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hustled her out of the door and to the steps. Suddenly he paused and turned her towards him. ‘Or are you so eager to see Mueller that you’d risk passing out again?’

      Mueller. Lord, in all the confusion she’d forgotten about him! Her luck had held so far, but surely he’d show up eventually, expecting her to pose? A shudder went through her. She couldn’t afford to wait here for Mina, not if she wanted to avoid a confrontation.

      ‘You’re right,’ she lied. ‘I’d better stop at a clinic.’

      Her gaze flew to the steep stairs, knifing down into the late-afternoon shadows. Just staring down into the darkness sent a wave of dizziness shuddering through her, but she forced herself to take a step forward. Instantly Thorpe’s arm curved around her.

      ‘I’ll see you out.’

      She ached to tell him she didn’t need his help. But the truth was that it would have been a lie. She could never have made her way down the stairs on her own. Her legs felt as if someone had taken out the muscles and put overcooked pasta in their place. Still, he didn’t have to hold her quite so closely, nor splay his hand so possessively across her hip.

      The second they came out into bright sunlight Miranda stepped away from him and forced a polite smile to her face.

      ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Thorpe. It’s been—interesting.’

      His hand fell on her shoulder as she began to turn away.

      ‘I’ve a car just around the corner. I’ll drive you to your doctor’s office.’

      ‘No. Thanks for the offer, but—’

      His fingers clamped down on her flesh. Miranda dug in her heels, but it was useless. He propelled her easily, despite her best efforts.

      ‘Hey,’ she said as he yanked open the door of a black Mercedes, ‘hey! Dammit, will you listen to me?’

      ‘Get in and tell me where he’s located.’

      ‘You have absolutely no right to—’

      His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. ‘You don’t have the money for a doctor, do you?’

      ‘What I have or don’t have is none of your damned—’

      ‘Answer the question, Miss Stuart. Have you money or haven’t you?’ Miranda glared at him, and a muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘That’s what I thought. All right. I’ll pay.’

      Her eyes widened. ‘What?’

      He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I don’t mean for your usual services. I’ll take care of the cost of the doctor.’

      Her cheeks flushed wildly. ‘Are you crazy? In the first place, I’m not ill. And in the second place—’

      ‘I give God only knows how much money to charity each year, Miss Stuart.’ His nostrils flared as if the scent of something unpleasant were in the air. ‘Let’s just say that this time you’ll be a direct recipient.’

      She stared at him in disbelief, and then, with one quick effort, wrenched free of his hands.

      ‘I do not need your charity,’ she said coldly.

      ‘You sure as hell need someone’s.’

      Daniel Thorpe would never know how right he was, Miranda thought, and she laughed.

      ‘Yes. Yes, I do. But not yours. Goodbye, Mr Thorpe.’

      His hands shot out and caught hold of her again. ‘Listen here, young woman—’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Miranda’s patience snapped. ‘I fainted because I was hungry. I hate to disappoint you, but I haven’t got beriberi, or malaria, or a social disease.’ She put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin in defiance. ‘Now do you understand?’

      She knew, in the ensuing silence, that her temper had got the best of her. She had said more than she’d ever planned on saying, and now she waited, head lifted proudly, for him to make some cutting remark that would be a put-down of her, of Ernst Mueller, of art and everything else Daniel Thorpe seemed to think she represented.

      He didn’t disappoint her.

      ‘I do, indeed,’ he said, his voice icy with distaste. ‘You don’t give a damn about tomorrow. You live from day to day, never planning ahead, never holding on to a guilder.’

      Miranda thought of the preparation that had gone into the portfolio of oils and water-colours she’d submitted to the scholarship committee, of the hours she’d spent filling out application forms for the grant, of the months spent waiting to see if she’d been selected and how carefully she’d husbanded the grant payment when she’d finally got it. She thought of how she’d nursed her last few guilders so that they’d lasted all week instead of only a day, and she smiled sweetly.

      ‘How clever of you to have figured me out so quickly,’ she purred. ‘You’re only wrong about one thing, Mr Thorpe: I don’t live from day to day, I live from minute to minute.’ Her smile grew even more cloying. ‘But then, why should I worry? There’s always someone like Ernst Mueller to help me out when I’m really desperate.’

      Thorpe’s face darkened and his hands tightened on her until she could feel each finger biting into her flesh. Suddenly she wished she could take the sarcastic words back.

      ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough.’

      ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

      But what he was doing was obvious. He was hustling her into the Mercedes, shoving her into the passenger-seat, securing the seatbelt, coming around the car and getting in behind the wheel before she could make sense of it all.

      His door slammed shut, the key turned, and the engine roared to life.

      Miranda’s heart rose into her throat.

      ‘You can’t get away with something like this,’ she said breathlessly. ‘People saw you—’

      Daniel Thorpe looked at her as if she bored him silly. ‘Steak and potatoes,’ he said, ‘or is it only breakfast-time in your world?’

      She blinked. ‘What?’

      Sighing, he shifted gears and headed towards the Damrak. ‘Which would you prefer, Miss Stuart? Breakfast or dinner? I’ll choose the restaurant, but you can choose the meal.’

      He’d abducted her so he could feed her! Miranda gaped at the man beside her in disbelief. His attention was on the road ahead; seen in profile, he was all rock-solid determination.

      ‘Well? Which is it? Breakfast or dinner?’

      I don’t want anything from a man like you, she thought. I don’t want so much as a glass of water…

      Breakfast or dinner. The very words made her stomach growl.

      ‘Dammit, Miss Stuart, I’m waiting. Make a decision.’

      Miranda glanced at that implacable profile again. The odds were she’d never win the argument anyway, she thought, and a little smile flickered across her mouth.

      ‘Both,’ she said primly, and she settled back into the seat, crossed her arms over her breasts, and let visions of ham, eggs, and steak fill her weary brain.

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