set her glass aside. “However, I’m afraid you rushed me away without my luggage. I simply haven’t a thing to wear.”
“Mr. Dimitri’s seen to that.” Taking her arm, a little too firmly for comfort, Remo led her into the hall and up the sweeping stairs to the second floor. It wasn’t just the hallway that smelled like a funeral parlor, she realized, but the entire house. He pushed open the door. “You got an hour. Be ready, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Whitney stepped inside and heard the lock turn behind her.
She covered her face with her hands a moment because she couldn’t stop the shaking. A minute, she told herself as she began to breathe deeply. She only needed a minute. She was alive. That was the point to concentrate on. Slowly, she lowered her hands and looked around.
Dimitri wasn’t stingy, she decided. The suite he’d given her was as elegant as the outside of the house had promised. The sitting room was wide and long, with porcelain vases of fresh flowers in abundance. The colors were feminine, roses and pearly grays on the silk wallpaper, picking up the tones in the Oriental rug on the floor The daybed was a deeper, duskier hue, plumped with hand-worked pillows. All in all, she decided professionally, a neat, stylish job. Then she was at the windows, wrenching them open.
One look told her it was hopeless. The drop was nearly a hundred feet from the ornate little balcony. There’d be no nimble leaping out as there’d been in the coastal inn. Closing the windows again, Whitney began to explore the suite for other possibilities.
The bedroom was perfectly lovely, with a large, polished Chippendale bed and delicate china lamps. The rosewood armoire was already open, showing her a selection of clothes no red-blooded woman would turn her nose up at. She fingered the sheer ivory silk of a sleeve and turned away. It would appear Dimitri expected her to be in residence for some time. She could take it as a good sign, or she could worry about it.
Glancing over, Whitney caught a look at herself in a cheval mirror. She walked closer. Her face was pale, her clothes streaked and rent. Her eyes, she saw, were frightened again. Disgusted, she began to pull off her blouse.
Dimitri wasn’t going to see some tattered quivering female over lunch, she determined. If she could do nothing else at the moment, she could take care of that. Whitney MacAllister knew how to dress for any occasion.
She checked every door leading to her suite and found them all firmly locked from the outside. Every window she opened led her to the realization that she was well and truly trapped. For now.
Because it was the next logical step, Whitney gave herself to the luxury of a bath in the deep marble tub scented generously with the oils Dimitri had provided. On the vanity was makeup, from foundation to mascara, all in the brand and shades she preferred.
So, he was thorough, Whitney told herself as she made use of it. The perfect host. A bottle of amethyst crystal held her scent. She brushed her freshly shampooed hair, then drew it back from her face with two mother-of-pearl combs. Another gift from her host.
Going to the closet, she gave her choice of outfit all the care and deliberation a warrior might have given to his choice of armor. In her position, she considered it every bit as important. She chose a mint green sundress with yards of skirt and no back, giving it a bit of flare with a silk scarf wound and knotted at her waist.
This time when she looked in the full-length mirror, she gave a nod of satisfaction. She was ready for anything.
When the knock sounded on the door of the sitting room, she answered it boldly. She gave Remo the cool ice-princess look Doug admired.
“Mr. Dimitri’s waiting.”
Without a word she swept by him. Her palms were damp, but she resisted the urge to curl her hands into fists. Instead, she ran her fingers lightly over the banister as she descended the stairs. If she was walking toward her execution, she thought, at least she was walking toward it in style. Pressing her lips together only briefly, she followed Remo through the house and out onto a wide, flower-bordered terrace.
“Ms. MacAllister, at last.”
She wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Certainly after all the horror stories she’d lived through and heard, she expected someone fierce and cruel and