Salzano's Captive Bride. Daphne Clair
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“Look—” she edged towards the door and kept talking “—you’ve made a mistake. I can’t help you, and I’m asking you to leave.”
“Leave?” He seemed affronted. “After flying from Venezuela to New Zealand? I have not slept since—”
“That’s not my problem,” she informed him.
She reached out to open the door again but he put a hand on it, holding it shut and looking down at her through narrowed eyes. “If he is not here,” he said quietly, as though struggling to control himself, “what have you done with him?”
A new expression had appeared in his eyes—surely not fear? Or at least genuine anxiety.
“Nothing!”
Again the black brows drew together. Lucifer must have had that same terrible, ferocious male beauty.
She shivered, and he said, the harsh note back in his voice, “What are you up to?” His eyes made another hostile survey of her. “If you ever had a child it certainly does not show.”
Amber gaped. “I’ve never had a child!” She reminded herself that most mentally ill people weren’t dangerous.
Then he grabbed her upper arms and she thought, But a few are! and forced herself not to kick and hit. That might trigger him into real violence. If she kept calm maybe she could talk him into leaving. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like swearing in Spanish. White teeth showed as his lips curled back in a near-snarl. “What devil’s game are you playing?” he demanded. “Why did you write to me?”
“Write to you?” Amber’s voice rose in disbelief. “I don’t even know you!”
His hands tightened until she winced, and he dropped them, his tawny skin darkening. “In a sense that is true,” he said with an air of hauteur, his eyes almost hidden by lowered lids that had the longest, thickest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. “But for a short time we knew each other intimately. That you cannot deny.”
About to do so in no uncertain terms, she hesitated as a fantastic suspicion slithered into her mind. Venezuela. South America.
No. She shook her head to dislodge the shameful notion. The guy was raving.
“Very well,” he said, impatient again and misinterpreting her action. “It is a matter of semantics. It was not…an emotional intimacy. But whatever you call it, you have not forgotten. What did you expect when you wrote that letter? That I would send money and put it out of my mind?”
“Wh-which letter?” Was it possible…? No!
“Were there others?” he asked, the lift of those almost satanic brows expressing cynical doubt. “The one,” he continued with exaggerated patience, “that asked for a contribution towards the welfare of the child you had borne, apparently to me.”
For a moment Amber felt dizzy, sick, and her hand involuntarily flew to her mouth to stop an exclamation escaping. Her voice shaking, she said, “I never sent you any letter, I swear.”
Maybe she’d got through to him at last. He appeared briefly disconcerted, then his expression hardened again. “You were desperate, it said. Was it simply an attempt at extortion and there truly is no child?”
She breathed in, thinking, and slowly said, “Would you believe me if I told you that you have the wrong woman?”
His brows shot up again and he laughed. Not pleasantly. “I know I had far more wine that night than was wise, but I was not so drunk that I don’t remember the face of the woman I shared a bed with.”
Feeling sicker still, her heart pounding erratically, Amber couldn’t speak.
Not that she’d have had a chance. His lips curling in a sneer, he asked, “Do you make a habit of asking men to pay you off after…I believe you would call it a one-night stand.”
“I don’t do one-night stands,” she flashed, “and neither—” caution intervened “—neither do I try to blackmail…anybody.”
“I’m the only one so privileged?” he asked, the harsh, accusative tone turning dark and silken, which paradoxically made her feel even more threatened. “And if it was not a one-night stand I’m not sure what you think it was. You yourself have denied any real connection between us, and we have had no contact since—until you claimed to have borne me a son.”
“I haven’t claimed anything of the sort!” Amber snapped. And as he made a move towards her, fright and anger sharpened her voice. “Don’t you dare come near me!”
He stopped dead, as if she’d shot him. “I will not hurt you,” he said.
“Oh, really?” She hoped her derisive tone didn’t set him off, but she couldn’t help adding acidly, “I expect I’ll have bruises on my arms tomorrow.”
To her surprise, a look of chagrin crossed his face. Stiffly, his accent stronger, he said, “If that is so, I apologise. I was…not thinking.”
Not hard to guess he wasn’t accustomed to apologising.
The change in him was at least marginally reassuring. Encouraged, Amber tried again, even more forcefully. “You’re not listening to me, are you? I don’t know—”
“Why should I listen to lies?”
“I’m not lying. You’ve got it all wrong!”
The sound he made in his throat was akin to an animal growl, alarming her again. He reached out, and long fingers closed about her wrist. “Then show me he is not here.”
She wanted to snap at him again, but perhaps it would be safer to humour the man, persuade him he’d made a mistake, and he might leave. Or to distract him so she’d have a shot at escaping. “All right,” she said finally. It wouldn’t take long—the flat had only three small rooms besides the kitchen and bathroom. “Feel free to look around.”
His gaze suspicious, he tugged at her imprisoned wrist. “Show me.”
She wasn’t going to be given a chance to flee outside and call for help.
Amber shrugged, hiding the fact that her heart was thumping, and led him to the doorway of her cosy sitting room, reaching aside to switch on the light.
A soft, cushioned olive-green sofa faced the fireplace, in front of which she’d placed a Chinese jar filled with white plumes of native toe-toe.
Two armchairs with calico slip-covers hiding their shabby upholstery were set at right-angles to the sofa, a couple of bright-red wooden boxes serving as end tables. Her TV and sound system sat in the chimney corners, and on the mantel a row of books was held by the South Island jade bookends she’d inherited from her grandmother.
The man glanced over the room without entering, and Amber took him across the hallway to her bedroom.
The bed was covered in white broderie-anglaise, and thick sheepskin rugs lay on the varnished floor. This time the man walked into the room as she tugged her wrist from his grip and stepped to one side, leaning with folded arms against the curve of the second-hand Queen Anne style dressing table.
The man threw her a glance that gave a silent warning and strode to the mirror-doored wardrobe, briefly looked at the clothes hanging there and closed it again. When his gaze went to the dressing table drawers she looked back at him defiantly and said, “You are not going through my underwear drawers. Are you some kind of pervert?”
For an instant fury flared in his eyes, then she thought he almost laughed, and she could see he was weighing whether he should ignore her ban before he headed for the door. Amber breathed a little more easily.
“Sure you don’t want to look under the bed?” she inquired as he snagged her wrist again.
He