'I wouldn't bother,' Torrin told her, observing the direction of her glance. 'As I've already told you, none of the servants speak English, not enough for your no doubt intricate explanations, anyway. So you may as well just settle down and enjoy it.'
'Enjoy?' She gaped. 'Enjoy being made a fool of? Stop this pretence and set me down!'
'And not even a please,' he murmured, unperturbed by her angry face. He gave a disarming smile that only served to antagonise her more and said, 'I've already told you, it's no pretence, so settle down.'
'I won't! I'll --' Merril glanced out to the swiftly moving stream of traffic through which the Jaguar was nosing with impressive assurance. Soon they would be on the throughway out of central London, and then what?
Torrin crystallised her predicament when he pointed out that if she tried anything silly it would be doomed to failure. 'You wouldn't risk physical injury by trying to throw yourself from a moving car, would you?'
'I may be risking physical injury by submitting to this so-called kidnapping!' she retorted.
'No,' he replied softly, 'never that. Not with me. You know I would never hurt you.'
The fact that he could hurt her, that he could do anything at all to her when they got to their destination, sank in with horrid suddenness as the car continued to bear them rabidly out of central London. Soon they were being driven through the endless miles of northern suburbs, through Hampstead and out past the Heath, far from any possibility of help. She expected the car to draw to a halt soon in some leafy driveway, but it swept onwards until she lost any sense of where they were heading.
Having failed to seize any opportunity to escape, she had a bitter smile on her face when she announced in a small voice, 'All right, Mr Anthony, you win for now. But,' she paused, lifting her chin with an unmistakable flicker of triumph as she added, 'this won't look good in the papers.'
'Papers? What papers?' he asked mildly.
'My paper, for one,' she derided, gaining strength from the idea, 'I'm going to go to town on you!'
'It'll look very good,' he agreed. 'When everyone realises we've spent five days together in my secret love-nest, they'll put two and two together and make six as usual. And when you come to write up a bitchy article afterwards, they'll make some interesting computations then, too.'
'What do you mean?' she asked suspiciously.
'Obvious, isn't it? We all know I'm London's latest "heart-throb",' he explained, quoting a phrase used in one of the morning papers, 'and when you start bitching after our weekend of love they'll simply assume it's the anger of a woman spurned. Hell hath no fury, and so forth. I wouldn't give twopence for your chances against the hacks of the gutter Press. They'll have a field day. You'll be able to make a tidy killing. Intimate details and all that. "My night of passion, by blonde newshound." They'll probably ask you to pose topless, too—it's just the sort of story the press love.' He chuckled, and Merril flinched as his eyes raked appraisingly over her body, patently enjoying the idea of her half undressed before a posse of grinning press photographers.
'You wouldn't dare --''
'I don't have to do a thing,' he pointed out, 'so daring doesn't come into it.'
'But I'd lose all credibility --' Her mouth worked, though no words would come out.
'You certainly would.'
'I couldn't carry on as a political correspondent with that sort of publicity --'
'You couldn't.'
'But that's blackmail!' Merril's fists bunched helplessly. 'You bastard!' she croaked after a pause. 'I believe you've deliberately planned this in order to compromise me!'
Torrin ran a finger down the side of her cheek. 'No, I didn't plan it. It was a sudden impulse. But it's certainly working out well, isn't it?'
'For you, yes! she snarled, nearly beside herself with impotent rage. 'I'll never forgive you for this! As soon as I get near a phone I'm going to ring—I'm going to ring --' She stopped.
'Yes?'
She couldn't ring Ray. That would be to betray her own incompetence to the very man she needed to impress if work of the sort she wanted was still to come her way. And she couldn't tell Damian, either. He would never believe she'd walked into a situation like this with her eyes wide open. He would think it an excuse because she'd been unable to resist the promise of a brief fling with the man of the moment. Then she concealed a smile. There was Annie. Good old Annie. She would get her help, ask her to call in the police if necessary. Make a big thing of it—missing war correspondent, Annie's frantic appeals to the kidnappers—she could see it all on the six o'clock news. Kidnapping was a serious offence. If she could only prove she had been brought away against her will, then even Torrin Anthony's charm wouldn't get him out of that!
She gazed out of the window at the fields unfolding rapidly from the horizon like a long strip of coloured cloth. It was no good making a scene now because there was no one to witness it, but later, when the driver opened the door, she would make a dash for it. Pity he didn't speak English, but even if he couldn't tell what she was saying, he would be able to discern the panic in her face, her complete unwillingness to go with the man who was his master.
Settling back with her blonde head resting against the wine-coloured leather cushions, Merril let her eyes close. Best if her captor thought she was giving in to his power mania, then she could take him by surprise.
Mile after mile sped by, and it was late afternoon when the car swung off the M11 and began a circuitous journey down a country road. In a few minutes it bumped over a cattle grid and whispered down a track through a meadow full of celandines, coming at last to a sighing halt in a grove of oaks.
Torrin had already opened the door as the car slowed, and he pushed Merril out ahead of him, tapping on the driver's window as he stepped forward. Before she could gather her wits, the car continued its smooth arc and in a second it was disappearing back along the road they had just travelled.
'Wait! Come back!' Arms waving, she stumbled after it, her plan in ruins as her last chance of help dwindled into the distance. The silence after it had gone was profound.
Then all the violence of her emotions came tumbling forth in a stream of oaths. She wanted to beat her fists into Torrin Anthony's grinning face, but she knew if she dared lay a finger on him retribution, despite his words, would be inevitable. She was helpless, and he knew it. She would have given anything to wipe that insufferable smugness off his face. But there was nothing she could do. Her body sagged.
'All right,' he said. 'So now you understand anger isn't going to get you anywhere, shall we walk?'
'Walk?' Merril shrugged weakly, the fight going out of her.
He slipped an arm in hers. 'Not far. I can see you're tired.'
'I am not tired,' she muttered defiantly, even now determined not to concede the smallest thing to him, but she let him lead her across the grove towards a narrow path that led into the bushes. Somewhere behind the thick bank of pollards was a faint sound of rushing water. As they walked down the path it got louder, and then Merril saw a narrow plank bridge over a stream and ahead of them a house.
It was a millhouse, complete with wooden water-wheel mirrored in the still green depths of a pool, and the sight was so unexpectedly picturesque that Merril stopped with a small gasp. Its roof swept low on the garden side, starred by the tiny blossoms of an early flowering clematis, making it shimmer like a precious jewel in a rich setting, and it was all so exactly what a secret love-nest should be that she felt a premonition of dismay that for her it would be anything but.
Ignoring her reaction, Torrin marched on ahead, a key already gleaming in his hand. As he unlocked the door, he gave an apologetic smile. 'Although there are all mod cons, I'm afraid there's no phone. The nearest village is miles away. It suits me,' he added, 'when I need to get away from it all.'
'Why don't you have to be at the theatre tonight?' Merril asked suspiciously as she followed him into the house.
He moved on ahead over a polished parquet floor,
throwing the key down on a carved table before turning, saying curtly, 'Oh, but I do. I shall make sure you're settled before I leave. And don't worry,' he went on, 'I shall be back as soon as I can.'
'You can't do this, Torrin!' It was the first time she had pronounced his name with anything but sarcasm, and she could tell he noticed.
His words, spoken lightly, confirmed it. 'Soon you'll be pleading with me,' he remarked. He regarded her in silence for a moment before adding, 'Well, maybe not just yet.'
'Not ever,' she vowed as he turned and went into another room. She gazed round, automatically taking in the lush furnishings, everything old and well worn but lovingly cared for, a scent of lavender wax on the air, fresh flowers in a large pot by one of the windows, logs already arranged in the open hearth. It would be cosy here in winter, and now, in early summer, it had a beguiling serenity. There was a promise of rain scenting the air as a window was opened in a distant room and birdsong flooded in, tugging at her heart. She went to sit on a wooden settle, but Torrin came back almost straight away.
'It'll be a quick meal, as I have to get back, but while we're waiting for it you may as well come up and see your room. Do you like turquoise?'
'It's a matter of indifference to me what colour it is,' she replied coldly.
'Black would suit your mood better, but I'm afraid the decor doesn't run to that.' He led the way up an open-tread staircase to a corridor with doors opening off both sides. Everything was deceptively spacious and gave the impression that no expense had been spared, even though there was restraint in the furnishings with nothing done to excess. Her room, as he insisted on calling it, was fresh and pretty with touches of white at the windows and a turquoise and white bedspread. There would have been ample cupboard space if she had brought any luggage with her, and there was an adequate bookshelf for a short stay, a well-lit dressing-table and a white quartz clock-radio on the bedside table. It was, she noted with a flicker of anxiety, a double bed.
Pretending she hadn't noticed this, she was relieved when Torrin mentioned that his own room was further down the corridor, with the bathroom, shower and 'all that sort of thing' in between.
When he went downstairs again to check on the promised meal, Merril did some exploration of her own and discovered that 'all that sort of thing' included a jacuzzi and a sunbed. I never realised acting was so well paid, she thought ironically. Then she remembered the palatial London house in the park. Torrin Anthony had obviously never had to grub a living for himself as most people had. It made his talk of dedication seem more like hypocrisy than ever. When she went back downstairs an enticing aroma of home cooking filled the kitchen, and she disguised her appreciation under a determined show of indifference. Torrin was peering into a large red cooking pot, prodding at something inside it as if unsure whether it was ready or not. 'What do you think?' he asked as she came in.
'Don't ask me,' she replied stubbornly. 'You're in charge.'
'But you're going to eat it, so you --'
'Am I?' she interrupted. 'You can't make me.'
'Suit yourself.' He gave a cold smile. 'But I'm certainly going to have some. I haven't prepared it for nothing.'
'You?' Merril retorted scathingly.
'Sorry I don't come up to the standards of your macho lover,' he remarked. 'I admit I quite enjoy cooking. I suppose that loses me several hundred Brownie points on your scale. Of course,' he added in a deliberately provoking tone, 'all the best chefs are men.'
Ignoring her refusal to eat with him, he placed two settings side by side at a large scrubbed table. With a couple of red and white gingham napkins completing the scene, Merril couldn't help admitting it looked very homely—not at all the cosy domestic scene she would have envisaged after the elegant formality of the town house.
By now she was beginning to realise that she hadn't eaten properly all day. Breakfast was always non-existent, and she had been so annoyed by all the fuss at the office when it was known who she was going to interview that she had avoided the canteen and made do with a cup of coffee and a sandwich at her desk instead. But, hungry or not, she wasn't in a mood to give way. Let him learn how determined she could be when the chips were down, she thought, and he would soon see he would have to admit defeat and let her go.
With obvious relish Torrin started on his own meal. 'It's very good . . .'he observed after a few silent moments, 'though I say it myself. Are you sure you won't change your mind?'
'Absolutely, she affirmed, beginning to regret her obstinacy.
'Tell me, Merril,' he said after a few more moments of unfriendly silence, 'what do you hope to gain by refusing to eat with me? It's not spoiling my enjoyment. Later on I'm sure you'll wish you hadn't been so uncompromising.'
'Go to hell,' she muttered.
'Not to hell,' he remarked, rising, as there came the sound of a car horn outside, 'to heaven, or, more precisely, the boards of a West End theatre.' His smile dazzled her for a moment. He's really happy at the prospect, she thought with a surge of emotion. So much for stage fright! It was almost contagious, his relish at the thought of being on-stage. Just in time she prevented herself from smiling back.
'I nope you break a leg,' she taunted as he reached the door.
'Thank you. Good to know you're familiar with theatrical tradition.'
Too late Merril remembered this was a piece of theatre lore, like not whistling backstage or not wearing green. 'I meant it,' she scowled. 'Break both legs, and your neck as well!'
'But then I won't be able to come back and rescue you and you might remain here for ever, like the princess in the fairy story.'
'I don't know that one,' she said stiffly, turning her back. His words started up all kinds of fears in her again and, when the door closed behind him, she ran to one of the windows, half hoping it was some sort of trick and that he would return to whisk her back to town. But he crossed to the wooden footbridge without a backward glance and in a minute he was gone.
There was a strange sense of anticlimax after he had left, and she roamed listlessly about the house for a while, idly poking into the other rooms, standing agape for a minute or two at the long room that ran along the top of the house on the third floor. It was evidently Torrin Anthony's own private gym. Apart from some slick-looking weight-training equipment it was almost empty, a mirror running all the way down one side, giving it the appearance of an aerobics studio. Merril could imagine him, preening that perfect body in the mirror every morning as he worked his muscles in a rigorous work-out. Dedication, she scoffed—yes, dedication to himself and his own ego. She went back downstairs and flicked on the television. There must be a way of contacting the outside world, she pondered. Everything aside, Annie would be worried that she hadn't turned up at the flat by now.
She returned to the kitchen, gobbling down some of the supper she had already spurned straight out of the pot, hoping Torrin wouldn't notice it had gone down so much, then she went up to the turquoise room and lay down on the bed. He would be partying till the early hours, no doubt, so there wasn't much point in waiting up. She would watch the ten o'clock news, then turn in. It was horrible being so isolated. Night had already fallen and the trees on the other side of the stream seemed to press threateningly around the millhouse, reminding her of scenes from a horror movie. For a moment she gave way to tears, chiding herself, even as they flowed down her cheeks, for such patent self-pity. Then she started to think of Azur and, though her tears of pain and loss increased, somehow the image of a harsh-featured man with a stubble of a haircut and a smile like the sun breaking forth came to block out Azur's blond good looks so that even that pleasant wallowing in what-might-have-been was spoiled.
The bed felt like ice as she slipped between the sheets. She had no night things and hadn't wanted to sleep in her underwear. After rinsing out her panties and tights she had left them on the heated towel rail to dry. Too bad if Torrin didn't like lace panties draped all over his bathroom. Contrary to what she expected, sleep didn't come quickly. T
here were too many strange sounds, and even though she locked the door she felt uneasy. What Torrin's aim was in bringing, her to this remote place she couldn't guess. She had been too proud to ask and so far he hadn't tried to explain, beyond that terse comment at the interview that he wasn't going to let her go away with her prejudices intact.
When sleep did at last claim her, she slept only fitfully, waking every so often to wonder where she was and, remembering, drifting off again.
'Merril?' The soft voice intruding in her dreams was familiar and she reached out, whispering, 'Azur?' before coming fully awake. A wedge of light came in through the door of the room. Against it she could see the bulky outline of a man. Then she came fully awake and sat up. Not until she felt a draught fingering over her skin did she realise she was nude, and by men it was too late to stop Torrin's lazy scrutiny of her naked neck and breasts. Thankful that she couldn't see his expression, she groped for the duvet, shuddering when she felt him reach out and tug it from out of her fingers.
'Don't. You look so beautiful . . .'he murmured huskily, watching the colour bloom over her skin. He held on to one edge of the duvet, and Merril was burningly conscious of the touch of his fingers against her breast before she managed to pull it up. She lay back against the pillows, surprised at the gentleness in his voice, then shivering when she understood what that seductive tone might portend.
'What time is it?' she asked, striving to maintain a tone of normality against the racing of her emotions.
'Just after midnight,' he told her without looking at his watch.
It was earlier than she'd thought. She hadn't been asleep as long as she'd imagined. And he was back far sooner than she had ever expected. He must have driven, or been driven, back from out of the West End like a demon, leaving as soon as the curtain came down. She felt the bed subside slightly as he sat down on the edge.
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