Satans Master

‘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 you go?’ His grey eyes were narrowed and watchful.

‘I—I have a tent. I suppose I could pitch that somewhere.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt—for the moment. You can stay here tonight.’

‘But you said—you said you had no room for me.’

‘I said there was only one bed,’ he corrected mockingly.

‘Oh,’ she blushed.

‘Do you also have a sleeping bag in that seemingly bottomless saddlebag?’

‘Yes,’ she frowned her puzzlement.

‘Then you can share my bed—in the safe cocoon of your sleeping bag, of course.’

‘Oh no, I—I’d rather sleep down here on the sofa. If you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, but I do mind. I can’t have a guest of mine sleeping on the sofa,’ his words taunted her.

‘Then couldn’t you—–’

‘No, I could not! For one thing the sofa isn’t long enough for either of us to sleep on, for another thing it’s my bed. And I’m not willing to put myself out that much for someone I didn’t even invite here.’

‘I’ve said I’ll go—–’

‘I wouldn’t even send a dog out in that mist. And although reporters are the lowest form of life to me I can’t be sure that you are one. But I can’t be sure you aren’t either,’ his voice hardened. ‘So tonight you’ll stay with me, where I can keep an eye on you.’

Sabina gulped, her eyes wide. ‘K-keep an eye on me?’

‘I’m still not sure about you, Miss Smith,’ he managed to put a wealth of sarcasm into his voice. ‘So I’m not leaving you down here where you could snoop about.’

‘I don’t want to “snoop about” anywhere,’ she denied angrily. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered you at all if I hadn’t been lost and it’s pouring down with rain.’

‘Can you cook?’ he asked suddenly.

She frowned. ‘Cook?’

‘Mm,’ her reluctant host nodded. ‘Before I came here I had never felt the necessity to learn to cook. Since my arrival here I’ve had to learn the hard way. Even Satan wouldn’t touch some of my earlier efforts.’

‘You want me to cook you a meal?’

‘That was the general idea.’

‘Why, you—–’

‘What’s the matter, can’t you cook either?’

‘Of course I can cook, but—–’

‘Good.’ He sat down in the fireside chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. ‘You’ll find the makings of a meal out in the kitchen.’

‘You really expect me to cook for you?’

He turned from his contemplation of the fire. ‘Is that too much to ask for your board?’

‘Well—no, I suppose not,’ but her look was resentful.

‘Well then?’ he raised his eyebrows.

‘Okay, okay!’ She slammed angrily into the kitchen, only to have the door open again seconds later, her dark tormentor standing there. ‘What’s the matter now?’ she challenged. ‘Have you come to make sure I don’t poison you? There isn’t much I could do wrong with bacon and eggs,’ she dismissed tautly. ‘Even you couldn’t ruin them.’

‘Maybe not,’ he conceded. ‘But if there’s a woman around I don’t see why I should do the work.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Sabina slammed the ancient frying pan down on the even more ancient electric cooker. ‘You believe a woman’s place is in the kitchen,’ she derided.

‘Or the bedroom,’ he mocked. ‘But that can come later. I just came to tell you that I’ve brought in your saddlebags, so don’t try escaping out of the back door.’

‘I wasn’t going to. I’m hungry too.’ It seemed like years ago, not hours, since she had eaten that early lunch at the hotel.

‘For food or love?’ he asked huskily, watching the rise and fall of her breasts.

‘Food!’ she angrily turned her back on him.

‘Shame.’ He sounded amused. ‘I would willingly have forgone my food to have satisfied my other appetite. At the moment I think that one is more in need. A year is a long time to go without a woman.’

‘For a man like you I’m sure it is,’ Sabina snapped waspishly.

His fingers clamped about her wrist, pulling her round to face him, very close in the confines of the dimly lit kitchen. ‘A man like me?’ he ground out.

‘Well, I—– You—you’re obviously a very virile man.’

‘Oh yes,’ he breathed huskily, ‘I’m virile. At the moment, very much so.’

She knew that, his body hard against hers, his thighs leaping with desire. ‘Could I get on with the cooking now?’ She was too aware of his sensual mouth on a level with her eyes, of the way her body was reacting to his.

He instantly released her. ‘Go ahead. You’ll have to excuse my keeping touching you—I’ve been away from a beautiful woman too long.’

‘Why—I’m sorry,’ she said hastily as his expression darkened. ‘I—I won’t ask again.’

‘Make sure you don’t,’ he snapped, leaving her.

Dinner was a quiet affair, Sabina wrapped up in her own thoughts, her host seeming to be the same. Satan had appeared halfway through the meal, sitting patiently on a third chair about the old-fashioned table, those slitted green eyes watching every morsel of food that entered their mouths.

‘Doesn’t he have his own food?’ Sabina was beginning to feel uncomfortable under that watchful stare, especially as the cat seemed to resent her eating the food.

Her host patted the black cat, tickling it behind the ears. A loud purr sounded in the silence. ‘Of course he has his own food, he just prefers ours. You’re almost human, aren’t you, boy?’

Quite frankly the black cat frightened Sabina, not because of its size, in fact it was only a small cat compared to some she had seen, but because of the venom in its green eyes every time it looked at her, a look almost of jealousy.

Once again she felt tired; the walk in the mist and rain after her bicycle tyre went flat had made her feel more exhausted than she had the previous evening. But she didn’t want this man to know how tired she was, didn’t want him to suggest that they go upstairs and share that bed.

‘I’ve put your gear upstairs,’ he remarked as if reading her thoughts.

‘My bicycle has a puncture.’ She hastily spoke of something else.

He nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at that tomorrow, if the mist clears.’

‘Are we far from the road here?’

‘Thinking of walking?’

She shrugged. ‘If my bicycle can’t be mended I just may have to.’

‘We’re about two miles from the road you left.’

‘Only two miles?’ she gasped. ‘But it took me hours!’

‘And it exhausted you.’ He stood up. ‘Time for bed.’

‘No!’ Panic filled her. ‘I mean—I—I’m really not tired.’

‘Liar!’ he said softly. ‘Your eyelids have been drooping for the past hour. Come on,’ he put out a hand to pull her to her feet, ‘a good night’s sleep will do you good.’

That was the last thing she would get, spending the night with this man. He had already shown her, more than once, that her type of beauty appealed to him—‘a weakness for blondes’, he had called it. And she had no guarantee he wouldn’t try to make love to her, not when he had apparently denied himself female company for so long. She had no guarantee she would be able to deny him either.

She ignored his outstretched hand. ‘I’m not sleepy yet. You go up. I—I’ll join you later.’

‘No fear, little lady.’ He bent down and swung her up into his arms. ‘You just may be an innocent holiday-maker, but then again you might be a reporter, and until I’ve made my mind up either way, where I go you go, and vice versa.’

‘Everywhere?’ Her arms clung around his neck of their own volition, even more aware of the magnetic attraction he held for her this close to him. He didn’t smell of body lotion or aftershave as Nicholas did, he smelt of good honest sweat, and an even more basic smell, a male smell that excited and aroused her. His eyes darkened as he looked at her, as if he were aware of the disturbed state of her emotions. Consequently her next words came out sharply, almost defensively. ‘I take it this cottage does have somewhere I can wash and—and change into my nightclothes?’

‘Oh yes,’ he smiled at her bad humour. ‘That’s why there’s only one bedroom. I had the other converted into a bathroom.’

‘How nice!’ She hoped her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. She could tell by the tightening of his beautifully shaped mouth that it wasn’t.

‘Be glad that I did,’ he rasped. ‘Otherwise you might find yourself sitting in an iron tub before the fire right now.’

Sabina gasped, and held her tongue, knowing that she was pushing him to the borderline of his temper.

He carried her up the narrow stairway, kicking open the wooden door directly opposite the top of the stairs, dropping her down on to the bed before turning to switch on the lamp next to the bed. Not that this small light made a lot of difference to the visibility in the room; her host appeared more menacing than ever.

She gave a startled gasp as something touched her hand, turning to see Satan curled up on her sleeping bag. She moved hurriedly away in case the cat struck out at her for the second time today. ‘I hope you’ll get him off there before I get back,’

‘Get back from where?’ he raised his eyebrows.

Sabina got her pyjamas out of her saddlebag. ‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she informed him crossly. ‘And I don’t want to have to fight your cat for my part of the bed.’ Goodness knows it was going to be bad enough sleeping there without that!

‘Don’t worry,’ he taunted. ‘I’d rather have you share my bed any day—or night.’

She fled, her face bright red with embarrassment. This was terrible, stuck here in the middle of nowhere with a man she didn’t even know the name of, a man who feared reporters. No, feared was the wrong word, he despised them, hated them. But why? Why did he—–

‘Miss Smith?’ A loud knock sounded on the door behind her. ‘I want to use the bathroom, so unless you want to share that with me too, I should hurry up and get out of there.’

She had already noted that there was no lock on the door, so she quickly put on her pyjamas, glad that she had brought something serviceable rather than one of the glamorous nightgowns she usually wore at home. Her host was standing outside the door when she emerged, his amusement at her masculine attire obvious. Sabina put her head proudly in the air and walked past him.

Her sleeping bag lay on top of the bedclothes, the vicious Satan fortunately removed, so she crawled into its warm covering. A fire had been lit in the grate during her absence, and already the room was beginning to feel warmer. It would have been quite cosy if it wasn’t for the fact that she had to share the accommodation with that dangerous man—dangerous to her senses, that was.

She tensed as he came back into the room, silently pulling off the sweater to reveal his naked chest. His hands moved to the buckle of the belt to his cords, looking up to meet her mesmerised eyes as she watched him over the top of her sleeping bag.

‘I don’t mind providing you with a strip show,’ he drawled. ‘I’m certainly not ashamed to show my body, but if you’re as innocent as you pretend to be then you just might be embarrassed when I take my clothes off.’

Sabina gulped. ‘All of them?’

‘Isn’t that the usual practice when you go to bed?’

‘I—– Yes, but—– Yes.’ She hurriedly turned away. ‘But you’ll be putting pyjamas on, won’t you?’ She heard the cords drop on to the chair beside his sweater.

The bed gave beside her. ‘I never wear them.’ His voice was close to her ear.

‘Oh!’ She kept her head turned away, unsure of just how near he was. ‘Good—goodnight, Mr—er—goodnight.’

The light went out, only the fire glow to lighten the darkness now. ‘Goodnight, Sabina.’ He seemed to be settling down under the bedclothes. ‘Warm enough?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ and surprisingly she was.

‘That’s a shame.’ Once again he sounded amused at her expense. ‘I could have offered to keep you warm,’ he explained his humour.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Her voice was stilted, her body taut.

‘I didn’t think so. And no nocturnal wanderings,’ he warned harshly. ‘Satan might not like it.’

‘He wouldn’t?’ she said nervously.

‘No. He’s lying in the doorway, as he does every night. And he won’t let anyone in or out of this room, unless it’s me.’

‘He sounds more like a guard dog than a cat,’ Sabina snapped moodily, her back firmly turned towards the man lying next to her.

‘I think that’s exactly what he was for Mrs McFee. She trained him to do that. Now he guards me as well as he did her.’

‘In that case, I won’t move.’

‘Oh, you can move,’ she could hear him smile, ‘as long as it’s in my direction.’

‘Goodnight!’ she said firmly.

His mocking laughter had her fists clenched at her sides, but she willed herself not to speak again. She just wanted to fall asleep, get this night over with as quickly as possible, and tomorrow get as far away from this man as she could.

Falling asleep wasn’t as easy as it should have been considering her exhaustion, although the deep even breathing of the man at her side soon told her that he had no trouble doing so. She slowly turned to face him, not used to sleeping lying on her right side. He was lying on his back, his arm flung across his eyes, his chest golden in the glow from the fire. He had said he wasn’t ashamed of his body, and that wasn’t surprising; his flesh was lean and muscular, although she felt sure he was at least in his mid-thirties, a time when most men were worrying about running to fat. This man had no worries in that direction.

‘Seen enough?’ he murmured suddenly, moving his arm from over his eyes to look at her.

Colour flooded into her cheeks, her eyes were wide with shame. ‘I—–’

‘Because I can always take off all the bedclothes if you haven’t,’ he taunted.

Oh, she was so embarrassed at being caught looking at him like this. ‘I—I—–’ The colour drained from her face as quickly as it had come into it, her eyes widening with sudden recognition. He had taken advantage of his time in the bathroom to shave the growth of beard from his face, revealing a deep cleft in the centre of his chin, the firmness of his jaw.

He sat up, bending over her. ‘What is it?’ he demanded sharply, those now familiar grey eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ he ordered savagely.

‘I—’ she gulped, unable to believe she was really seeing this man. ‘You—you’re—–’

His shoulders stiffened, a harsh light in his eyes. ‘You know, don’t you? You know who I am!’

Yes, she knew. His name was Joel Brent. He was a superstar, a singer who ranked up at the top with the Sinatras and the Mathises of this world, legends in their own lifetime. He was a man who had crashed the car he was driving when his girlfriend, Nicole Dupont, had told him she was leaving him for another man. Rumour had it that both of them had been intended to die, Joel Brent’s intention being to kill Nicole if he couldn’t have her. Only they hadn’t both died, only Nicole Dupont had been killed, and Joel Brent had faced a barrage of publicity about whether the crash had been deliberate or merely the accident it appeared to be. Nicole Dupont had always said that Joel was a possessive man, that he would never let go what he thought was his. But as there had been no evidence to confirm that he had intentionally crashed, his name was finally cleared of all blame.

A few weeks later Joel Brent had disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth. And now Sabina had run into him in a remote Scottish cottage, a man who might have been responsible for deliberately taking Nicole Dupont’s life!

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