Master Of El Corazon. Sandra Marton
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the bed was just behind her, pressing lightly against the backs of her legs. ‘Well, then,’ she said briskly, ‘let me just get that paper and we’ll get started.’
‘By all means.’
‘You’ll—you’ll have to move, sir.’ His brows rose questioningly. ‘The paper’s over there,’ she said, gesturing towards the dresser on the far wall. ‘I need to get past you.’
Lithgow smiled and shifted slightly to the side. ‘You’re a slender girl, Arden. Surely you don’t need more room than this?’
All at once, everything in the room seemed slightly askew, like a scene viewed through a pair of unfocused binoculars. Be calm, she told herself, just take things nice and easy.
‘You know, Mr Lithgow,’ she said with a careful smile, ‘it really is very late. Alejandro will be bringing my supper in a moment, and—’
Lithgow chuckled slyly. ‘No, he won’t.’
Arden stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I met Alejandro in the hall and told him you and I would prefer a little supper served later, not now.’
‘You had no right to do that,’ Arden said sharply. She pushed past Lithgow, trying not to notice the press of his body against hers. ‘I think you’d better leave right now, sir. If you do—’
Lithgow caught hold of her wrist. ‘I haven’t dictated the memo yet, Arden.’
‘You can dictate it tomorrow, at the office.’
He looked at her steadily, while she tried not to let her growing fear show in her face, and then he sighed and let go of her hand.
‘You’re right, I should never have bothered you with such nonsense this evening.’
The breath whooshed from her lungs. ‘That’s all right, sir,’ she said. ‘We’ll-we’ll just forget all about—’
‘Do you think I might have a cold drink, before I go?’
No, Arden thought, no, you can’t. Just get out of here and let me pretend this never happened.
‘Miss Miller?’ She looked at him. ‘I would be most grateful for just a little sip of something cold.’
She sighed. ‘Very well, sir. I’ll get you a glass of water.’
He shuddered. ‘That bottled stuff? No, I don’t care for the taste.’ He nodded towards the little fridge the hotel provided. ‘What do you have in there?’
‘Coke and some orange juice,’ she said reluctantly, ‘but—’
‘And ice?’
All right, she told herself, all right, if that was what it took to get rid of him ...
‘Yes,’ she said with a sigh, ‘of course.’ She bent and opened the fridge. ‘Which would you like, sir? Coke? Or—’
‘Just the ice, Arden,’ he said, and it was the tone of his voice as much as the way he’d gone back to using her first name that made her look up. That sly grin was on his face again and, as she watched, he pulled a bottle of gin from his pocket. ‘Ta da!’ he said. ‘If Arden won’t come to the party, the party will come to her!’
Arden straightened up slowly. ‘You’ll have to leave now, Mr Lithgow.’
“I agree with you, my dear. Business can wait until morning.’ He smiled again. ‘Why don’t you get us some glasses, hmm?’
‘Mr Lithgow—’
‘Edgar.’
‘Mr Lithgow,’ she said firmly, ‘you’re going to regret this tomorrow. Now, why don’t you—?’
‘What I regret,’ he said, moving towards her, ‘is all the time I’ve wasted, watching you slip around the office, waggling your hips in my face, showing off those breasts, and not doing what a man ought to do when faced with what was offered.’
Arden’s hazel eyes widened. ‘That’s a lie! I never—’
‘Temptation was put in my path,’ he said solemnly, putting the gin bottle on the night stand as he walked slowly towards her, ‘and for months I thought it was a test of my virtue.’ He laughed softly. ‘And then I realised that I’d misunderstood. You weren’t here to tempt me, you were a gift.’
‘Now, wait just a damned minute,’ Arden said, moving backwards.
‘A gift from my maker, Arden.’ He was standing almost on top of her now; his breath was a cloud of gin, rising like an evil miasma to her nostrils. ‘His way of thanking me for my years of dedication to charitable works.’
He’s crazy, Arden thought frantically. Either that, or he’s suddenly developed a sick sense of humour. But the hot weight of his hand at her breast was no joke. Arden skidded away.
‘Get out of my room,’ she said, hoping he could not hear the fear in her voice.
His face took on a look of cold calculation. ‘You forget yourself. I have a perfect right to be here. I pay the bills for this suite, remember?’
‘The company pays the bills.’
‘A matter of semantics.’
‘This is sexual harassment,’ Arden said quickly. ‘You must know there are laws against this sort of—’
‘Laws!’ Lithgow laughed. ‘Stuff and nonsense, pushed through American courts by damned fool feminists. But we’re not in America now, we’re in a place that looks like Paradise.’
It was no time to argue that the laws still applied, Arden thought desperately. He was either crazy or crazy drunk, and all that mattered was getting away from him while she still could. She looked past him to the door, measuring the distance, wondering if she could reach it before he did, but before there was time to make a move Lithgow lunged for her and grabbed her. Arden cried out and struggled to free herself, but he was a man with a strength fuelled by equal parts desire and alcohol.
‘You son of a bitch,’ she panted, and somehow she wrenched free, but Lithgow was still holding on to her sash so that the robe swung open, revealing her.
He moaned as if he’d just seen the Grail.
‘Lovely,’ he said, and the huskiness of that one word told her this would be her last chance at escape.
Arden gave a sob, spun around and raced not for the door but for the night table. The gin bottle crashed to the floor as she reached for the phone, but her fingers closed around thin air. Lithgow grunted, tackled her from behind, and they fell to bed together in a whirl of legs and arms while the stink of gin filled the air in the bedroom.
‘Little wildcat,’ he said, grinning into her face.
She fought as be tried to pin her beneath him. ‘Let go of me, you bastard,’ she panted. Her leg came up; she wanted to knee him in the groin but he moved suddenly, feinting to the side. Arden opened her mouth to scream and Lithgow’s lips clamped on to hers. The vile taste of him made her gag. She beat against his shoulders, the breath whistling through her nostrils, and suddenly she heard the door slam against the wall and a male voice said, ‘Just what in hell is going on here?’
Lithgow went still as a corpse above her. ‘Get off me,’ Arden said in a voice that shook, as much with rage as with fear. The pupils in his eyes contracted, his mouth narrowed, and suddenly he was Edgar Lithgow again, cool and removed and as proper as a Sunday afternoon in the country.
He rose to his feet and Arden scrambled off the bed in one swift motion, turning to her saviour with a tremulous smile of relief.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘You got here just in—’
The words caught in her throat. The man standing in the bedroom doorway was the man she’d met in