Leopard In The Snow. Anne Mather

dared he assume that she had nothing to say in the matter?

      “As a matter of fact I didn’t come down to have supper with you!” she declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. “I want my keys – the keys to my suitcases. You have no right to keep them. I couldn’t even get a change of clothes after taking a bath!”

      Dominic frowned, thrusting a hand into his trousers’ pocket and bringing out the leather key-ring. He examined the assortment of keys thoughtfully, and then said: “I’m sorry. Naturally you want the keys to your suitcases. If you’ll point them out to me …”

      Helen stared at him mutinously for a few moments and then without stopping to consider the consequences she rushed forward and tried to snatch the keys from his hand. She didn’t really know what she intended doing with them even if she had been successful. Wild ideas about running out into the night, starting her unstartable car and driving away, were pure fantasy. But she had to do something, anything, to show him that she was not as helpless as he imagined her to be.

      Her efforts were doomed to failure. His fingers closed over the key-ring as she sprang forward, and all her frenzied attempts to prise them apart were useless. If she had supposed him weakened in some way, if she had thought that because of his disablement he no longer possessed the strength to withstand attack, she soon realised how wrong she had been. When she flew at him she had half expected him to lose his balance, but he didn’t, and there was an unyielding resistance in his hard body. She was totally unaware that the cheetah was watching them with alert, intelligent eyes, prevented from intervening by a quiet command from its master, but as she continued to pry desperately at his fingers she could not help but be aware of Dominic Lyall. She could feel the heat of his body, she could smell the faintly musky scent that emanated from him, but when she looked up and saw the cruel smile of derision that was twisting his lips, she drew back with a dismayed gasp.

      “You – you brute!” she cried tremulously. “They – they’re my keys. I want them.”

      “Don’t you think you’re behaving rather foolishly?” he asked, raising eyebrows several shades darker than his hair. “I had already offered to give you the keys you wanted.”

      Helen moved her head from side to side in a hopeless gesture. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded, in a defeated voice. “Why can’t you let me go?”

      “Tonight?” he mocked.

      “No. In the morning.” She made one last appeal to him. “Please!”

      “Don’t plead with me,” he exclaimed, contempt colouring his tone. “I despise weakness!”

      Helen felt as though he had struck her. With a hand pressed to her throat she turned away from him, gripping the back of the couch in a desperate effort to gain control. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she badly wanted to give in to them. She felt utterly lost and alone, incapable of any coherent thought. Not even the malevolent stare that Sheba was directing at her for daring to challenge her beloved master could arouse a spark of antagonism inside her.

      “Here! Drink this!”

      Dominic Lyall thrust a glass into her hand and she looked down at it blankly. “What is it?”

      “Brandy,” he replied briefly. “It may help to restore your common sense.”

      Helen was tempted to throw the glass to the floor and scatter its contents likewise, but she was badly in need of a restorative. Raising the glass to her trembling lips, she swallowed a mouthful jerkily and then finished it all in a sudden gulp. The spirit stung her throat and she coughed as tears came to her eyes, but she could feel its warmth tingling to the surface.

      Dominic Lyall limped round the couch and without waiting for her to join him, seated himself in the armchair at the far side of the blazing fire. He poured himself some Scotch from the bottle on the tray beside his chair and then extracted a narrow cigar from a box on the bookcase nearby. He held a taper to the flames and lit his cigar with evident enjoyment, and Helen stood watching him from behind the couch wondering how he could behave so casually when he must know how she was feeling.

      When his cigar was lit to his satisfaction, he put it between his teeth and felt in his pocket for her keys again. He examined them carefully, extracted two keys, and then tossed the others towards her. She was not quick enough to catch them and they fell on the floor at her feet. With a feeling of humiliation she bent to pick them up and saw that he had taken the car ignition key and the smaller key which opened the boot.

      “Now,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “are you going to sit down?”

      Helen pressed her lips together. “No,” she said unsteadily, “I’m going to my room. I shall just hope that by the morning you’ll have come to your senses.”

      His smile held the mockery she had come to expect. “Don’t be too disappointed if I haven’t,” he commented, removing the cigar from his mouth.

      “I – I think you’re despicable!”

      “Your opinion of me isn’t important.” He watched her as she walked to the door. “And haven’t you ever heard that a war is fought on the stomachs of its troops? If you don’t have any supper, you’re going to be awfully hungry by the morning.”

      Helen stiffened her shoulders. At least in this she could decide for herself. “I – I couldn’t touch your food!” she stated, anger strengthening her determination. “It would make me sick.”

      Before she could make a dignified exit on those words of finality, the door opened and Bolt entered the room carrying a tray. She couldn’t see everything he was carrying, but the aroma of curry sauce was unmistakable and she observed a jug of cream that was intended to accompany a mouthwatering fruit pie that balanced on her side of the tray. The manservant looked at Helen in surprise, and then said:

      “I thought I’d serve supper in here, sir, seeing that it’s such a wintry night.”

      “A good idea,” said Dominic Lyall, smiling with rather more amusement than usual. “Will you join me, Bolt?”

      Bolt glanced at Helen again. She was still hovering by the door, almost hypnotised by the smell of food. She was only beginning to realise how ravenously hungry she was, and she half regretted her impulsive rejection of his hospitality.

      “But I thought – the young lady –” he began, but Dominic shook his head.

      “Msis James – isn’t hungry, Bolt. She said something about feeling – sick?”

      His eyes moved to Helen’s uncertain face and their hardness moved her to action.

      “That’s right,” she declared, her lower lip quivering in spite of her determination that it should not. “I – I’m rather more particular who I eat with!” And she stalked out of the room, banging the door behind her.

      She stood for a moment in the hall after the door had closed, half expecting him to come after her and take some retaliatory action. But all she heard was a burst of laughter which unmistakably issued from Dominic Lyall’s throat, and she realised that the second glass on the tray was used by Bolt …

       CHAPTER THREE

      HELEN’S bed was superbly comfortable, the hot water bottles reminding her of when she was a child and her mother used to tuck her up with a bedtime story. Only now there was no bedtime story, only the similarities between her plight and that of Beauty and the Beast …