Free Not Even for Love by Sandra Brown Page A

continued to ridicule and insult her. One moment she was pouring out her innermost feelings to him and he listened with seemingly sincere empathy. The next moment he was kissing her as though he’d die if he didn’t. Then, when she was quivering with a desire he had kindled, he abruptly spurned her, all but calling her a liar—and worse.
    She’d had enough. She didn’t want to see him again, much less spend a day with him. “I won’t be able to go tomorrow,” she said firmly.
    “Of course you will, darling,” Helmut countered with customary high-handedness. “I’m sending someone over to take care of your little shop for you. You needn’t worry about it. You’ll be able to play all day.”
    His manipulation of her life was suddenly becoming intolerable. If he managed his fiancée like this, how would he treat a wife? His condescending remark about her “little shop” was insulting. She did a tremendous business. Her company held her shop up as the prototype for all the others. She was proud of the services she provided to English-speaking tourists. Why should he belittle it?
    “I don’t want to be gone tomorrow, Helmut. I’m needed here,” she said stubbornly. “You may think that, compared to your conglomerate, this bookstore is nothing, but it’s very important to me.”
    “Jordan, Jordan,” he said softly. “I’ve offended you and I’m sorry.” His tone of voice carried all the condescension of one speaking to a recalcitrant child. “Don’t be obtuse. Please, darling. If you don’t come with us, Reeves will think you don’t like him, or that you’re camera shy. When you become my wife, Jordan, you’ll be photographed constantly.”
    Right then she should have told him that she had no intention of becoming his wife and calmly returned his ring. Instead her mind had locked in on what he had said about Reeves thinking she might not like him. Or that she was camera shy. He wouldn’t think that, but he might construe that she was a coward. If she didn’t go with them on these photographic sessions, he might think she was hiding from him out of shame or cowardice. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
    “All right, Helmut,” she said absently as he kissed her neck in what he considered to be a stirring caress. “I’ll meet you tomorrow. Where and when?”
    They had set the time and place and now she was giving the prompt accountant last-minute instructions. Ruefully, she thought that when she returned she would probably find that the sales for that day were higher than ever before and that the shop was in better shape than when she had left it.
    She wended her way through the alleys carrying her fur ski parka. It was a bright, clear morning, but she knew that at the top of Mount Pilatus it would be much colder and she had come prepared. Her black corduroy jeans hugged her hips and legs tightly. The red sweater with the high, rolled collar was soft and clung to the gentle swell of her breasts. She had tucked a cap into the pocket of her parka in case she needed it on the mountaintop.
    Helmut and Reeves were waiting for her at the appointed restaurant and they ate a hearty American breakfast. Jordan drank one cup of coffee and then indulged in a pot of chocolate lavishly topped with whipped cream.
    The men were dressed as casually as she, though Helmut’s idea of “casual” was dress slacks, a sport coat, a cashmere sweater, and a sealskin overcoat. Reeves looked like he was about to ride the ranges of a cattle ranch, wearing everything a well-dressed cowboy needed except the hat. After he had finished eating and while they were waiting for Helmut’s cigarette to burn down, he checked his equipment.
    He had greeted Jordan cordially when she arrived, following Helmut’s lead of kissing her on the cheek. This was Europe. Everyone kissed everyone else on the cheek. Helmut thought nothing of it. Indeed, he was glad that the American photojournalist obviously found his fiancée