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There was a soft olive green carpet on the floor and this colour was echoed in the olive and cream bedspread and the long wild silk curtains drawn across the windows. The furniture, the bed, the triple-mirrored dressing table, the wide wardrobe, were made of a dark mahogany, slightly larger than life but not out of place in this high-ceilinged apartment. A radiator ran beneath the window and the room was beautifully warm.
Bolt stood down her suitcases and indicated a door near the wardrobe at the far side of the room. “The bathroom, miss,” he explained, looking round to assure himself that everything was in order. “I’ve put hot water bottles in the bed and they can be refilled later if you need them.”
Helen bit her lip. “Thank you, Bolt,” she said, amazed at her calm acceptance of the situation. Then, as he moved to the door: “By the way …”
“Yes, miss?” He surveyed her politely even while she sensed his impatience to go his master.
“Are you – do you intend to – lock me in?”
Bolt half-smiled, and swung the door closed behind him, and only then did she see the key on her side of the door.
Now that the manservant was gone, Helen moved to the windows, drawing aside the curtains to peer out. Her room appeared to be at the back of the house, but apart from a few snow-clad trees there was little to be seen. She allowed the curtains to swing closed and turned to survey her domain.
She thought a trifle hysterically that no hotel bedroom could be more luxurious and no proprietor more concerned for the comfort of his guest than Bolt. It was ludicrous! The more she thought about it, the more fantastic it seemed. She smoothed her moist palms down the seams at the sides of her trousers. How long was she expected to stay here? How long would it take Dominic Lyall to settle his affairs to his satisfaction and leave the country?
She paced restlessly about the floor, trying to quell the panic that was rising again inside her now that she was alone. Did he really mean what he had said? Or had it been a deliberate ruse to frighten her for his own amusement? She doubted the latter somehow, and yet he was a cultured, civilised man! How could he so cold-bloodedly decide to detain her here against her will until it suited him to let her go? What kind of life had he led these past few years to destroy the pangs of his conscience?
She looked at her watch. It was after six o’clock. Dominic Lyall had said that he had a meal at eight. But right now she doubted her ability to eat anything. And where was he? What sort of treatment did Bolt mete out?
She stopped before her mirror and surveyed her dishevelled appearance without pleasure. Her trouser legs were creased from when she had rolled them up, her hair was wind-blown, and her cheeks bore the scratches she had received when she had plunged headlong through the hedge. She raised a trembling hand to touch a strand of silky black hair. What was she going to do?
An inspection of the bathroom assured her that there was no other means of access than from the bedroom and turning the key in her bedroom door she decided to take a bath. The bath itself was huge, white porcelain and standing on black iron legs. There was plenty of hot water from a gurgling tank and it was amazing how relaxed the scented water made her feel. She had found several jars of bath-salts on a glass shelf above the wash basin, and she had sprinkled them liberally before climbing in.
Eventually, of course, she had to get out again and after letting the water run away she wrapped herself in an enormous white bath towel and went into the bedroom to get some clean underclothes from her case.
But the case was locked and she remembered with irritation that all her keys were on the ring that was presently in Dominic Lyall’s possession.
She stood hesitantly in the middle of the floor, wondering what she should do. She was tempted to go out on to the landing and shout for Bolt, but the vulnerability of her position made her think again. With ill grace she put on the clothes she had taken off and had to satisfy herself by doing her hair and applying a light make-up to her face. Her comb and cosmetics were, thankfully, in her handbag, and at least she did not look so dishevelled when she was finished. The white sweater she had worn with her slacks was reasonably smart and she doubted whether Dominic Lyall would notice anyway. All the same, she determined to have her keys before going to bed. She had no intention of sleeping without a nightgown.
A ripple of awareness ran through her at this thought. But there was no fear that anyone might disturb her in the night, she thought impatiently. Her door locked securely, and was heavy enough to thwart the most determined intruder. Besides, Bolt did not strike her as the sort of man to force his attentions on anyone, and Dominic Lyall …
She licked suddenly dry lips. She didn’t want to think about Dominic Lyall, but it was impossible not to do so. She didn’t want to remember the disruption of her senses when he had touched her earlier, or the fearful fascination he had inspired in her. It was repulsion, she told herself fiercely. She loathed and despised him. She couldn’t be attracted to a man like him, a cripple; a man moreover who had no compunction about twisting her plans to suit his own ends.
And yet she remembered every small detail about him – the curious lightness of his hair, the tawny eyes, and his dark skin, the lean strength of his body, the way the muscles of his thighs had been visible through the taut material of his black trousers, the knee-length boots, and the revealing anguish when he had been in pain. She caught her breath. She couldn’t feel pity for him, she couldn’t! But she did.
Shaking her head so that the heavy swathe of black hair swung confidingly beneath her chin, she unlocked the bedroom door and pulled it open. The landing stretched away before her, dimly lit and deserted. With a muffled exclamation, she switched off her bedroom lights and walked determinedly towards the balustrade at the head of the stairs.
In the hall below, she looked about her distractedly. Which door led into the living room? She couldn’t remember. She approached what she thought was the living room and opened the door only to discover a downstairs cloakroom. She quickly closed it again and tried another, feeling a little like Alice must have felt down the rabbit hole. This room proved to be a small dining apartment with a blank cloth covering a circular table. Was this where she was expected to have her evening meal?
She sighed and then, hearing a sound behind her, spun round. A door across the hall had opened and Dominic Lyall was standing in the aperture, the cheetah, Sheba, at his heels.
“Won’t you join me?” he invited, in the deep attractive voice she had come to know so well in such a short space of time, and with a helpless shrug she obeyed him.
He stood aside to allow her to enter the living room and then closed the door behind them. He had changed from his black clothes into a rich purple silk shirt, cream suede pants that moulded his lean hips, and a darker beige suede waistcoat. His face showed none of the strain which had been evident earlier, and Helen reflected that Bolt must have done his work well. He had the build of a wrestler, but he could be a masseur.
She moved across to the fireplace, keeping an alert eye on the cheetah following her. The fire had been built up with logs in her absence and the occasional table where they had had their tea was now spread with a cloth.
Dominic indicated the armchair she had occupied before. “Please – sit down,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink before supper?”
He might have been addressing an expected guest, and Helen felt a rising frustration. Did he expect her to behave as though that was the case? Was she to offer no obstruction to his plans? How dared he assume that she had nothing to say in the matter?
“As a matter of fact I didn’t come down to have supper with you!” she declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. “I want my keys – the keys to my suitcases. You have no right to keep them. I couldn’t even get a change of clothes after taking a bath!”
Dominic frowned, thrusting a hand into his trousers’ pocket and bringing out the leather key-ring. He examined the assortment of keys thoughtfully, and then said: “I’m sorry. Naturally you want the keys to your suitcases. If you’ll point them out to me …”
Helen stared at him mutinously for a few moments and then without stopping to consider the consequences she rushed forward and tried to snatch the keys from his hand. She didn’t really know what she intended doing with them even if she had been successful. Wild ideas about running out into the night, starting her unstartable car and driving away, were pure fantasy. But she had to do something, anything, to show him that she was not as helpless as he imagined her to be.
Her efforts were doomed to failure. His fingers closed over the key-ring as she sprang forward, and all her frenzied attempts to prise them apart were useless. If she had supposed him weakened in some way, if she had thought that because of his disablement he no longer possessed the strength to withstand attack, she soon realised how wrong she had been. When she flew at him she had half expected him to lose his balance, but he didn’t, and there was an unyielding resistance in his hard body. She was totally unaware that the cheetah was watching them with alert, intelligent eyes, prevented from intervening by a quiet command from its master, but as she continued to pry desperately at his fingers she could not help but be aware of Dominic Lyall. She could feel the heat of his body, she could smell the faintly musky scent that emanated from him, but when she looked up and saw the cruel smile of derision that was twisting his lips, she drew back with a dismayed gasp.
“You – you brute!” she cried tremulously. “They – they’re my keys. I want them.”
“Don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly?” he asked, raising eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. “I had already offered to give you the keys you wanted.”
Helen moved her head from side to side in a hopeless gesture. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded, in a defeated voice. “Why can’t you let me go?”
“Tonight?” he mocked.
“No. In the morning.” She made one last appeal to him. “Please!”
“Don’t plead with me,” he exclaimed, contempt colouring his tone. “I despise weakness!”
Helen felt as though he had struck her. With a hand pressed to her throat she turned away from him, gripping the back of the couch in a desperate effort to gain control. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she badly wanted to give in to them. She felt utterly lost and alone, incapable of any coherent thought. Not even the malevolent stare that Sheba was directing at her for daring to challenge her beloved master could arouse a spark of antagonism inside her.
“Here! Drink this!”
Dominic Lyall thrust a glass into her hand and she looked down at it blankly. “What is it?”
“Brandy,” he replied briefly. “It may help to restore your common sense.”
Helen was tempted to throw the glass to the floor and scatter its contents likewise, but she was badly in need of a restorative. Raising the glass to her trembling lips, she swallowed a mouthful jerkily and then finished it all in a sudden gulp. The spirit stung her throat and she coughed as tears came to her eyes, but she could feel its warmth tingling to the surface.
Dominic Lyall limped round the couch and without waiting for her to join him, seated himself in the armchair at the far side of the blazing fire. He poured himself some Scotch from the bottle on the tray beside his chair and then extracted a narrow cigar from a box on the bookcase nearby. He held a taper to the flames and lit his cigar with evident enjoyment, and Helen stood watching him from behind the couch wondering how he could behave so casually when he must know how she was feeling.
When his cigar was lit to his satisfaction, he put it between his teeth and felt in his pocket for her keys again. He examined them carefully, extracted two keys, and then tossed the others towards her. She was not quick enough to catch them and they fell on the floor at her feet. With a feeling of humiliation she bent to pick them up and saw that he had taken the car ignition key and the smaller key which opened the boot.
“Now,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “are you going to sit down?”
Helen pressed her lips together. “No,” she said unsteadily, “I’m going to my room. I shall just hope that by the morning you’ll have come to your senses.”
His smile held the mockery she had come to expect. “Don’t be too disappointed if I haven’t,” he commented, removing the cigar from his mouth.
“I – I think you’re despicable!”
“Your opinion of me isn’t important.” He watched her as she walked to the door. “And haven’t you ever heard that a war is fought on the stomachs of its troops? If you don’t have any supper, you’re going to be awfully hungry by the morning.”
Helen stiffened her shoulders. At least in this she could decide for herself. “I – I couldn’t touch your food!” she stated, anger strengthening her determination. “It would make me sick.”
Before she could make a dignified exit on those words of finality, the door opened and Bolt entered the room carrying a tray. She couldn’t see everything he was carrying, but the aroma of curry sauce was unmistakable and she observed a jug of cream that was intended to accompany a mouthwatering fruit pie that balanced on her side of the tray. The manservant looked at Helen in surprise, and then said:
“I thought I’d serve supper in here, sir, seeing that it’s such a wintry night.”
“A good idea,” said Dominic Lyall, smiling with rather more amusement than usual. “Will you join me, Bolt?”
Bolt glanced at Helen again. She was still hovering by the door, almost hypnotised by the smell of food. She was only beginning to realise how ravenously hungry she was, and she half regretted her impulsive rejection of his hospitality.
“But I thought – the young lady –” he began, but Dominic shook his head.
“Msis James – isn’t hungry, Bolt. She said something about feeling – sick?”
His eyes moved to Helen’s uncertain face and their hardness moved her to action.
“That’s right,” she declared, her lower lip quivering in spite of her determination that it should not. “I – I’m rather more particular who I eat with!” And she stalked out of the room, banging the door behind her.
She stood for a moment in the hall after the door had closed, half expecting him to come after her and take some retaliatory action. But all she heard was a burst of laughter which unmistakably issued from Dominic Lyall’s throat, and she realised that the second glass on the tray was used by Bolt …
CHAPTER THREE
HELEN’S bed was superbly comfortable, the hot water bottles reminding her of when she was a child and her mother used to tuck her up with a bedtime story. Only now there was no bedtime story, only the similarities between her plight and that of Beauty and the Beast …
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