uneasily.
“All right. You said I wasn’t as fragile as I looked, and I did the stupidest thing, didn’t I? I proved you right by losing my temper and flying at you like this—”
She launched herself at him suddenly. He rose and put up his arms, trying to fend her off without actually taking hold of her, but she renewed the attack until in the end he was forced to seize her. For a few moments they struggled until he managed to imprison her in his arms, holding her tightly. She looked up at him, her face flushed from the struggle, her eyes alight with an emotion he didn’t understand, but which was actually triumph. She’d drawn him further into her spell. She knew it from the thunder of his heart that she could feel against her own, from the rasping sound of his breathing, and from the look on his face as he stared down at her: part unease, part desire, part alarm.
The pounding of his heart had communicated itself to her own, so that it, too, was beating madly. A hot sweetness streamed through her body, and she knew it was the sweetness of revenge. To turn the tables on the man whose prey she’d been and make him her prey, to know that he was becoming as helpless in her clutches as she had been in his—that was pleasure. “I forget how the next bit went,” she breathed. “What did we do?”
He loosened his grip on her and placed his hands on either side of her head, twining his fingers in her hair. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she could feel the force of his struggle in her own flesh. “We—”
“Yes...tell me—”
A shudder convulsed him. With an effort he freed himself from her. “I pushed you away from me,” he said hoarsely.
She was disappointed, but only a little. She’d always known she was contending with a strong man, a hard man, who wouldn’t fall easily. It would make his eventual subjugation doubly satisfying. “And you asked me if this was how I’d gone for Henry Grainger,” she reminded him.
Daniel took a deep breath and forcibly pulled himself together. He felt buffeted by a whirlwind. “Ashtray,” he said. “He was killed with an ashtray. It had your fingerprints on it, and nobody else’s.”
“It was mine. I’ve never denied it. But I didn’t take it down to his flat, he did. That was one of his charming little habits. He’d call on me on some feeble pretext or other, and when he left he’d steal something of mine so that I had to go to his place to get it back. When I got there he’d apologize, pretend to have lost it, offer me a drink, anything to drag it out. It was that kind of sneaky behavior that made me loathe him. Are you seriously suggesting that I took my own ashtray down to kill him, and then forgot to take it away?”
“That was always the weakest part of the case against you,” he conceded. “But it was the murder weapon, and it had your prints on it.”
“Since it belonged to me, that’s hardly surprising.”
“There was no doubt that it was used to kill him.”
“But not by me. Look, I know you don’t have to prove motive—you told me that often enough—but did it never worry you that I didn’t have a motive?”
“You loathed him. You’ve admitted it.”
“That’s a motive for kicking his shins, not for killing him. Good grief, if I killed every man who’s tried to paw me in my life I’d be knee-deep in corpses by now.”
He wished she hadn’t put on the glamorous mask. It took him back in time in a way he didn’t want. He tried to fight down his antagonism, but he couldn’t prevent it infusing his voice. “I believe you. There must have been quite a few men who wanted you.”
She shook her head so that her glorious hair swirled about her shoulders, and stood with her arms folded, regarding him satirically. “Yes, there have. After all, look at my career—first modeling, then escort work. That practically makes me a scarlet woman, doesn’t it?”
“No, but it makes you Tiger Lady.”
“Don’t tell me
“All right. You said I wasn’t as fragile as I looked, and I did the stupidest thing, didn’t I? I proved you right by losing my temper and flying at you like this—”
She launched herself at him suddenly. He rose and put up his arms, trying to fend her off without actually taking hold of her, but she renewed the attack until in the end he was forced to seize her. For a few moments they struggled until he managed to imprison her in his arms, holding her tightly. She looked up at him, her face flushed from the struggle, her eyes alight with an emotion he didn’t understand, but which was actually triumph. She’d drawn him further into her spell. She knew it from the thunder of his heart that she could feel against her own, from the rasping sound of his breathing, and from the look on his face as he stared down at her: part unease, part desire, part alarm.
The pounding of his heart had communicated itself to her own, so that it, too, was beating madly. A hot sweetness streamed through her body, and she knew it was the sweetness of revenge. To turn the tables on the man whose prey she’d been and make him her prey, to know that he was becoming as helpless in her clutches as she had been in his—that was pleasure. “I forget how the next bit went,” she breathed. “What did we do?”
He loosened his grip on her and placed his hands on either side of her head, twining his fingers in her hair. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she could feel the force of his struggle in her own flesh. “We—”
“Yes...tell me—”
A shudder convulsed him. With an effort he freed himself from her. “I pushed you away from me,” he said hoarsely.
She was disappointed, but only a little. She’d always known she was contending with a strong man, a hard man, who wouldn’t fall easily. It would make his eventual subjugation doubly satisfying. “And you asked me if this was how I’d gone for Henry Grainger,” she reminded him.
Daniel took a deep breath and forcibly pulled himself together. He felt buffeted by a whirlwind. “Ashtray,” he said. “He was killed with an ashtray. It had your fingerprints on it, and nobody else’s.”
“It was mine. I’ve never denied it. But I didn’t take it down to his flat, he did. That was one of his charming little habits. He’d call on me on some feeble pretext or other, and when he left he’d steal something of mine so that I had to go to his place to get it back. When I got there he’d apologize, pretend to have lost it, offer me a drink, anything to drag it out. It was that kind of sneaky behavior that made me loathe him. Are you seriously suggesting that I took my own ashtray down to kill him, and then forgot to take it away?”
“That was always the weakest part of the case against you,” he conceded. “But it was the murder weapon, and it had your prints on it.”
“Since it belonged to me, that’s hardly surprising.”
“There was no doubt that it was used to kill him.”
“But not by me. Look, I know you don’t have to prove motive—you told me that often enough—but did it never worry you that I didn’t have a motive?”
“You loathed him. You’ve admitted it.”
“That’s a motive for kicking his shins, not for killing him. Good grief, if I killed every man who’s tried to paw me in my life I’d be knee-deep in corpses by now.”
He wished she hadn’t put on the glamorous mask. It took him back in time in a way he didn’t want. He tried to fight down his antagonism, but he couldn’t prevent it infusing his voice. “I believe you. There must have been quite a few men who wanted you.”
She shook her head so that her glorious hair swirled about her shoulders, and stood with her arms folded, regarding him satirically. “Yes, there have. After all, look at my career—first modeling, then escort work. That practically makes me a scarlet woman, doesn’t it?”
“No, but it makes you Tiger Lady.”
“Don’t tell me
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