Page 17 of Someone to Watch Over Me
The questions seemed to soften him a little. Although he didn’t quite meet her eyes, he exhaled deeply, as if releasing some unpleasant pent-up emotion. “No,” he muttered with a quick shake of his head. “It’s nothing.”
Perhaps he had learned something about her that he didn’t like, Vivien thought, and anxiety made her entire body tauten until all her muscles quivered.
“I’m frightened,” she said, and brought her clenched hands down to her lap. “I keep trying to remember something, anything about myself. Nothing is familiar. Nothing makes sense. And knowing that someone hates me enough to want me dead—”
“For all he knows, you are dead.”
“He?”
“No woman could have possessed the strength to strangle you with her bare hands. Moreover, your personal history includes very few women. The great majority of your associates have been men.”
“Oh.” Why wouldn’t he just tell her what needed to be said, instead of making her ask him questions? It was a form of torture, having to stare at his stony face and wonder what secrets of her past had brought her to this incredible situation. “You said…I might not like some of the things you would tell me about myself,” she prompted unsteadily.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he extracted a small book bound in dark red leather. “Have a look at this,” he said curtly, placing the volume in her hands.
“What is it?” she asked warily.
He didn’t reply, only stared at her with a restless gaze that conveyed his impatience.
Carefully she opened the book, discovering page after page of neat feminine script. There were lists, names, dates…It took a half minute of reading before she encountered a passage so explicit that she snapped the volume shut with a mortified gasp. Her shocked gaze lifted to his. “Why in heaven’s name would you show me such a thing?” She tried to hand the book back, but he did not move to take it. Casting the object to the floor, she regarded it as if it were a coiled snake. “Whom does it belong to, and how does it pertain to me?”
“It’s yours.”
“Mine?” An icy feeling crept over her, and she pulled the length of cashmere more closely around herself. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Morgan.” Her voice was clipped and cool with outrage. “I didn’t write those things. I couldn’t have.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I couldn’t!” Startled and offended, she gave him a look of rebuke.
When he spoke, his voice was flat and quiet. “You’re a courtesan, Vivien. The most notorious one in London. You’ve garnered a fortune from your talent.”
She felt her face turn stark white. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest. “It isn’t true,” she cried. “The book must belong to someone else.”
“I found it in your terrace house, in your bedroom.”
“Why would I…that is, why would any woman write such things?”
“A tool for blackmail,” he suggested gently. “Or perhaps it was just the only way you could keep track.”
Vivien left her chair as if she had been jolted out of it, letting the cashmere lap robe drop to the floor. Wincing as pain shot through her bound ankle, she hobbled backward a few steps, needing to put some distance between them. “I didn’t do any of the things in that book!”
To her chagrin, Morgan’s gaze swept over her, and she realized that the firelight shone through the muslin, illuminating every detail of her body. Hastily she pulled handfuls of the loose gown in front of herself, clutching the folds to her midriff. “I’m not a prostitute”, she said vehemently. “If I were, I’m certain I would know it in some part of myself, but I don’t becauseit’s not there. You’re absolutely wrong about me. If this is an example of your investigative abilities, I am not impressed! Now…now go out and ask more questions and do what is necessary to find out who I really am.”
Morgan rose from his own chair to follow her. “I can’t change the truth just because you don’t like it.”
“Not only do I not like it,” Vivien said, breathing hard, “I reject it entirely. You arewrong,do you understand?” To her humiliation, she wobbled off balance, her weak ankle refusing to support her.
“Would you like me to parade you in front of witnesses who will swear on the Bible that you are Vivien Duvall?” Morgan asked harshly. “Would you like to go to your house and see the nude painting of yourself on the bedroom wall? I brought back some of your clothes—would you care to try them on and see how they fit? I can dig up mountains of proof for you.” He caught her as she tried to stumble away from him, his arm locked firmly behind her back.
Vivien whimpered as he brought her against his massive body. She wedged her arms between them, her head falling back as she stared into the face so high above hers. His ribs were as sturdy as frigate timbers beneath her cold hands. He imprisoned her between his powerful thighs, holding her steady.
“Even if I am Vivien Duvall,” she said stubbornly, “you can’t prove that I did all the things in that book. They are made-up stories.”
“It’s all true, Vivien. You sell your body for profit.” He didn’t seem any more pleased about the idea than she. “You go from one man to another, taking what you want from each of them.”
“Oh, really? Then who, exactly, is supposed to be my latest protector? Where is he, and why haven’t you sent for him?”
“Who do you think he is?” Morgan asked softly.
