Patricia’s lip curled.
“My good man,” she said, “I’d die first.”
“You won’t,” said Bittle mildly, and something in the cold certainty of his tone froze her like a bitter wind.
There was a Burberry thrown across the chair beside her, and she picked it up and slipped into it, trying to invest her movements with an insulting unconcern, ignoring his very existence.
“I was just leaving my cabin as you shepherded Maggs into the one next door,” Bittle explained, gloating. “I guessed you would try to interview me next, but I felt that if I let things go according to your plans you would have me at a disadvantage—a position which could only prejudice me for ever after in my rôle of your lord and master. A man should never give his chosen mate a chance to despise him.”
“Then, when you’ve chosen your mate,” said Patricia, “you’d better go and live on the other side of the world—I should think that would help enormously, if she never saw you.”
He leered.
“You’re a spitfire,” he said, “but I’ll tame you!”
“You’re a liar,” said the girl. “You’ll do what the Tiger tells you. I’d like to meet him, by the way. Will you take me to him, please?”
Bittle laughed, and drew himself up.