Satans Master. Carole Mortimer

aren’t a very good actress, and you could have tried a more original name than Smith,’ he scorned.

      ‘But that is my name,’ she insisted. ‘I can prove it to you.’ She moved to the door.

      His hand snaked out and caught her around the wrist. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      ‘To the saddlebags on my bicycle. I—I have identification there.’

      ‘I’ll bet you do. And I’ll also lay odds on you running like hell once you set foot outside that door. What’s the matter, Miss Smith, have you decided you can’t go through with it, that simply publicising confirmation of my whereabouts will be enough?’

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she shook her head. ‘Go through with what?’

      ‘Oh, I’m sure it all seemed so logical back in London,’ he sneered. ‘Someone tipped you off on my possible whereabouts and you decided to come up here and get the inside story, literally.’

      ‘Literally?’ She trembled as his hold tightened.

      ‘Literally,’ he nodded. ‘As inside my bed.’

      ‘Inside your—–! My God,’ she gasped, ‘you have a nerve!’

      ‘I have several hundred, and at the moment all of them are attuned to you. Your newspaper chose well, Sabina—I take it that at least that part of your name is true?’

      ‘All of it’s true,’ she said desperately.

      He gave her a scathing look. ‘Your cover is blown, Sabina. It was blown the moment I saw your hair and those wide innocent eyes, so you might as well drop the act. You never know, if you play your cards right I could just give you that story after all.’ His hand moved up to touch the silkiness of her hair. ‘Yes, your editor chose well. I’ve always had a weakness for blondes.’ Once again his head lowered and he claimed her lips, gently this time, parting them persuasively as he deepened the kiss.

      In that moment everything in Sabina’s life suddenly changed, became more ordered. This man’s lips searching and probing hers made any more thoughts of marrying Nicholas unnecessary. She couldn’t marry him now. A stranger, a cold hard man embittered by she didn’t know what, was making her his with the touch of his lips and hands, was arousing her as no other man ever had, and she couldn’t possibly marry anyone else but him.

      Her body arched against his, her curves fitting perfectly against the hardness of his body, her hands going up about his shoulders and tangling in the thick blackness of his hair as she strained him closer to her. Whoever he was, whatever he had done to merit being hounded by reporters, she had fallen in love with him.

      But although she wasn’t a reporter herself, and she might eventually get him to believe that, her father did own and publish a daily newspaper, a newspaper that thrived on scandal. She had nothing in her favour to endear her to this man, and the realisation made her stiffen in his arms.

      At once she was set free, grey eyes gleaming down at her in triumph. ‘Changed your mind again?’ he taunted.

      Sabina was still dazed by her recent discovery, sure that things like this didn’t happen in real life. It wasn’t possible to fall in love with a complete stranger. Why, she didn’t even know his name! Her father would dismiss it as a flight of fancy, and perhaps that was what it was, perhaps she had a fever from getting so wet.

      ‘Well, have you?’ His stance was challenging.

      ‘I—–No.’

      His gaze swept over her with cool mockery, lingering on her bruised and throbbing lips. ‘Your body wasn’t saying no just now. And neither was mine, as I’m sure you know. I’m also sure you very rarely say no,’ he added insultingly.

      Colour flooded her cheeks, resentment flared in her eyes. ‘Why, you—–’

      ‘Which scandal sheet do you work for, Sabina?’

      She shook her head. ‘I—–’

      ‘Which one? The Chronicle, News and Views, or could it be the worst one of all, the Daily News?’

      Her face paled as he mentioned her father’s newspaper. She knew it was a terrible newspaper, preying on other people’s mistakes and misery.

      ‘The Daily News,’ her tormentor repeated with distaste. ‘God, that’s really sinking low! And doesn’t he mind you using your body as well as your mind to get a story?’

      Sabina frowned. ‘He?’

      His hand came out and pulled on the slender gold chain about her throat, tugging it out of the neckline of her jumper to reveal the ring threaded on its length, the huge diamond flanked by two smaller emeralds. It was her engagement ring, the ring that had been on her finger for the past four months, until yesterday morning when she had decided such a ring was rather conspicuous for the quiet holiday she had intended taking. Had being the operative word; meeting this man had changed all that.

      ‘I discovered this during our—encounter, just now,’ his mouth twisted. ‘And I repeat, doesn’t he mind who you sleep with?’

      Sabina blushed, remembering where his hand had strayed to discover the ring as it lay nestled between the firm swell of her breasts. ‘There’s nothing to mind,’ she dismissed impatiently. ‘I’m on holiday—–’

      ‘Oh yes?’ he scorned.

      ‘Yes,’ she flashed.

      ‘Are you also on holiday from him?’

      ‘I’m alone, if that’s what you mean.’ She instantly wished she hadn’t told him that, it made her too vulnerable.

      ‘It wasn’t, but thanks for the information.’

      ‘Then what did you mean?’

      ‘I mean is it your usual practice to forget your engagement when it suits you to, when you have another man in your sights?’

      Sabins flushed. ‘You aren’t “in my sights"!’ How could she have imagined herself in love with such an insulting, arrogant man! Thank God that madness had passed, leaving only disgust with herself for having responded to him. It must have been the sensual aura he emitted without even being aware of it, that air of sexual excitement about him, that had made her forget all sensibility.

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘Not even professionally?’

      Sabina sighed. ‘Well, as I don’t even know who you are I can’t really say.’

      His face darkened, his mouth tight. ‘I’ve already told you to drop the act!’

      ‘I’m sorry it it hurts your ego,’ she scorned, ‘but I really have no idea of your identity. Are you a bank robber or something?’

      ‘Or something,’ he agreed moodily.

      ‘Well, Mr Whoever-you-are, do you have some antiseptic for my ankle?’ It was starting to throb now, the cat having curled its claws into her skin before ripping them out again. ‘That animal may not have been clean,’ she snapped.

      ‘Satan is very clean, all cats are.’

      ‘Nevertheless …’ she eyed him expectantly.

      He turned impatiently on his heel, going through a door into what looked like a kitchen, a small cramped room that looked barely big enough for the width and height of him. He seemed to be searching through a cabinet over the sink, finally coming back and thrusting a tube of antiseptic at her.

      ‘Thank you,’ she accepted quietly, applying the cream to her slender ankle, aware that he watched her every move. She handed the tube back to him. ‘Can I leave now?’ she asked nervously, suddenly aware that his ‘or something’ could be the rapist or murderer she had kidded her father about yesterday.

      ‘If you leave where would