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.