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