LITMIR.BIZ

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CRESSIDA BINGLEY stood at the corner of narrow, dingy street in the heart of Amsterdam and knew that she was lost—temporarily at least. She peered at the map she was holding without much success; the October afternoon was darkening, so that to study it was fruitless. She tried to remember in which direction she had walked from the Dam Square, but the city was built like a spider’s web with canals for its threads, and she had wandered aimlessly, looking around her without noting her whereabouts. She bent her head and peered down once more, but the long, foreign names, only half seen in the gathering dusk, eluded her; she was frowning over them when someone spoke behind her and she almost dropped the map. Presumably she had been addressed in Dutch, for she hadn’t understood a word. She sighed, for this was the third time that afternoon that a man had stopped and spoken to her; she had been polite with the first one, a little impatient with the second, but now she was vexed. She turned sharply and said in a cold voice, ‘I can’t understand you, so do go way!’

      Her voice died as she saw him; he towered over her own five feet eight inches by at least another eight inches. But it wasn’t only his height, he was large, too, blocking her way, and even in the poor light she could see that he was handsome, with a nose which dominated his face, its flared nostrils giving it an air of arrogance. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but the brows above them were winged and as pale as his hair. He wasn’t quite smiling, his mouth had a mocking quirk, that was all.

      ‘English,’ he observed, ‘and telling me to go away when you’re lost.’ His deep voice mocked her, just as his smile did, and it annoyed her.

      ‘I am not lost,’ she protested untruthfully. ‘I stopped to look at the map…there is no need for you…’

      A large, gloved hand took the map from her grasp and turned it right side up. ‘Try it that way,’ he suggested, ‘and unless you are quite sure where you are, even in the dark, I suggest you put your pride in your pocket and let me show you the way—it will be night in another ten minutes, and,’ he added blandly, ‘this isn’t a part of Amsterdam which tourists frequent—certainly not young women such as yourself, at any rate.’

      She could hear the amusement behind the blandness and her annoyance sharpened even while she had to admit that she was lost. The street was empty too, and even if someone came along they might not understand her; she would be at a disadvantage. She said stiffly: ‘If you would direct me to the Rembrandt Plein—I can find my way from there.’

      He looked down at her, smiling quite openly now. ‘Very well. Go to the end of this street on your left, turn right and take the second turning on the right—there’s a narrow lane half way down which will bring you out into a small square which has five streets leading from it—take the one with the tobacconist’s shop on the corner; you’ll find the Rembrandt Plein at the end of it.’

      Cressida shot him a cold look. ‘I think I’ll do better if I find my own way, thank you, though I’m sure you mean to be kind…’

      He shook his head. ‘I’m seldom that,’ he assured her placidly, ‘but I intend to take you as far as the Rembrandt Plein—it isn’t far and I know all the short cuts.’ He added silkily: ‘You can always scream.’

      The thought had crossed her mind too, so that she said very emphatically: ‘I have no intention of doing any such thing; I’m very well able to look after myself.’

      He smiled again and began to walk briskly down the street he had pointed out to her, and after a moment or so, made a few desultory remarks about Amsterdam and the weather, adding the kind of questions usually asked of tourists: had she seen the Dam Palace, Rembrandt’s House, the Rijksmuseum… She answered briefly, intent on keeping pace with his long stride, managing to steal a glance or two at him as they went. He was older than she had first supposed, well into his thirties, she would imagine, and dressed with a quiet elegance which, for some reason, reassured her. If they hadn’t started off on the wrong foot, she thought belatedly, she could have asked him where he lived—what he did…’ Am I taking you out of your way?’ she asked suddenly.

      She got an uncompromising ‘Yes,’ and he added, ‘but it’s of no importance,’ and at that moment they turned a corner and she saw the Rembrandt Plein not many yards away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘I must have taken up your time—I know where I am now.’ She came to a halt. ‘Good night, and thank you.’

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ he spoke with amused impatience. ‘Where is your hotel?’

      Rather to her own surprise, she told him quite meekly, and fell into step beside him again while he crossed the square, its cafés and clubs still half empty before the evening crowds arrived, and took another narrow street on its opposite side.

      ‘This isn’t the way,’ said Cressida, and stopped again.

      ‘A short cut. My dear good girl, when will you realise that I am merely seeing you to your hotel as quickly as possible, and am not bent on getting to know you—picking you up is the expression, I believe.’

      If she had known where to go, she would have left him then and there, but she didn’t. She walked beside him, too furious to speak, until the street turned at right angles

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