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