighed. ‘I wasn’t going to mention it at all, knowing how you feel, but we were talking about money and I figured it was only right to tell you.’
‘Double the standard fee,’ Miranda murmured with a wistful smile. ‘I’ve got to admit, it’s tempting. But—’
‘But it’s no go.’ Mina nodded. ‘I told him I was sure that’s what your answer would be.’ She smiled good-naturedly as she turned back to the mirror. ‘Old Ernst is just gonna have to get it through his head that Miranda Stuart thinks it’s immoral to peel down to the altogether for a strange guy, and never mind that there’s an easel between the two of them.’
‘Come on, you know me better than that. I don’t think it’s immoral. How could I? I’m a painter myself—I’ve done heaven only knows how many life studies.’
‘OK, so I overstated it. You just don’t think it’s right for you.’
‘Yeah. I’d be—I don’t know, paralysed, I guess. I’m just too self-conscious or something.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides, there’s something about that man…’
‘Mueller? I admit, he looks a little greasy, but he’s OK. In fact, he’s never so much as laid a finger on me—literally, I mean. “Turn a little to the right, fraulein,” he says, “chin up, tilt it like so, yes?” But he never touches the merchandise.’
‘It’s probably just my imagination, then, but there’s just something about the way he looks at me that makes it so—so personal, if you know what I mean…’ Miranda’s voice trailed away. ‘That’s what an empty stomach does,’ she said briskly. ‘It turns your brain to jelly.’
Mina grinned. ‘There you go, talking about food again. It’s a good thing Mevrouw De Vries will have breakfast laid out by now. Do you think anybody will notice if I eat four fried eggs instead of two?’
And that was where the matter had rested—until yesterday, when everything had seemed to come apart all at once. Miranda had bought her usual frugal late lunch and realised, with a start of horror, that she only had money enough for one more meal, and then Mevrouw De Vries had stopped the two girls as they went down to the kitchen for their evening mugs of cocoa with a polite smile and a reminder that their rent had yet to be paid.
Miranda had turned reluctantly to Mina. ‘I hate to ask,’ she’d said, ‘but I don’t suppose…’
The look on Mina’s face had been all the answer she’d needed. The words she’d spoken days before came back to Miranda with a rush.
‘If the rent money doesn’t get here, neither will breakfast and bedtime cocoa.’
Suddenly all her moral posturing had seemed ridiculous. Mina had posed for Mueller, and so could she. It was a perfectly legitimate way to earn extra money, and she’d have to be an idiot to pass it up.
‘What’s Mueller’s telephone number?’ she’d asked Mina, and before she could think about it too long she’d marched to the phone, dropped in a coin, and made the call—and now here she was, making her way along the street that ran beside the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, her heart pumping away inside her chest as if it were going to leap free at any minute.
‘Hey, good-lookin’, you spreken English?’
Miranda barely glanced at the American sailor leaning against the canal rail. Yes, she wanted to say, I speak English, but someone should have told you that not every woman you see in this quarter is for sale.
But she wasn’t foolish enough to do that. Instead, she kept her eyes straight ahead as she walked purposefully along the street. Why did Mueller’s loft have to be here, of all places? She knew the answer—rooms in the Walletjes were cheap. For centuries these narrow streets had catered to men eager to taste the pleasures of the flesh, and the quarter’s offerings were geared towards fulfilling that desire with every imaginable enticement.
Miranda swallowed hard. Well, that had nothing to do with her. She was here to pose. To work.
Her glance flickered to the narrow buildings that lined the street. Although it was only mid-afternoon, there were already women seated behind some of the wide shopfront windows. Some were reading, some simply looked out with bored, empty eyes. One, the very picture of domesticity, seemed to be knitting a sweater. But Miranda knew they were here to work, too, to work at the world’s oldest profession. Even after all these months, that fact still amazed her.
‘They’re just earning a living,’ Mina had said stoutly the first time the two room-mates had come to the quarter to gawk along with the rest of the tourists.
All at once, posing nude for Ernst Mueller seemed very tame indeed. Her attitude was naïve, almost priggish. She wasn’t going to do anything wrong, for heaven’s sake. And it might be illuminating. Maybe it was time to find out what it felt like to give your all for art.
The thought brought a smile to her face. Still smiling, she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket and glanced at it. Number fifteen. It was that next house, then, the tired old one with the paint peeling from its fa de. She took a deep, deep breath, tossed back her hair, and marched up to the door.
It was dark inside, almost oppressively so. But it would be, wouldn’t it, after all that bright sunshine? Miranda took a step forward. The place smelled musty; her nose wrinkled in distaste while she waited for her vision to adapt to the greyness. She could see a narrow, almost perpendicular staircase looming ahead, the kind unique to some of the old canal houses. She was wearing her high-heeled leather boots again—there’d been no choice, really; she’d found a hole in the sole of her sneakers just that morning—and the steps would be hard to negotiate.
She took a deep breath. ‘You’re just looking for excuses,’ she murmured into the silence, and she put her hand on the railing and started up into the gloom.
Mueller’s studio was on the top floor, and her legs were trembling a little by the time she reached it. Nerves, that was all it was, and it was silly. Mina had posed in the buff for the man half a dozen times, and he’d never so much as touched her. Wasn’t that recommendation enough?
She rapped lightly at the door. ‘Herr Mueller?’ When she got no answer she rapped again. The door swung slowly open. ‘Hello? Is anyone here? Herr Mueller? It’s me. It’s Miranda Stuart.’
Her voice seemed to echo in the mid-afternoon stillness. The room was obviously empty. Her spirits lifted. She could leave now, secure in the knowledge that she’d kept her part of the bargain…
As if on cue, her empty stomach growled. ‘All right,’ she said, sighing, ‘I get the message.’
The door slammed shut behind her as she moved cautiously forward. The faint, sweet smell of marijuana hung in the air, and Miranda wrinkled her nose with displeasure. The light in the room was excellent, good enough so that she could see every inch of litter and dust. Mueller wasn’t terribly fastidious, but she wasn’t here to judge him on his housekeeping. She moved another step forward. The room was huge, most of it taken up by canvases except for the far wall, which was dominated by a large, unmade brass bed.
Her heart tripped against her ribs. The easel. Look at the easel. Yes, of course. She was here to pose. That was all Mueller wanted of her. She walked towards the easel slowly, concentrating all her attention on it and on the paintings that lay scattered around the room. They were oils, most of them, some originals, others copies of their more famous counterparts that hung in the Rijksmuseum. Mina was right, Miranda thought grudgingly, the man was good.
If only she could stop thinking of the way he’d looked at her the first time he’d asked her to pose for him, the way his beady little eyes had slipped over her body, the way they’d paused at her breasts…
‘Stop it!’
Miranda’s words hissed into the silence. She took a deep breath as she walked the last few feet to the easel. There was a note pinned to it; her brows lifted when she saw her name scrawled across it in charcoal.
Miranda, forgive me, I’ve been called away. Be back in a jiffy. Please make yourself comfortable. Ernst.
Miranda and Ernst. How cosy it sounded. Her heart thudded. There was still time, still time…
Stupid. She was being stupid. Quickly she marched to the screen in the corner, placed there, she knew, for the convenience and privacy of the model, and put down her bag. Would it be easier to get undressed and into her robe before he returned? Yes. Oh, yes. The thought of taking off her clothes while Mueller sat in the same room, watching the screen, made her skin crawl.
She unbuttoned her coat, working swiftly before she could change her mind, and tossed it over the high-backed stool that stood beside her with an artist’s smock, clean but stained with paint, draped across its back. The coat was followed swiftly by her black turtleneck sweater. Her hands trembled a little as she unzipped her skirt.
‘You’re being an ass,’ she mumbled, and the skirt and her panties slithered to the floor.
She was completely undressed now, except for her silver jewellery and boots. The jewellery could wait, but the boots—she frowned. The floor looked dirty. More than dirty. It looked as if centuries’ worth of filth had been ground into it.
It had been foolish not to have brought slippers. Next time she’d—she’d…
Miranda drew a sobbing breath. Oh, God! There wouldn’t be a next time. Who was she kidding? There wouldn’t even be a first time. She couldn’t go through with it, not even if it meant going hungry, not even if it meant throwing herself on Mevrouw De Vries’s mercy. She’d phone the Harrington Institute right away. They had to do something. Her situation was desperate.
Someone pounded on the door.
‘Mueller!’
Miranda’s hand flew to her throat. The voice was male—loud and very, very angry. The pounding noise came again, the sound of that heavy fist more than a match for the fury in the disembodied voice. Her heart began to race. She had to get out of here. She—
‘Mueller!’
The door slammed against the wall as it flew open, and she fell back into the corner. God, she thought wildly, oh, God, what had she walked into?
‘Where are you, you bastard? Do you really think you can hide from me forever?’
Footsteps, heavy footsteps, marched across the room, then paused. What to do? What to do? Miranda reached down into her bag for her robe. Where was it? Dammit, where was that stupid robe?
‘Mueller?’ The voice quietened, almost purred with menace. ‘Come out from behind the screen.’ There was a silence, and then the voice barked again. ‘If I have to come after you…’
Miranda looked down at herself. Quickly, she thought while her heart raced to burst free of her chest, quickly! Do something.
‘All right.’ The voice was grim with determination. ‘If that’s how you want to play it…’
Her eyes flew wildly across the clothing piled on the stool beside her. She could never get dressed in time. Never.
‘Mueller!’
With a sob of desperation she snatched up the smock that lay draped across the back of the stool and stuffed first one arm into a sleeve and then the other. Her fingers shook as she started to do up the buttons, but it was too late. She screamed as the screen was ripped away and a man—a tall, bulky man—grabbed her by the shoulders and dragged her forward.
‘There you are,’ he said through his teeth, ‘you—you…’ He fell silent, his eyes widening, then narrowing, as they focused on Miranda. ‘What the hell…?’
Dark colour swept into her cheeks and she snatched at the lapels of the smock and pulled them together.
‘I’ll—I’ll scream,’ she said. Her voice was breathless, as if she’d just run up the long, steep stairs to Mueller’s room.
The man’s mouth curved downward. ‘You already did,’ he said. ‘You damned near punctured my eardrums.’
Miranda swallowed. ‘I’m not—’ Her throat closed. ‘I’m not Ernst Mueller.’
The man stared at her a second or two, and then he laughed. It was a soft laugh, one that said everything it needed to say, and her face flooded with colour again.
‘No, you aren’t.’ He stepped back a little, his hands still clasping her shoulders in an iron grasp, and looked at her, his eyes moving slowly, deliberately, over her body, from the tips of her black leather boots up the long length of bare leg, skimming over the smock that hung only to mid-thigh and across the swift rise and fall of her breasts. By the time that slow, assessing gaze reached her face she had turned crimson. ‘No,’ he repeated softly, ‘you’re definitely not Mueller.’
Her heart was still galloping. From the frying-pan into the fire, she thought crazily. Suddenly, posing in the nude for Mueller seemed easy. What she had to worry about now was this—this lunatic, this behemoth of a man who’d burst into this room bellowing Mueller’s name, looking for blood and instead finding a half-naked woman cowering in a corner…
Although he didn’t look like a lunatic, or even like a behemoth, the part of Miranda’s mind that was still functioning sanely whispered. He was angry, yes, but not at her. At Mueller. Very angry. She could see it in the cold grey eyes, the taut mouth. But she had nothing to do with Mueller. Surely she could make him see that…?
‘Where is he?’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘I said, where’s Mueller?’
‘I don’t know.’
A cool smile tilted at the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t you?’
‘No. We—we had an appointment, but he was gone when I got here.’
‘You mean, he knew you were coming and he left anyway?’ The smile deepened. ‘I always suspected the man was a fool,’ he said softly. ‘Now I’m certain of it.’
Miranda swallowed hard. ‘Look, I’d like to—to get dressed, if you don’t mind.’
His teeth flashed in a quick grin. ‘That would be a pity. Maybe I’d like a look at the merchandise, too.’
Her face turned hot again. ‘Whatever it is you’re thinking—’
‘Especially 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.’
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 you’d—if you’d just make a phone call for me—’
‘Does Mueller know you’re ill?’
‘Mueller has nothing to do with this, Mr—Mr—’
‘Thorpe. Daniel Thorpe.’ He stopped beside the stool on which she’d deposited her clothing. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No. I’m not sick, Mr Thorpe. If you’d just—’
‘You need a doctor. Do you have one, or shall I call for an ambulance?’
‘An ambulance?’ Miranda stared at him. ‘I don’t need an ambulance.’
‘A doctor, then.’
‘I don’t need a doctor, either. For God’s sake, do you know what that would cost?’
His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘Yes, that’s right. I suppose that’s one of the problems with your line of work. The fringe benefits are none too good.’
Colour rushed into her face. ‘Put me down, please.’
‘So you can fall on that pretty face of yours? No, darling, I don’t think so.’
‘My name,’ Miranda said quietly, ‘is Miranda Stuart. And if you’re really interested in whether or not I fall on my face you’ll be decent enough to find a telephone and call my friend for me.’
‘Another friend?’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘It must be wonderful to be so popular, Miss Stuart.’
‘Her name is Mina,’ Miranda said coldly. ‘Just give her this address, and she’ll come and get me.’
Daniel Thorpe went on staring at her, his face empty of any expression, and then he nodded.
‘Right. Can you stand?’
Could she? Not that it mattered. She would stand, somehow; anything was better than lying in his arms this way while he looked at her as if she were something unsavoury he’d found in the street.
‘Yes.’
‘And can you get dressed without help?’
Miranda’s mouth thinned. ‘Absolutely.’
He nodded again, then lowered her carefully to her feet. ‘Go on, then. Get into your clothing.’
Her brows rose. ‘Not while you’re watching,’ she said coolly.
A little smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. ‘No, of course not.’ He bent and lifted the fallen screen from the littered floor. ‘We wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities, now, would we?’ He slapped the screen into place. ‘You’ve two minutes to dress and then I’ll assume you can’t manage without my help.’
Safe within the screen’s privacy, Miranda sank back against the wall. She’d hoped Thorpe would leave, but then, he’d come to see Ernst Mueller. He had every right to stay.
‘One minute, Miss Stuart, and counting.’
Her head sprang up. Would he really try to dress her if she didn’t move quickly enough to suit him? A wave of heat raced from the top of her head down to her toes. Yes, he probably would. Quickly, before she had to put that judgement to the test, Miranda stripped off the smock, flung it aside, and began pulling on her clothes.
She was composed when she stepped out from behind the screen. Daniel Thorpe was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching her. She thought she glimpsed distaste in his face as he took in her somewhat faded denim skirt, her black sweater, her silver necklace and earrings.
‘Street chic,’ he said, his mouth curling with distaste.
Miranda’s spine stiffened. She knew her outfit left a lot to be desired, despite what Mina had said this morning, but she had no intention of being insulted by this stranger.
‘It suits me just fine.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Yes. I’m sure it’s a hit at Fancy Free.’
Heat flooded her face. Fancy Free was one of the bars where you could purchase and smoke marijuana legally.
‘I hate to disappoint you,’ she said coldly, ‘but I’ve never been there.’
‘Forgive me, Miss Stuart.’ Sarcasm edged his tone. ‘I’m sure there are other places that suit your tastes far better.’
Miranda’s chin lifted. ‘Yes,’ she said, lying through her teeth, ‘there certainly are. Not that it’s any of your business—’
He shrugged his shoulders dismissively as he walked towards her. ‘You’re right. How you look—and how you live—is strictly your affair.’
‘I’m glad we agree on something,’ she said as she dug into her bag. She looked up, face still flushed with indignation, and held out her hand.
Thorpe looked at the coins shining against her palm. ‘What’s that for?’
‘It’s for the telephone. You agreed to call my friend and—’
‘You need a physician, not a girlfriend.’ His hand closed firmly on her elbow. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I told you, I’m not sick.’
‘Suppose you let someone qualified make that decision. Is this your jacket?’
‘Yes. But—but—’
‘No arguments,’ he said as he hustled her out of the door and to the steps. Suddenly he paused and turned her towards him. ‘Or are you so eager to see Mueller that you’d risk passing out again?’
Mueller. Lord, in all the confusion she’d forgotten about him! Her luck had held so far, but surely he’d show up eventually, expecting her to pose? A shudder went through her. She couldn’t afford to wait here for Mina, not if she wanted to avoid a confrontation.
‘You’re right,’ she lied. ‘I’d better stop at a clinic.’
Her gaze flew to the steep stairs, knifing down into the late-afternoon shadows. Just staring down into the darkness sent a wave of dizziness shuddering through her, but she forced herself to take a step forward. Instantly Thorpe’s arm curved around her.
‘I’ll see you out.’
She ached to tell him she didn’t need his help. But the truth was that it would have been a lie. She could never have made her way down the stairs on her own. Her legs felt as if someone had taken out the muscles and put overcooked pasta in their place. Still, he didn’t have to hold her quite so closely, nor splay his hand so possessively across her hip.
The second they came out into bright sunlight Miranda stepped away from him and forced a polite smile to her face.
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Thorpe. It’s been—interesting.’
His hand fell on her shoulder as she began to turn away.
‘I’ve a car just around the corner. I’ll drive you to your doctor’s office.’
‘No. Thanks for the offer, but—’
His fingers clamped down on her flesh. Miranda dug in her heels, but it was useless. He propelled her easily, despite her best efforts.
‘Hey,’ she said as he yanked open the door of a black Mercedes, ‘hey! Dammit, will you listen to me?’
‘Get in and tell me where he’s located.’
‘You have absolutely no right to—’
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘You don’t have the money for a doctor, do you?’
‘What I have or don’t have is none of your damned—’
‘Answer the question, Miss Stuart. Have you money or haven’t you?’ Miranda glared at him, and a muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘That’s what I thought. All right. I’ll pay.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What?’
He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I don’t mean for your usual services. I’ll take care of the cost of the doctor.’
Her cheeks flushed wildly. ‘Are you crazy? In the first place, I’m not ill. And in the second place—’
‘I give God only knows how much money to charity each year, Miss Stuart.’ His nostrils flared as if the scent of something unpleasant were in the air. ‘Let’s just say that this time you’ll be a direct recipient.’
She stared at him in disbelief, and then, with one quick effort, wrenched free of his hands.
‘I do not need your charity,’ she said coldly.
‘You sure as hell need someone’s.’
Daniel Thorpe would never know how right he was, Miranda thought, and she laughed.
‘Yes. Yes, I do. But not yours. Goodbye, Mr Thorpe.’
His hands shot out and caught hold of her again. ‘Listen here, young woman—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Miranda’s patience snapped. ‘I fainted because I was hungry. I hate to disappoint you, but I haven’t got beriberi, or malaria, or a social disease.’ She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin in defiance. ‘Now do you understand?’
She knew, in the ensuing silence, that her temper had got the best of her. She had said more than she’d ever planned on saying, and now she waited, head lifted proudly, for him to make some cutting remark that would be a put-down of her, of Ernst Mueller, of art and everything else Daniel Thorpe seemed to think she represented.
He didn’t disappoint her.
‘I do, indeed,’ he said, his voice icy with distaste. ‘You don’t give a damn about tomorrow. You live from day to day, never planning ahead, never holding on to a guilder.’
Miranda thought of the preparation that had gone into the portfolio of oils and water-colours she’d submitted to the scholarship committee, of the hours she’d spent filling out application forms for the grant, of the months spent waiting to see if she’d been selected and how carefully she’d husbanded the grant payment when she’d finally got it. She thought of how she’d nursed her last few guilders so that they’d lasted all week instead of only a day, and she smiled sweetly.
‘How clever of you to have figured me out so quickly,’ she purred. ‘You’re only wrong about one thing, Mr Thorpe: I don’t live from day to day, I live from minute to minute.’ Her smile grew even more cloying. ‘But then, why should I worry? There’s always someone like Ernst Mueller to help me out when I’m really desperate.’
Thorpe’s face darkened and his hands tightened on her until she could feel each finger biting into her flesh. Suddenly she wished she could take the sarcastic words back.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’
But what he was doing was obvious. He was hustling her into the Mercedes, shoving her into the passenger-seat, securing the seatbelt, coming around the car and getting in behind the wheel before she could make sense of it all.
His door slammed shut, the key turned, and the engine roared to life.
Miranda’s heart rose into her throat.
‘You can’t get away with something like this,’ she said breathlessly. ‘People saw you—’
Daniel Thorpe looked at her as if she bored him silly. ‘Steak and potatoes,’ he said, ‘or is it only breakfast-time in your world?’
She blinked. ‘What?’
Sighing, he shifted gears and headed towards the Damrak. ‘Which would you prefer, Miss Stuart? Breakfast or dinner? I’ll choose the restaurant, but you can choose the meal.’
He’d abducted her so he could feed her! Miranda gaped at the man beside her in disbelief. His attention was on the road ahead; seen in profile, he was all rock-solid determination.
‘Well? Which is it? Breakfast or dinner?’
I don’t want anything from a man like you, she thought. I don’t want so much as a glass of water…
Breakfast or dinner. The very words made her stomach growl.
‘Dammit, Miss Stuart, I’m waiting. Make a decision.’
Miranda glanced at that implacable profile again. The odds were she’d never win the argument anyway, she thought, and a little smile flickered across her mouth.
‘Both,’ she said primly, and she settled back into the seat, crossed her arms over her breasts, and let visions of ham, eggs, and steak fill her weary brain.

CHAPTER THREE
THE Mercedes moved swiftly through the streets, easily eating up the long blocks Miranda had so often walked. Amsterdam’s public transportation system was quick and efficient, but walking saved money even if it was hard on shoe leather. It occurred to her that she’d never seen the city from quite this angle before. It looked different, more exotic, and, although she knew that was just a quirk of light and perspective, it heightened the sense of unreality that had surrounded her ever since Daniel Thorpe had come bursting into Ernst Mueller’s room.
Why had he been looking for Mueller? Miranda glanced over at the man seated beside her. She’d never asked him, but then there’d been precious little time to ask him anything. She’d been far too busy trying to answer Thorpe’s tight-lipped, angry questions to ask any of her own.
The car whispered to a stop at a traffic-light. Miranda sighed and shifted in the glove-leather seat. If you had to be abducted, she thought wryly, this was the way to go. Not that Thorpe had abducted her, exactly. Still, she had the feeling he’d just as easily have slung her over his shoulder and carried her off if she’d resisted. She gave a mental shrug as she leaned her head back. Only a fool would have resisted. A meal was a meal, no matter if the devil himself bought it.
‘Are you all right?’
Thorpe’s voice was brusque, the question asked with curiosity but no real concern. Miranda sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap.
‘I’m not going to be sick all over your car, if that’s what you mean.’
The light changed and the car glided across the intersection and into the stream of traffic. Thorpe made a sound midway between a laugh and a grunt.
‘Do you ever answer a question without getting your hackles up?’
‘Do you ever ask one without sounding like the grand inquisitor?’
She felt him look towards her and she forced herself to keep her eyes straight ahead. After a moment he puffed out his breath.
‘We’ll be there soon,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you close your eyes and rest?’
I’m not an invalid, she almost said, but then she realised that she might as well take him up on the suggestion. She was tired, bone tired, the seat was soft and comfortable and, besides, there was no reason to sit ramrod-straight beside him. Lord knew, they had nothing to talk about. What could she and a man like Daniel Thorpe possibly have in common?
‘That’s a good idea,’ she said, and she put her head back again, closed her eyes, and willed her body to relax.
She heard him shift lightly in his seat, and then the soft sounds of Debussy’s La Mer drifted through the car. He’d turned on the radio, Miranda thought and waited for him to change the station. But he didn’t; she felt him settle back in the seat again.
She turned her head slightly and risked a glance at him from under her lashes. His hands lay lightly on the steering-wheel, his index fingers moving slowly in time with the music. She felt a little tug of surprise. He liked Debussy, then. That surprised her: she would have expected him to prefer music that was sharper and more linear, but then, if she’d learned one thing about Daniel Thorpe since he’d exploded into her life it was that he was a paradox. He looked the very essence of propriety in his expensive suit and elegant car, yet he’d come bursting into Mueller’s studio like a madman. And then there was the way he’d held her and kissed her. There’d been nothing terribly proper about that.
A flush crept along her skin and she turned her face straight ahead. There’d been nothing proper in her response, either, which was insane. She wasn’t like that—not ever. She liked being with men, laughing with them and talking, going for walks in the park. She liked dancing with them, too, being held next to a warm, hard body, just as she liked being kissed goodnight at an evening’s end. But she had never felt as she had in Daniel Thorpe’s arms, as if her body had suddenly come alive, as if she had been trembling on the brink of some new and miraculous discovery.
She sat up straight and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. It was being light-headed that had done it, and it only proved that she had no choice but to pose for Mueller. Thorpe could buy her a meal out of guilt—she knew that was why he’d made his offer—and then she’d be right back where she’d been before, trapped between a rock and a hard place. Either she posed for Mueller or she starved, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that was no choice at all. She’d just knock on Mueller’s door as if she’d never been there in the first place and say, ‘I’m sorry I was late,’ and then she’d step behind the screen, take off her clothes, and…
God! The prospect was even more terrifying now than it had been earlier. And to think the man beside her believed her capable of—of…
What did a stranger’s opinion of her matter? Let Daniel Thorpe think what he pleased. She had tried to explain, but he wasn’t interested in listening. He had looked at her and seen what he’d wanted to see, not a desperate student who’d learned to survive by living on the cheap, but a woman he’d found half naked in a smelly garret, which in his world meant that she had all the morals of an alley cat.
Not that his attitude was all that unusual. Miranda had run into his sort before, men in New York and even here, in Amsterdam, who assumed you were easy because you moved in a world they saw as ‘exotic’.
‘Us and them,’ Mina had said once, and she was right. There were those who created and appreciated beauty and those who didn’t, and the gulf between them was wide and deep.
‘We’re here.’
She looked up. Thorpe had brought the car to the kerb and parked, but where? She turned and peered out the window, searching for something familiar so she could get her bearings.
‘Let’s go, Miss Stuart.’ She heard the soft ping as he released the automatic door locks. When she didn’t move he reached past her and pushed open her door. ‘I haven’t got all day,’ he said.
She stepped from the car slowly, looking around her with a frown. She knew where they were now—a quiet part of the city she’d walked once or twice, sketch-pad in hand so she could make quick charcoal studies of the Amstel river and the handsome old houses that faced it. It was a lovely place for walking, but not for eating. Miranda knew the location of every cheap cafeteria in the city, and there were certainly no mensas to be found here.
Daniel came up beside her and caught hold of her arm. ‘I didn’t bring you here to gape,’ he said irritably.
‘Where are we going?’ Miranda said as he hustled her along the pavement. ‘I don’t see a restaurant.’
Her words tumbled to silence. She didn’t see one because there was none to see. The building ahead, the one he was hurrying her towards, wasn’t a restaurant at all. It was Amsterdam’s most expensive, and most exclusive, hotel.
‘You bastard!’ Miranda wrenched free of his grasp and swung towards him. ‘Did you really think it would be that easy?’
‘Miss Stuart—’
Her hands went to her hips. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, her voice twisted with contempt. ‘Was Mueller’s room too tawdry for you?’
His scowl deepened. ‘What in hell are you talking about?’
‘Or did you think I’d fall into your arms at the sight of silk sheets or whatever it is this place has?’
A cool smile curved across his mouth. ‘You have a distorted idea of your charms, Miss Stuart.’ His voice was as chill as his smile. ‘And a very short memory. I told you, I’m not in the habit of buying my women.’
Miranda’s head lifted. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to try explaining why you’ve brought me here.’ She glanced past his shoulder to the elegant building behind him. ‘This is your hotel, isn’t it?’
‘Your powers of detection are truly amazing.’
‘So is my ability to smell a rat.’ She tossed her head—an almost fatal mistake, considering the momentary wave of dizziness that swept over her—and turned sharply on her heel. ‘Goodbye, Mr Thorpe.’
Hard hands grabbed her and twisted her around. ‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘I told you, I’m not going to sell my—’
‘Good. Because I’m not buying.’ She tried digging in her heels as Daniel half dragged her towards the hotel entrance, but he was too strong. Despite her best efforts, she found herself propelled through the door. ‘There’s a restaurant here,’ he said grimly, ‘and that’s where we’re going. I’ll buy you a meal, put you into a taxi, and then—’
A whispered buzz of conversation wafted towards them. Daniel paused in mid-sentence; he looked up at the pair of middle-aged matrons who were watching them with undisguised interest. A slow flush rose under his skin, but his stare was unwavering. The women blanched and looked away, and he turned back towards Miranda.
‘And then,’ he said through his teeth, ‘we’ll never have to lay eyes on each other again. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds fine,’ she said, glaring up at him.
Daniel clasped her elbow and marched her through the elegant lobby, up a short flight of marble steps, and into the kind of place Miranda had only seen in films.
‘Not a silk sheet in sight,’ he whispered maliciously as they stood waiting in the entrance.
Miranda touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. She ached to answer him with some clever remark of her own, but the simple truth was that she was speechless. She hadn’t really thought about the kind of place he’d take her to, but if she had she’d have assumed it would be a cafeteria or a pancake house. Never, not in a million years, would she have thought he’d bring her to a place like this—and, from the look on the face of the tuxedo-clad head waiter mincing towards them, neither would anyone else.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The man’s eyes slipped over Miranda, taking in her boots and skirt and the loose tumble of black curls hanging down her back. ‘May I help you with something?’
‘Yes. We’d like a table, please.’
‘Did you have a reservation, sir?’
She felt Daniel’s hand tighten on her arm. ‘No,’ he said pleasantly. His gaze skimmed the half-empty restaurant, then returned to the head waiter. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Ah.’ The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘In that case—’
‘But I’m quite sure you can seat us,’ Daniel said softly. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Miranda looked up at him. His tone was pleasant and even, but there was a dangerous edge to it. She could see his eyes glinting like shards of ice in his tanned face.
Suddenly the air seemed charged with electricity.
‘Mr Thorpe.’ Miranda cleared her throat. ‘Mr Thorpe,’ she said softly, ‘I know a very nice little coffee shop…’
The pressure of his hand increased. ‘Isn’t that right?’ he said again.
The head waiter swallowed convulsively. ‘Of course, sir. I only meant—I only meant that we could have given you a window table if we’d had some advance knowledge.’ He smiled. ‘But we have a very nice table in the corner—’
Daniel’s arm slipped around Miranda’s waist. She tensed, but his hand settled heavily on her hip, moulding her to his side.
‘But you do have a table near the window,’ he said in that same quiet tone. ‘You must have forgotten.’
The head waiter glanced from the table to Daniel’s tautly composed face.
‘I did indeed, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘If you’d just follow me?’
Conversation ceased as they made their way through the dining-room. Miranda’s embroidered skirt swirled around her leather-clad ankles. Women in the latest Chanels and Adolfos stared with unabashed interest at her as she swept past. Men watched her, too, but with a different kind of interest, as if her exotic clothing and tousled mane of dark hair marked her as fair game.
Miranda kept her head high, but she felt herself shrivelling inside. Her pace quickened, and instantly Daniel’s head bent so that his lips were close to her ear.
‘Easy does it,’ he said softly.
She felt a swift rush of gratitude and she looked up at him. He was walking beside her nonchalantly, as if he made this kind of entrance all the time, and he met each stare with an even gaze of his own so that gradually the curious faces turned away and the sound level in the room returned to its normal, muted buzz.
Daniel wasn’t doing this for her, she understood that. It was for himself: he wasn’t a man who’d let anyone mock him. Still, it was hard not to be grateful, and she gave him a quick smile as the head waiter, all but bowing now, drew out her chair, seated her, and handed them menus.
Miranda let out her breath. Daniel leaned towards her across the table. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded. ‘I’m fine. I just…’ She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘You know what I mean. Those people—well, you knew they were making things difficult for me—’
His expression hardened instantly. ‘You’ve made things difficult for yourself,’ he said coldly, and he lifted his menu and opened it so that she couldn’t see his face.
Miranda stared at him, and then she sighed and opened her menu, too. The best thing to do was order quickly, eat just as quickly, and leave. An act of charity, he had called this, and that was exactly what it was. Not that she’d expected anything else. It was just that—that…
‘What would you like?’
She looked over the menu at Daniel. The look of distaste had gone from his face, replaced by a courteous neutrality. Yes, she was right. He was waiting for her to choose something so that he could get on with the task he’d set himself and finish it as quickly as possible.
For no discernible reason the thought depressed her.
‘Miss Stuart?’ He smiled politely. ‘Have you decided what to order?’
She looked at the menu again. It was four pages long, a dazzling blend of French and Dutch, and for the life of her she couldn’t make one line of it stand out from another.
‘It doesn’t matter. Anything. Soup, or ham and frites is fine. Or a hamburger. Or eggs and bacon.’ She smiled slightly as she closed the menu and put it down. ‘Whatever you’re having is OK.’
Daniel nodded and signalled the waiter. ‘I’d like a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘As for the lady—she’ll have a bowl of pea soup to start, and then she’d like ham and frites.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She’d like a hamburger, too.’
The man’s brows rose. ‘Yes. Of course.’
‘And she’d like an order of bacon and eggs.’ He met the head waiter’s eyes as he handed over his menu. ‘We’ll choose dessert after we’ve eaten.’
Miranda leaned across the table when they were alone again. ‘Are you trying to make fun of me?’ she demanded quietly. ‘Ordering all that food…’
‘We’ll have the kitchen pack what you don’t finish,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You can have it later this evening, for supper.’
‘Good,’ she said primly. ‘Because I could never eat even half that much.’
But, of course, she did. The first mouthful of food seemed to set off a chain reaction; once she’d started eating, she couldn’t stop. She ate the soup, the ham, the French fried potatoes, the hamburger, and almost all the bacon and eggs. She was ravenously hungry, and not even the muffled laughter from a nearby table was enough to curb her appetite, although the laughter stopped after one harsh glance from Daniel.
When she was finished she pushed the last plate aside, patted her lips with her linen napkin, and sighed.
‘That was wonderful.’ She hesitated, and then her eyes met Daniel’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
He frowned. ‘You weren’t exaggerating,’ he said, watching her. ‘You were damned near starving.’
Miranda laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, not starving, but—’
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’
She nodded. ‘You are, too.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘I knew we had that in common.’
His frown deepened. ‘How long have you been in Holland?’
‘A little over four months.’ She hesitated. The man had been kind to her, she had to admit that. It was time to tell him the truth about herself. ‘I came to Amsterdam because it’s known worldwide for—’
‘Yes,’ he said coldly, ‘I’m fully aware of what it’s known for, Miss Stuart. A free and easy lifestyle that someone like you can’t handle.’
Miranda laughed. ‘No. No, you’re wrong, Mr Thorpe. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You see, the reason I came here is—’
He leaned forward. ‘How can you live this way?’ he demanded. ‘It’s one thing to be a free spirit, and another to be a damned fool.’
She flushed. ‘If you’d just listen—’
‘You can’t live like a—a gypsy forever, for God’s sake. And you can’t rely on your looks forever, either.’
Miranda glared at him. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I work hard, the same as you or anyone else.’
Daniel’s jaw shot forward. ‘I suppose you could call it that. Going from man to man can’t be easy.’
A patchwork of crimson rose in her face. What an insufferable bastard he was! She took a deep breath.
‘No,’ she said coolly, ‘it isn’t.’ She thought of her two painting instructors and how differently they approached art, of the last sculptor she’d posed for who’d kept her in one pose for hours so that when she had finally tried standing up her legs had felt as if they were stuck full of pins. ‘No,’ she said again, her eyes flashing fire, ‘it’s not easy at all. Each man wants something different from you and you have to deliver.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But I’m good at what I do, so they tell me. Very—’
She gasped as his hand clamped down on hers. She could feel the bones in her wrist flex beneath the harsh pressure.
‘You’re hurting me,’ she spat. ‘Damn you, you’re—’
‘Here you are, Daniel. I wondered what had happened to you.’
Daniel’s hand fell away from her. Miranda looked up, startled, as he scraped back his chair and got to his feet. A woman had materialised beside the table, a woman with a softly lined face, white hair, and a score of questions in her blue eyes.
Daniel frowned. ‘Aunt Sophie,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Well,’ she answered, her eyes on Miranda, ‘you said we’d meet in our suite for tea, but it got later and later and you didn’t show up or telephone, so I thought—’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming friend, Daniel?’
There was a heavy silence, and then he sighed. ‘Aunt Sophie, this is Miranda Stuart.’ He glowered at Miranda. ‘This is my aunt, Sophie Prescott.’
Miranda looked from him to the older woman, and she smiled hesitantly. ‘Hello.’
‘Daniel, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?’
‘I wish I could,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but Miranda was just leaving.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sophie Prescott drew out a chair and settled herself into it, despite her nephew’s glower. ‘Surely she can stay long enough to keep me company while I have my tea? Isn’t that right, Miss Stuart?’
‘—I—’ Miranda swallowed drily. ‘I wish I could. But—’
‘Good. Now tell me, where did you two meet?’
‘Aunt Sophie, for God’s sake—’
‘Are you an artist, Miss Stuart?’
Miranda’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s right. I am. How did you—?’
Sophie laughed. ‘My dear, I spent my youth in la belle Paris. I used to haunt the streets of Montmartre—Hemingway lived there then, and Gertrude Stein, and, of course, there were all the artists—Picasso and Chagall…’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘You take me right back to those days,’ she said dreamily. ‘The way you look, you could have stepped out of a Parisian atelier.’
‘Or an Amsterdam studio,’ Daniel said drily.
His aunt nodded happily. ‘Exactly. Is that why you’re in Amsterdam, dear? To paint?’
Miranda looked at the man opposite her. ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his, ‘that’s right. I’m here on a Harrington scholarship.’
‘A Harrington fellow? Is that what you are?’
Miranda smiled. ‘Why, yes. But how—?’
‘I knew a Harrington fellow once. It was in 1934—or was it ’24?’ The old woman paused, and her face took on a sudden look of fragility. ‘I can’t remember which.’
‘It’s all right, Aunt Sophie.’ Daniel’s voice was soft. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I just wish I could recall…’ His aunt shook herself. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘tell me, Miss Stuart, are the fund’s trustees still notorious for keeping their recipients mired in poverty?’
Miranda began to laugh. ‘You mean it’s always been like that?’
‘Oh, my, yes. The chap I knew never was certain where his next meal was coming from. He was forever afraid he’d end up sleeping on the street. He was lucky he had a good physique.’
‘Aunt Sophie. I don’t think Miss Stuart wants to hear—’
‘But it’s true, Daniel, he was lucky. He was much in demand as a model for the more established artists.’ The old woman smiled at Miranda. ‘I’ll just bet that’s how you supplement your income, dear, with that pretty face of yours. You model, don’t you?’
A rush of triumph swept through Miranda’s veins. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes met Daniel’s. ‘I do, indeed. I paint, and when I get the chance I pose. It’s the only way I have of making any extra money.’
The conversation took a different turn after that. Sophie Prescott began talking about something else entirely, and Miranda managed to keep up her end of the conversation, talking and laughing with the old woman while Daniel sat silent, but all the time one thought kept hammering inside her head.
There you are, Mr Thorpe, she kept thinking. You owe me an apology. Why don’t you turn towards me so I can see your face? You must be as embarrassed as—
The breath caught in her throat. Daniel’s head swung towards her, as if he’d heard her silent imprecations, but what she saw in his face was not what she’d expected. He wasn’t embarrassed; he was taut with barely contained rage.
‘It’s getting late,’ he said, his voice slicing across his aunt’s. He shoved back his chair. ‘Miss Stuart has to be leaving.’
‘Such formality.’ Sophie smiled. ‘Surely we may call you Miranda, mayn’t we, dear?’
Miranda’s mouth had gone dry while she’d been watching Daniel. ‘Yes. I—’
‘Can’t she stay for dinner?’ The old woman’s smile faltered. ‘I was hoping that—’
‘She has to leave,’ Daniel said. ‘Isn’t that right, Miranda?’ His voice twisted her name a little until it bore a touch of menace.
‘Yes,’ she said, scraping back her chair, ‘I—I do. Goodbye, Mrs Prescott. It’s been lovely meeting you. Don’t get up, Mr Thorpe,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Daniel’s mouth thinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that,’ he said coldly. He rose from his chair and touched his aunt’s shoulder lightly. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘Do stop by again,’ Sophie Prescott called, but Miranda was already hurrying from the dining-room. She had seen enough of Daniel’s temper to last her a lifetime. Whatever it was that had angered him now, it had nothing to do with her. She wanted no part of it, no part of him.
He caught up to her in the lobby. His hand clasped her elbow, and she rose on her toes as he rushed her out of the front door and into a narrow alley that ran the length of the hotel.
‘Let go of me,’ she spat. ‘I’m tired of being manhandled by you.’
Daniel spun her around. ‘What the hell was that supposed to be?’ he demanded furiously.
Miranda stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Playing on the memories of an old woman—how could you do that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘That performance in there.’ His face twisted. ‘“A Harrington fellow,”’ he said, his voice rising in cruel mimicry of hers. He caught her by the shoulders. ‘That poor old woman tossed you a line and you grabbed it so fast that it made my head spin.’
Miranda’s face reddened. ‘For your information,’ she said coldly, ‘I am a Harrington fellow. I’m an artist. I tried to tell you that.’
‘An artist.’ He laughed coldly. ‘Yeah, you’re an artist, all right. Performance art, that’s the kind of art you do.’
‘Let go of me,’ she said, struggling to free herself.
Daniel’s hands clasped her more tightly. ‘Your art work takes place in beds, darling, and I’ve no doubt you’re very good at what you do.’
‘You bastard!’ Miranda’s voice shook with emotion. ‘And to think I decided you had a heart under that—that stuffed shirt…’
‘Hell, you’ve been selling yourself short,’ he said, thrusting his jaw forward. ‘Why should you ply your trade in smelly rooms like Mueller’s? Whoring is legal in Amsterdam, remember? Why don’t you get yourself a card and go to work? With your talent, you could probably pull in a thousand guilders a night.’
She stared at him, as stunned by his enraged words as she was by the pain they’d sent knifing through her heart. It was her shocked awareness of that pain that gave her the strength to wrench free of his grasp and slap him across the face with all the power she possessed.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl so that she could observe his reaction to what she’d done almost as if she were a bystander. His face registered a stunned look of disbelief, his head jolted back slowly, and the mark of her hand began to bloom in livid relief upon his cheek.
‘You bitch,’ he said thickly.
She turned, stumbling, trying to get away, terrified of what she saw reflected in his eyes, but he was too quick and powerful. He caught her easily and spun her to him, his arms sweeping around her, one hand twisting into the midnight tumble of her hair, holding her still, despite her frantic efforts to get loose.
‘You play a dangerous game, Miranda,’ he whispered.
‘Let go of me!’
He pushed her back against the rough brick wall. ‘I like to play games, too.’ His voice was low and threatening. ‘And I always play to win.’
His mouth slanted down over hers, smothering her outraged protest. She twisted against him and he retaliated by leaning into her, pinning her against the unyielding wall with his weight. She felt engulfed by his body. His lips moved against hers, demanding response but getting none, and he drew back.
‘You’ll need to do better than that if you’re going to earn your pay.’
‘You disgust me,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Do you know that? You—’

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