In the hall below, she looked about her distractedly. Which door led into the living room? She couldn’t remember. She approached what she thought was the living room and opened the door only to discover a downstairs cloakroom. She quickly closed it again and tried another, feeling a little like Alice must have felt down the rabbit hole. This room proved to be a small dining apartment with a blank cloth covering a circular table. Was this where she was expected to have her evening meal?

She sighed and then, hearing a sound behind her, spun round. A door across the hall had opened and Dominic Lyall was standing in the aperture, the cheetah, Sheba, at his heels.

“Won’t you join me?” he invited, in the deep attractive voice she had come to know so well in such a short space of time, and with a helpless shrug she obeyed him.

He stood aside to allow her to enter the living room and then closed the door behind them. He had changed from his black clothes into a rich purple silk shirt, cream suede pants that moulded his lean hips, and a darker beige suede waistcoat. His face showed none of the strain which had been evident earlier, and Helen reflected that Bolt must have done his work well. He had the build of a wrestler, but he could be a masseur.

She moved across to the fireplace, keeping an alert eye on the cheetah following her. The fire had been built up with logs in her absence and the occasional table where they had had their tea was now spread with a cloth.

Dominic indicated the armchair she had occupied before. “Please – sit down,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink before supper?”

He might have been addressing an expected guest, and Helen felt a rising frustration. Did he expect her to behave as though that was the case? Was she to offer no obstruction to his plans? How 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.