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