Читать книгу Yesterday And Forever - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 8

THE Mercedes moved swiftly through the streets, easily eating up the long blocks Miranda had so often walked. Amsterdam’s public transportation system was quick and efficient, but walking saved money even if it was hard on shoe leather. It occurred to her that she’d never seen the city from quite this angle before. It looked different, more exotic, and, although she knew that was just a quirk of light and perspective, it heightened the sense of unreality that had surrounded her ever since Daniel Thorpe had come bursting into Ernst Mueller’s room.

Why had he been looking for Mueller? Miranda glanced over at the man seated beside her. She’d never asked him, but then there’d been precious little time to ask him anything. She’d been far too busy trying to answer Thorpe’s tight-lipped, angry questions to ask any of her own.

The car whispered to a stop at a traffic-light. Miranda sighed and shifted in the glove-leather seat. If you had to be abducted, she thought wryly, this was the way to go. Not that Thorpe had abducted her, exactly. Still, she had the feeling he’d just as easily have slung her over his shoulder and carried her off if she’d resisted. She gave a mental shrug as she leaned her head back. Only a fool would have resisted. A meal was a meal, no matter if the devil himself bought it.

‘Are you all right?’

Thorpe’s voice was brusque, the question asked with curiosity but no real concern. Miranda sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap.

‘I’m not going to be sick all over your car, if that’s what you mean.’

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.

Miranda touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. She ached to answer him with some clever remark of her own, but the simple truth was that she was speechless. She hadn’t really thought about the kind of place he’d take her to, but if she had she’d have assumed it would be a cafeteria or a pancake house. Never, not in a million years, would she have thought he’d bring her to a place like this—and, from the look on the face of the tuxedo-clad head waiter mincing towards them, neither would anyone else.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The man’s eyes slipped over Miranda, taking in her boots and skirt and the loose tumble of black curls hanging down her back. ‘May I help you with something?’

‘Yes. We’d like a table, please.’

‘Did you have a reservation, sir?’

She felt Daniel’s hand tighten on her arm. ‘No,’ he said pleasantly. His gaze skimmed the half-empty restaurant, then returned to the head waiter. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Ah.’ The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘In that case—’

‘But I’m quite sure you can seat us,’ Daniel said softly. ‘Isn’t that right?’

Miranda looked up at him. His tone was pleasant and even, but there was a dangerous edge to it. She could see his eyes glinting like shards of ice in his tanned face.

Suddenly the air seemed charged with electricity.

‘Mr Thorpe.’ Miranda cleared her throat. ‘Mr Thorpe,’ she said softly, ‘I know a very nice little coffee shop…’

The pressure of his hand increased. ‘Isn’t that right?’ he said again.

The head waiter swallowed convulsively. ‘Of course, sir. I only meant—I only meant that we could have given you a window table if we’d had some advance knowledge.’ He smiled. ‘But we have a very nice table in the corner—’

Daniel’s arm slipped around Miranda’s waist. She tensed, but his hand settled heavily on her hip, moulding her to his side.

‘But you do have a table near the window,’ he said in that same quiet tone. ‘You must have forgotten.’

The head waiter glanced from the table to Daniel’s tautly composed face.

‘I did indeed, sir,’ he said quickly. ‘If you’d just follow me?’

Conversation ceased as they made their way through the dining-room. Miranda’s embroidered skirt swirled around her leather-clad ankles. Women in the latest Chanels and Adolfos stared with unabashed interest at her as she swept past. Men watched her, too, but with a different kind of interest, as if her exotic clothing and tousled mane of dark hair marked her as fair game.

Miranda kept her head high, but she felt herself shrivelling inside. Her pace quickened, and instantly Daniel’s head bent so that his lips were close to her ear.

‘Easy does it,’ he said softly.

She felt a swift rush of gratitude and she looked up at him. He was walking beside her nonchalantly, as if he made this kind of entrance all the time, and he met each stare with an even gaze of his own so that gradually the curious faces turned away and the sound level in the room returned to its normal, muted buzz.

Daniel wasn’t doing this for her, she understood that. It was for himself: he wasn’t a man who’d let anyone mock him. Still, it was hard not to be grateful, and she gave him a quick smile as the head waiter, all but bowing now, drew out her chair, seated her, and handed them menus.

Miranda let out her breath. Daniel leaned towards her across the table. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked quietly.

She nodded. ‘I’m fine. I just…’ She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘You know what I mean. Those people—well, you knew they were making things difficult for me—’

His expression hardened instantly. ‘You’ve made things difficult for yourself,’ he said coldly, and he lifted his menu and opened it so that she couldn’t see his face.

Miranda stared at him, and then she sighed and opened her menu, too. The best thing to do was order quickly, eat just as quickly, and leave. An act of charity, he had called this, and that was exactly what it was. Not that she’d expected anything else. It was just that—that…

‘What would you like?’

She looked over the menu at Daniel. The look of distaste had gone from his face, replaced by a courteous neutrality. Yes, she was right. He was waiting for her to choose something so that he could get on with the task he’d set himself and finish it as quickly as possible.

For no discernible reason the thought depressed her.

‘Miss Stuart?’ He smiled politely. ‘Have you decided what to order?’

She looked at the menu again. It was four pages long, a dazzling blend of French and Dutch, and for the life of her she couldn’t make one line of it stand out from another.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anything. Soup, or ham and frites is fine. Or a hamburger. Or eggs and bacon.’ She smiled slightly as she closed the menu and put it down. ‘Whatever you’re having is OK.’

Daniel nodded and signalled the waiter. ‘I’d like a cup of coffee,’ he said. ‘As for the lady—she’ll have a bowl of pea soup to start, and then she’d like ham and frites.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘She’d like a hamburger, too.’

The man’s brows rose. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘And she’d like an order of bacon and eggs.’ He met the head waiter’s eyes as he handed over his menu. ‘We’ll choose dessert after we’ve eaten.’

Miranda leaned across the table when they were alone again. ‘Are you trying to make fun of me?’ she demanded quietly. ‘Ordering all that food…’

‘We’ll have the kitchen pack what you don’t finish,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You can have it later this evening, for supper.’

‘Good,’ she said primly. ‘Because I could never eat even half that much.’

But, of course, she did. The first mouthful of food seemed to set off a chain reaction; once she’d started eating, she couldn’t stop. She ate the soup, the ham, the French fried potatoes, the hamburger, and almost all the bacon and eggs. She was ravenously hungry, and not even the muffled laughter from a nearby table was enough to curb her appetite, although the laughter stopped after one harsh glance from Daniel.

When she was finished she pushed the last plate aside, patted her lips with her linen napkin, and sighed.

‘That was wonderful.’ She hesitated, and then her eyes met Daniel’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

He frowned. ‘You weren’t exaggerating,’ he said, watching her. ‘You were damned near starving.’

Miranda laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, not starving, but—’

‘You’re American, aren’t you?’

She nodded. ‘You are, too.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘I knew we had that in common.’

His frown deepened. ‘How long have you been in Holland?’

‘A little over four months.’ She hesitated. The man had been kind to her, she had to admit that. It was time to tell him the truth about herself. ‘I came to Amsterdam because it’s known worldwide for—’

‘Yes,’ he said coldly, ‘I’m fully aware of what it’s known for, Miss Stuart. A free and easy lifestyle that someone like you can’t handle.’

Miranda laughed. ‘No. No, you’re wrong, Mr Thorpe. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You see, the reason I came here is—’

He leaned forward. ‘How can you live this way?’ he demanded. ‘It’s one thing to be a free spirit, and another to be a damned fool.’

She flushed. ‘If you’d just listen—’

‘You can’t live like a—a gypsy forever, for God’s sake. And you can’t rely on your looks forever, either.’

Miranda glared at him. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I work hard, the same as you or anyone else.’

Daniel’s jaw shot forward. ‘I suppose you could call it that. Going from man to man can’t be easy.’

A patchwork of crimson rose in her face. What an insufferable bastard he was! She took a deep breath.

‘No,’ she said coolly, ‘it isn’t.’ She thought of her two painting instructors and how differently they approached art, of the last sculptor she’d posed for who’d kept her in one pose for hours so that when she had finally tried standing up her legs had felt as if they were stuck full of pins. ‘No,’ she said again, her eyes flashing fire, ‘it’s not easy at all. Each man wants something different from you and you have to deliver.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But I’m good at what I do, so they tell me. Very—’

She gasped as his hand clamped down on hers. She could feel the bones in her wrist flex beneath the harsh pressure.

‘You’re hurting me,’ she spat. ‘Damn you, you’re—’

‘Here you are, Daniel. I wondered what had happened to you.’

Daniel’s hand fell away from her. Miranda looked up, startled, as he scraped back his chair and got to his feet. A woman had materialised beside the table, a woman with a softly lined face, white hair, and a score of questions in her blue eyes.

Daniel frowned. ‘Aunt Sophie,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Well,’ she answered, her eyes on Miranda, ‘you said we’d meet in our suite for tea, but it got later and later and you didn’t show up or telephone, so I thought—’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming friend, Daniel?’

There was a heavy silence, and then he sighed. ‘Aunt Sophie, this is Miranda Stuart.’ He glowered at Miranda. ‘This is my aunt, Sophie Prescott.’

Miranda looked from him to the older woman, and she smiled hesitantly. ‘Hello.’

‘Daniel, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?’

‘I wish I could,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but Miranda was just leaving.’

‘Nonsense.’ Sophie Prescott drew out a chair and settled herself into it, despite her nephew’s glower. ‘Surely she can stay long enough to keep me company while I have my tea? Isn’t that right, Miss Stuart?’

‘—I—’ Miranda swallowed drily. ‘I wish I could. But—’

‘Good. Now tell me, where did you two meet?’

‘Aunt Sophie, for God’s sake—’

‘Are you an artist, Miss Stuart?’

Miranda’s brows rose in surprise. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s right. I am. How did you—?’

Sophie laughed. ‘My dear, I spent my youth in la belle Paris. I used to haunt the streets of Montmartre—Hemingway lived there then, and Gertrude Stein, and, of course, there were all the artists—Picasso and Chagall…’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘You take me right back to those days,’ she said dreamily. ‘The way you look, you could have stepped out of a Parisian atelier.’

‘Or an Amsterdam studio,’ Daniel said drily.

His aunt nodded happily. ‘Exactly. Is that why you’re in Amsterdam, dear? To paint?’

Miranda looked at the man opposite her. ‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes never leaving his, ‘that’s right. I’m here on a Harrington scholarship.’

‘A Harrington fellow? Is that what you are?’

Miranda smiled. ‘Why, yes. But how—?’

‘I knew a Harrington fellow once. It was in 1934—or was it ’24?’ The old woman paused, and her face took on a sudden look of fragility. ‘I can’t remember which.’

‘It’s all right, Aunt Sophie.’ Daniel’s voice was soft. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I just wish I could recall…’ His aunt shook herself. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘tell me, Miss Stuart, are the fund’s trustees still notorious for keeping their recipients mired in poverty?’

Miranda began to laugh. ‘You mean it’s always been like that?’

‘Oh, my, yes. The chap I knew never was certain where his next meal was coming from. He was forever afraid he’d end up sleeping on the street. He was lucky he had a good physique.’

‘Aunt Sophie. I don’t think Miss Stuart wants to hear—’

‘But it’s true, Daniel, he was lucky. He was much in demand as a model for the more established artists.’ The old woman smiled at Miranda. ‘I’ll just bet that’s how you supplement your income, dear, with that pretty face of yours. You model, don’t you?’

A rush of triumph swept through Miranda’s veins. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her eyes met Daniel’s. ‘I do, indeed. I paint, and when I get the chance I pose. It’s the only way I have of making any extra money.’

The conversation took a different turn after that. Sophie Prescott began talking about something else entirely, and Miranda managed to keep up her end of the conversation, talking and laughing with the old woman while Daniel sat silent, but all the time one thought kept hammering inside her head.

There you are, Mr Thorpe, she kept thinking. You owe me an apology. Why don’t you turn towards me so I can see your face? You must be as embarrassed as—

The breath caught in her throat. Daniel’s head swung towards her, as if he’d heard her silent imprecations, but what she saw in his face was not what she’d expected. He wasn’t embarrassed; he was taut with barely contained rage.

‘It’s getting late,’ he said, his voice slicing across his aunt’s. He shoved back his chair. ‘Miss Stuart has to be leaving.’

‘Such formality.’ Sophie smiled. ‘Surely we may call you Miranda, mayn’t we, dear?’

Miranda’s mouth had gone dry while she’d been watching Daniel. ‘Yes. I—’

‘Can’t she stay for dinner?’ The old woman’s smile faltered. ‘I was hoping that—’

‘She has to leave,’ Daniel said. ‘Isn’t that right, Miranda?’ His voice twisted her name a little until it bore a touch of menace.

‘Yes,’ she said, scraping back her chair, ‘I—I do. Goodbye, Mrs Prescott. It’s been lovely meeting you. Don’t get up, Mr Thorpe,’ she added quickly. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Daniel’s mouth thinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that,’ he said coldly. He rose from his chair and touched his aunt’s shoulder lightly. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘Do stop by again,’ Sophie Prescott called, but Miranda was already hurrying from the dining-room. She had seen enough of Daniel’s temper to last her a lifetime. Whatever it was that had angered him now, it had nothing to do with her. She wanted no part of it, no part of him.

He caught up to her in the lobby. His hand clasped her elbow, and she rose on her toes as he rushed her out of the front door and into a narrow alley that ran the length of the hotel.

‘Let go of me,’ she spat. ‘I’m tired of being manhandled by you.’

Daniel spun her around. ‘What the hell was that supposed to be?’ he demanded furiously.

Miranda stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Playing on the memories of an old woman—how could you do that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That performance in there.’ His face twisted. ‘“A Harrington fellow,”’ he said, his voice rising in cruel mimicry of hers. He caught her by the shoulders. ‘That poor old woman tossed you a line and you grabbed it so fast that it made my head spin.’

Miranda’s face reddened. ‘For your information,’ she said coldly, ‘I am a Harrington fellow. I’m an artist. I tried to tell you that.’

‘An artist.’ He laughed coldly. ‘Yeah, you’re an artist, all right. Performance art, that’s the kind of art you do.’

‘Let go of me,’ she said, struggling to free herself.

Daniel’s hands clasped her more tightly. ‘Your art work takes place in beds, darling, and I’ve no doubt you’re very good at what you do.’

‘You bastard!’ Miranda’s voice shook with emotion. ‘And to think I decided you had a heart under that—that stuffed shirt…’

‘Hell, you’ve been selling yourself short,’ he said, thrusting his jaw forward. ‘Why should you ply your trade in smelly rooms like Mueller’s? Whoring is legal in Amsterdam, remember? Why don’t you get yourself a card and go to work? With your talent, you could probably pull in a thousand guilders a night.’

She stared at him, as stunned by his enraged words as she was by the pain they’d sent knifing through her heart. It was her shocked awareness of that pain that gave her the strength to wrench free of his grasp and slap him across the face with all the power she possessed.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl so that she could observe his reaction to what she’d done almost as if she were a bystander. His face registered a stunned look of disbelief, his head jolted back slowly, and the mark of her hand began to bloom in livid relief upon his cheek.

‘You bitch,’ he said thickly.

She turned, stumbling, trying to get away, terrified of what she saw reflected in his eyes, but he was too quick and powerful. He caught her easily and spun her to him, his arms sweeping around her, one hand twisting into the midnight tumble of her hair, holding her still, despite her frantic efforts to get loose.

‘You play a dangerous game, Miranda,’ he whispered.

‘Let go of me!’

He pushed her back against the rough brick wall. ‘I like to play games, too.’ His voice was low and threatening. ‘And I always play to win.’

His mouth slanted down over hers, smothering her outraged protest. She twisted against him and he retaliated by leaning into her, pinning her against the unyielding wall with his weight. She felt engulfed by his body. His lips moved against hers, demanding response but getting none, and he drew back.

‘You’ll need to do better than that if you’re going to earn your pay.’

‘You disgust me,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘Do you know that? You—’