Robyn Donald - Prince Of Lies

‘Stop it, you little spitfire,’ he commanded.

It was the impact of his body rather than his voice, low and gritty and threatening, that restored her to her senses. Suddenly she realised where she was, and that this man had taken her from darkness and horror and cleaned her and soothed her, as well as giving her water several times already that night when she’d woken gasping for it.

A convulsive shudder shook her and she stopped fighting. Amid the fading panic and confusion she registered the change in his tone as he repeated, ‘Stop it, Stephanie. You’re safe, and no one is going to hurt you again.’

Silenced, the only sound the heavy pounding of her heart, she nodded feebly. The hand across her mouth gentled, relaxed, and slid down to the pulse that beat ferociously in her throat. ‘Poor little scrap,’ he said, his deep voice vibrating with a barely curbed anger.

Somehow the simple remark called her back from the frightening world of her memories. She didn’t want to be pitied, pity weakened her, yet for a moment she let her craving for security pacify her back into childishness.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It was just a dream.’

Perhaps because that long walk in his arms had desensitised her, or perhaps because of his total lack of response to her nakedness in the shower, she forgot any reservations she had and followed her simple need for reassurance by burrowing into him. As his arms tightened her panic eased into a strange contentment. She pressed her cheek against a bare chest, the slight roughening of his hair on her skin a profoundly comforting sensation.

He moved, but only to switch on a small bedside lamp. The light and his heat and solidity eased the chattering of her teeth, reached through her defences in some subliminal way and soothed her, as did the quiet rumble of his voice reverberating from his chest to her ear.

‘You’re safe,’ he said again. ‘No one will hurt you here.’

She could remember her father holding her and saying the same words. He had been proved wrong, and she knew that the man who held her so sweetly couldn’t guarantee his words either, but for the moment she allowed herself to believe him. Tiredness and the heart-warming feeling of being sheltered and protected combined to make her yawn.

‘I’m sorry I’m such a wimp,’ she said in a slurred voice when she could speak again.

‘You’re allowed a couple of episodes. Go back to sleep,’ he said. ‘If the nightmare comes back, try telling it you won, you triumphed. But sometimes they’re actually good for you, even though they scare the hell out of you. It’s one way the brain can try to make sense of what happened.’

‘I know what happened,’ she said grimly, resisting the possibility of any more dreams.

‘Oh, intellectually, but I’m willing to bet that in your heart you’re wondering how anyone could be so cruel as to put you through the particular hell they organised for you.’

‘Money. That’s what it usually is. Some people will do anything for money.’

‘You’re very young to be a cynic.’

‘I’m eighteen,’ she said.

He gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘And I’m twenty-five. I’m still considered young, so where does that leave you?’

‘Childish,’ she retorted almost on a snap, pulling free. The quick spurt of defiance exhausted her and his comment forced her to realise that he wasn’t her father. He was a total stranger, and a rather frightening one, because beneath the feeling of safety engendered by those strong arms there were other emotions, deep and bewildering, that combined to produce the subtle, wild attraction calling to her with a honeyed, siren’s voice.

Trying to speak without any indication of her runaway reactions in her tone, she said, ‘I’m all right now, thank you. I’m sorry I woke you.’

‘Princess, you didn’t wake me.’

She huddled back under the warm duvet, averting her face so he couldn’t see it. ‘Why do you call me that?’

‘Princess? That’s what you are, isn’t it? A genuine eighteen-carat-gold princess, with everything but the title. And your brother could probably buy one of those for you if you weren’t too fussy about its origins.’

As she thought this over, wondering how an amused voice could be so detached, the mattress beside her sank, and to her appalled astonishment she felt the covers twitch. Sheer shock jackknifed her upright.

‘What the hell are you doing ?’ she demanded in a high, shrill voice, staring with dilated eyes as he turned to look at her.

‘I’m making myself comfortable,’ he said mockingly, crystalline eyes gleaming. ‘You can’t expect to hog the covers, you know. It’s bad manners.’

‘You’re not—’

He interrupted with unexpected curtness, ‘Stephanie, you’re quite safe. I’m sleeping here, that’s all.’

‘But what—then why—?’

He said reasonably, ‘Although I’m almost certain no one is watching this place, I believe in caution, so I’m working on the assumption that we’re under surveillance. The last thing we need is for anyone to realise that there are two people living here now. So we act like one person. We sleep together, we move around the house together; when you’re in the bathroom, I’ll be next door with the light out. I’m going to stick as close to you as a shadow, princess, closer than a lover, but I’m not going to touch you.’

When Stephanie gathered her wits enough to object, he didn’t let her get more than a word out before finishing with a steely authority that silenced her, ‘Rules of the house, princess; don’t knock them—they might save your brother a lot of money and both of us quite a bit of trouble.’

The problem was that she understood. Having grown up in a small English village, she knew too well just what a hotbed of gossip such places were, and how by some osmosis everyone learned in an astonishingly short time all about everyone else.

But although his logic made sense, a wary feminine apprehension rejected it. The close, constant proximity he insisted on was going to be an enormous strain on her. She pulled the duvet around her body, trembling in spite of the mild temperature. ‘No! I’ll be very careful—’

‘I’m not suggesting this, or giving you power of veto. You have no choice, so you’ll avoid unnecessary stress if you just accept it.’

His voice remained cool, almost indifferent, but she heard the curbed irritation buried in the words as well as the implacable resolution. She gulped. ‘I don’t want to!’

‘Stephanie, if you’re afraid that I won’t be able to control my lust, rest assured that I am not attracted to thin, gangly schoolgirls, even when they have indecent amounts of money as well as big, innocent cornflower eyes and a mouth as soft as roses.’

No contempt coloured his voice, nothing but that steady detachment, yet each word was a tiny whip scoring her skin, her heart, as it was intended to be.

She retorted obstinately, ‘I’m not sleeping in this bed if you are.’

Unimpressed, he said, ‘Then sleep on the floor; I don’t give a damn. But just in case you’re stupid enough to run around the house putting lights on, I’ll tie you to the bed-leg first.’

Stephanie bit down on a gasp of outrage. Her gaze flew to his face; she read an implacable, unwavering purpose there. He meant every word. If she made up a bed for herself on the floor he would shackle her. At that moment, ensnared in the ice of his eyes, she hated him with every part of her soul.

However, two could play the game of threat and counterthreat. Her lips tightened. ‘Saul won’t like that.’

He directed a hard, level stare at her. ‘Your brother will have to accept that I know what I’m doing.’