The Highest Stakes of All by Sara Craven Page B

without haste to unfasten the remaining buttons on his shirt. ‘As you very well know. Therefore you would be wise to obey me, and do as you have been told.’
    ‘Why should I?’ she challenged.
    ‘Because I require it,’ he said flatly. ‘I was told you were beautiful, but that is impossible to judge when you hide yourself beneath a layer of scented grease.’
    Told? she thought dazedly. Who told you—and why?
    ‘It is surprising, too,’ he added drily, ‘when your choice of clothing, by contrast, leaves so little to the imagination.’
    ‘You disapprove of the way I dress?’ she asked defiantly. ‘Under the circumstances, isn’t that a little hypocritical?’
    ‘I am talking of how you present yourself to others,’ he said. ‘What you wear for my eyes alone will be an entirely different matter. So go and wash.’ He paused. ‘Unless you wish me to do it for you.’
    She said swiftly, ‘That’s the last thing I want.’
    ‘Truly?’ he asked mockingly, sending his shirt to join his other clothes on the stool. ‘I thought—under the circumstances—you would have other far more serious objections to my plans for you.’
    Her resentment of his high-handedness was indeed the least of her worries, she thought, swallowing.
    At close quarters, stripped to the waist, he looked even more formidable, the dark hair on his chest tapering into a deep vee which disappeared into the waistband of his pants.
    Nor, she realised, dry-mouthed, had she overestimated the muscled strength of his shoulders and arms. It suddenly seemed far wiser, if she could make her legs obey her, to make the small placatory gesture of going to the bathroom to do as he asked.
    There was no facial cleanser among the toiletries on offer, just soap and water which did little to remove her eye make-up and left her looking like a bush baby.
    The mirror above the basin told her that he had followed her, and was leaning in the doorway, observing her efforts with cynically raised eyebrows.
    She drained the water and turned defensively to face him. He walked across to her and took her chin in his hand, the dark eyes examining her for an endless minute. She saw his brows lift as if he was surprised at something. And not pleased.
    But all he said was, ‘A slight improvement,’ then moved away from her, casually unzipping his pants and discarding them. He reached into the shower and turned it on, then, to her horror, stripped off the black briefs that were his only covering and stepped calmly into the cubicle, letting the flow of water cascade over his naked body.
    For a second Joanna was motionless, caught between shock and sheer embarrassment, then she gave a panic-stricken gasp and flew back into the bedroom, bent on flight, in case he should decide to summon her back to join him.
    But having reached the door she stopped. Because how far did she expect to get, when everyone in the suite beyond was in his pay?
    It seemed that the only means of escape left to her was by way of the window. And as this suite was on the hotel’s top floor, that would mean instant oblivion.
    She shivered as she went out on to the balcony to check that there was no climbing shrub or convenient drainpipe that might at least give her access to a lower floor. But there was nothing.
    A fate worse than death, she thought, looking over the rail into the darkness beneath. Wasn’t that the famous—and totally ludicrous—cliché? Because flinging herself down into infinity would never be an option for her, however scared she might be.
    But I’m going to survive, she told herself. And choose another very different cliché. Where there’s life, there’s hope.
    I will get through this, she thought, no matter what he does. Because none of it will be happening to me, but to the stranger who wears sexy clothes and too much make-up. The girl I’ve always detested. And I’ll keep the real Joanna Vernon, the girl with hopes and dreams of an independent future, somewhere safe where