Sandra Marton - Yesterday And Forever

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.

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.