Love's Golden Spell. William Maltese

driven her back to Lionspride.

      “Bill and Karl, this is Janet,” Christopher said, pyramiding his fingers beneath his chin. He looked disgustingly cool and calm, but then he hadn’t been trudging in the South African sun. Janet, on the other hand, looked a sight, and she didn’t need a mirror to tell her that.

      “Ma’am,” Bill and Karl said in unison. They’d been supremely polite until she’d tried to force her way out of the moving car. Even then, they had done nothing but keep her from jumping out and hurting, maybe even killing, herself. She should thank them instead of calling them names—except they had brought her back to Christopher. She was no better off than she had been a couple of hours earlier, although she was considerably more tired. And no matter what Christopher said, she felt the tightness of sunburn across her forehead.

      “That’s all for now, men,” Christopher said. “I’ll have Ashanti show Janet upstairs—that is, if she’s finally decided to cooperate.” Ashanti appeared: a man-robot getting messages via telepathy.

      Bill and Karl left, Janet staying where she was. Christopher ignored her, attending to his paperwork. He looked up several minutes later, pretending surprise to find her still there. He made a great show of checking his wristwatch. “I really wouldn’t recommend any walks after dark,” he said.

      “I refuse to believe this is happening!” Janet said, leaving the room. He would have left her standing there until doomsday.

      “Miss Westover?” It was Ashanti, trying to perform the task Christopher had assigned him.

      The view through the drapery-banked windows confirmed it was getting dark. Even with no wild animals around, Janet wouldn’t tempt fate after nightfall. “Okay, Ashanti,” she said, resigned—temporarily—to defeat, “where’s this room?”

      ‘This way, please,” Ashanti said, leading the way to the sweeping stairway that reminded Janet of a set from Gone with the Wind.

      Once in the room, she locked the door and looked for a telephone. There was none. The room wasn’t one Janet remembered. She had never been in all of the rooms of Lionspride. Christopher used to joke that he hadn’t, either.

      The bathroom was well stocked, complete with expensive perfumes. Everything was obviously designed for the use of not one but a procession of women, of whom Janet was merely the latest.

      Christopher had never married. The press kept Janet informed, because no matter what Christopher Van Hoon did, he made the papers. He was interesting copy, tremendously good looking and tremendously rich. That he hadn’t married gave Janet satisfaction long after her marriage to Bob.

      The bathroom mirror confirmed that she looked like hell. Her sunburn, though, wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

      She started running the water in a bathtub as big as a swimming pool, liberally adding bath salts from two of six available jars of the stuff. The result was so inviting, she got into the tub before it was filled. She used her sore feet to turn off the faucets, then leaned back, closed her eyes and relaxed her weary bones.

      Qwenella Fairchild might have enjoyed the luxury of this sunken tub, Janet mused. Christopher had dated her in the States. That, too, had made the gossip columns. Qwenella was an ex-Playboy Bunny and centerfold. Compared to her, Janet looked like a man. Then, there had been the high-fashion model who had gone from the cover of Vogue to a big movie contract. Compared to her, Janet looked like a Playboy bunny. Then, Lady Bellona Morrel, who was related by blood to the Princess of Wales.

      “Who knows, I may marry you when you grow up,” he had told Janet sixteen years before. The sun was hot that day, a huge ball of molten gold behind blue-gum trees. Christopher’s hair was long over his ears and collar. He looked like a young lion. “If you ever do grow up,” he had added with a laugh, and kissed her.

      She roused herself from a drifting lethargy, concentrating on her lips, sensitive from his most recent, stolen, kiss. What a world of difference between their first kiss and this last one. What a world of difference between the loving youth and the hateful man.

      She hadn’t stopped thinking of Christopher when she married Bob. Some of those thoughts she hadn’t minded—those concerned her plans to get back at the Van Hoon family. Others, though, were betrayals of her father and of her wedding vows. That Vincent Van Hoon was dead and buried, her husband murdered by guerrillas in Central America, didn’t make such thoughts less disturbing. She was never physically unfaithful to her husband during the years of their marriage; but, every woman indulged in fantasies. It didn’t mean she didn’t love Bob. It didn’t mean she loved Christopher, either.

      She came out of the bath like Venus from the sea, reaching for one of the Turkish towels monogrammed with the Van Hoon crest: a full-mane lion against a sun disk. She dried herself quickly, dispelling her disturbing thoughts. She needed her wits, and her memories were betraying her. She had been crazy, basing so many daydreams on an incident that had happened sixteen years ago.

      She found a black silk dress on the bed. She hadn’t put it there, and the door was locked. This didn’t mean anything. It was Christopher’s house, and he had the keys. He must have been there while she was in the bath, the bathroom door ajar. He must have watched ever so silently, and—

      She was letting her imagination run away with her because of one unpleasant kiss meant to scare her. He had laid out the dress to scare her, too. He was getting back at her for her plan to blacken the Van Hoon name. Scaring, though, was as far as it went. Christopher, with all the willing women he could have, wasn’t going to force himself on her. Janet wasn’t a little Miss Nobody. She was a well-known personality in the States and in five foreign countries that syndicated Animal Kingdoms in the Wild. She could cause one helluva big stink that not even Van Hoon money could gloss over.

      He was playing a game. She could play games, too. She walked over to the bed and lifted the dress for closer inspection. It was a Valentino: simple, expensive and with a revealing neckline. She checked the closets and dresser drawers for accessories.

      He knew her correct size at a glance, because the dress fit like a glove. If the bodice was tight, the effect was sexy. It was so sexy, she wouldn’t have worn the dress in public, but only the servants and Christopher would see her here.

      She unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, surprised when she wasn’t confronted by guards. She could enter one of the other bedrooms to find a phone, but her rescue party would be spotted before it reached the house. Besides, she wasn’t as frightened as she had been.

      She paused at the top of the stairs, her fingers poised delicately on the highly polished banister. Her gaze followed the long downward curve of the railing, her mind flashing to long-ago rides with her and Christopher astraddle the thing. At eighteen, he had argued that he was too old for such antics, yet Janet hadn’t had that much trouble changing his mind.

      Janet was older now and wasn’t dressed for a ride, but the temptation was too great. She assumed an experimental sidesaddle position, more weight on her feet than on her derriere. By the time she made her slow slide to the bottom, the silk dress was hiked well above her knees. She felt ridiculous when she slipped off, feeling more so when she realized Christopher was watching. It wasn’t possible to guess how long he had been there.

      He was dressed in a white dinner jacket with black tie, the jacket and white shirt contrasting attractively with the darkness of his tan. His cufflinks were small asterisks of gold.

      “I used to be quite a tomboy,” she said, recovering enough poise to speak. “Sometimes, I’m afraid, there’s a reversion to childhood.”

      “Yes? Well, you could have easily fallen and broke your pretty neck,” he said unsympathetically. He was the one who once had fallen from this particular banister, but reminding him would reveal too much. With a small cut on his forehead, he’d remained undaunted, immediately going back for another ride. Maybe the small crescent-shaped scar was still there, waiting for her to brush back the attractive tumble of his blond hair to find it.

      “Where’s supper? I’m starving!” she said, taking the