Hostage of Passion

by Diana Hamilton

  ‘So you did,’ he answered blandly, and she wondered hectically how he could look so innocent and yet be so wicked. ‘And I did. But you didn’t tell me for how long.’ A twist of his hands diminished the distance between them to nothing.

  Sarah groaned feebly as the pale globes of her breasts came into burning contact with the soft white fabric that covered his chest. Their shameful hardness would seem like an open invitation and her legs had gone, and any moment now she would have to cling on to him for support. And then where would she be? Back in that bed before she could say ‘chastity belt’!

  ‘Time to get dressed.’ He took her by surprise; getting dressed was the last thing she’d expected him to want her to do. ‘Or Rosalia will wonder what’s keeping us from breakfast. Though she will probably make an educated guess, given the information I fed her.’

  The cool slice of his voice cut through the hot muddle that had once been her mind and, disorientated, she felt him release her and only grabbed herself together when she realised he was holding her fresh lacy bra in one hand, the matching panties in the other.

  ‘Give those to me!’ She held out an imperious hand, desperately trying to tough it out, red flags of rage and deep humiliation flying on her face. Her eyes flashed blue fire. God, how she hated him! He embarrassed and humiliated her at every turn and when she thought of how he made her feel when he allowed his eyes to wander so explicitly over every inch of her nakedness she wanted to crawl into a deep dark hole and hide.

  He advanced. Two languid paces. Her heart was pounding so fast and heavily that she was sure it was about to burst out of her body. His lean, beautifully crafted hands were still holding the lacy scraps and he said, with a honeyed smoothness that aggravated her beyond endurance, ‘Now don’t get so agitated. It’s bad for your nerves. I’ll help you dress and then we’ll have breakfast. Won’t that be nice?’

  Nice! Nothing about the brute was nice! He was wicked, wicked! Dress her indeed! Did he think she was incapable? Stupid?

  She twisted out of his path like an eel and made a dive for her clothes. Underwear she could do without. She rammed herself into yesterday’s crumpled and travel-stained trousers and shirt, fastening buttons with frantic fingers, glaring up at him at the end of the undignified scramble, her gleaming blonde hair all over the place.

  ‘There! Convinced I can get dressed all by myself now?’ Her full lower lip jutted pugnaciously and she pushed her hair off her face with the back of her hand, wishing she hadn’t lost all the pins, and saw him dip his head to one side consideringly as he moved towards her, dropping her undies on a stool as he came.

  She backed in a panicky hurry, only realising when it was too late to do anything about it that she was against one of the walls, her retreat to the bedroom cut off by his predatory body. And then he was right on top of her, the hard thrust of his lean hips pinning her to the cool marble wall, his upper body angled slightly away as his long fingers lifted to the high neckline of her shirt.

  ‘Leave me alone!’ She tried to slap his hands away but he was too quick for her, too tricky, and the gilded patience in his voice made her grit her teeth with unadulterated exasperation.

  ‘You’ve fastened the buttons all wrongly.’ Warm fingers brushed the quivering hollow at the base of her throat. ‘Allow me to straighten you out.’ Gentle fingers, for all their steely strength, grazed down between her suddenly aching breasts as he released buttons, refastened them, his black eyes lowered intently to his task, those fingers moving, stroking, caressing, making her body betray her, putting her mind on hold, totally incapable of issuing the clipped instructions which would tell her how to combat this sensation of drowning in warm liquid honey…

  ‘There. All done.’ His eyes gleamed warmly into hers. ‘You looked like a bag lady.’ He ran his hand down the front of her shirt, almost impersonally, as if to satisfy himself that she was indeed tidier than before. but for Sarah there was nothing impersonal about it. The touch of his hands, the thrust of his hips against hers were threatening to send her spinning off into orbit. She hated herself for that mindless response but for once in her life couldn’t imagine how to deal with the problem.

  She almost sobbed with relief when he stepped back and took her arm, leading her out through the bedroom, telling her, ‘Time for breakfast, unless you intend to spend half an hour fixing your face.’

  She shook her head, too disturbed by what had happened back there to speak. She was grateful for his support as he led her back the way they had come yesterday, refusing to let herself care that he thought her face needed thirty minutes of fixing before it could be remotely fit to be seen, that in his opinion she looked like a bag lady.

  It really couldn’t matter less what he thought of her. But when he asked conversationally, ‘Do you always dress in things that look like Chairman Mao’s cast-offs?’ her temper, gratifyingly spiked with righteous indignation, came fizzing back to her rescue.

  She shook his hand away from her elbow, and her voice was good and controlled and decidedly icy as she countered, ‘And whose fault is that? These are the clothes I chose to travel in. Comfortable and practical. It was not my intention to go haring over half of Spain in the blistering heat, or to stay longer than one night. Had I known I would be kidnapped and forced to stay for the duration I would have packed accordingly. Not,’ she ended witheringly, ‘that the clothes I choose to wear, or the way I look, has anything whatsoever to do with you.’

  ‘Oh, but it does,’ he responded equably, those fathomless black eyes appraising her slowly. ‘When I shall have to look at you for an unspecified length of time, it becomes my business, I think. Don’t you agree?’

  She didn’t. She most definitely didn’t. But she wasn’t going to bother to tell him so. Why waste her breath? She stalked ahead, down the length of the arcaded terrace to where she could see a table laid for breakfast on the far side where the morning sun angled in.

  His opinion of the way she looked didn’t hurt her; of course it didn’t, she assured herself sharply. She was feeling all wound up inside and deeply miserable because of his passing reference to ‘an unspecified length of time’. Which meant that although the events of last night had worried him, forcing him to keep watch over her at all times, he wasn’t concerned enough about her mental and physical well-being to put her on the first flight back to England and rid himself of the responsibility.

  But that was only a set-back. She would simply have to work at it, push home the advantage she’d so unexpectedly gained last night. Starting right now.

  So she gave him a wan, die-away look as he lowered himself into the chair opposite hers and kept her eyes fixed on the snowy white tablecloth after that until, seconds later, as if someone had rung an inaudible bell, a plump lady appeared from nowhere, carrying a tray, her round face all smiles, her iron-grey hair pulled back in an elaborate twist. Puffing a little, she relieved herself of her burden, setting down cold orange juice, a steaming coffeepot, hot toasted rolls wrapped in a linen napkin, her happy eyes giving Sarah a myriad sideways glances as if she was trying to see beneath her employer’s new woman’s dowdy exterior to find something exciting enough to explain the attraction.

  Sarah was mortified. She coloured right up to the tips of her ears and had to fight to stop herself squirming with embarrassment as Francisco said mockingly, ‘This is Rosalia. She speaks no English, but no tortuous incomprehensible introductions are necessary because she knows who you are.’

  ‘Your latest woman—how disgusting you are!’

  The moment the words were spat out she regretted them. She was supposed to be all weak and feeble—if her plan was to work—not fighting her corner, antagonising him. But he overlooked the outburst, pouring juice for them both, his voice silky smooth as he explained, ‘Her son, Marcos, is busily learning your language. He plans to visit the States, where they have relatives who settled there a decade ago. But don’t get any ideas about appealing to him, telling him of your plight, and asking him to smu
ggle you out in a laundry basket. It wouldn’t work. Above all else, my staff are loyal.’ He leaned back in his chair, turning the coffee-pot with the tip of one finger so that the handle faced her. ‘Will you be mother?’

  Her hopes were right down on the floor now. Clearly, he had no intention of releasing his prisoner on compassionate grounds, and she complied with his request to pour with ill grace, muttering sulkily, ‘They must be loyal—or round the twist—to keep a great barracks of a place like this going on their own.’

  She picked up her cup and buried her nose in it, feeling small when he informed her coolly, ‘My home is not a barracks. And I will show you how beautiful it is when you are in a more agreeable mood. And I employ a full complement of staff, both for the house and the estates. The house staff, with the exception of Rosalia and Marcos, are on leave. It is an annual thing. I give them a full month. Rosalia will take her break later, visit with her married daughter and their children in the valley below while Marcos, as I told you, will visit the States. So you may finish your breakfast with a happy heart, knowing that my people are not treated as beasts of burden, their noses made nothing by your English grindstone.’

  ‘My heart would be a whole heap happier if you let me go,’ she riposted snappily. She’d had quite enough of pussy-footing around, and if that didn’t suit her new neurotic persona then too bad. It wasn’t working and she was heartily sick of the role in any case.

  It was more than time everything was brought out into the open, not pushed away someplace where the sun didn’t shine. And just thinking of the sun slicked her body with perspiration, beating down as it now was from the brilliant sky. She ran a hot finger round the neckband of her heavy cotton shirt and felt distinctly pale.

  ‘You know I have no intention of letting you go,’ he pointed out, idling back, one arm hooked lazily over the back of his chair. ‘You are the ace in my pack. Without you, my leverage for forcing that lecherous old man to return my sister would be considerably diminished.’

  There was no answer to that, not one she could think of right now, so she saved her breath then felt it catch unwillingly in her throat as he suddenly leaned forward, a concern that surely couldn’t be completely manufactured narrowing his eyes.

  ‘You are not eating, señorita. You are feeling ill?’ His glance ranged over her pale moist skin, lingering on her slightly quivering mouth, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing quite how much his concern touched her because it shouldn’t touch her, shouldn’t mean a thing. And it didn’t.

  ‘How do you expect me to look, in the circumstances?’ she clipped. ‘Radiant?’

  She reached for a roll and spread it lavishly with honey. No wonder she felt peculiar; she had eaten nothing solid for twenty-four hours. Food was the last thing she had on her mind right now, but she forced herself, grumbling through a mouthful, ‘You bring me here, lock me up and throw away the key. How do you expect me to feel?

  ‘And what about my business? It’s probably going to rack and ruin without me. When you finally let me go, I’ll sue. For loss of freedom, and income, and—in any case—’ she was warming to her subject and took another roll without thinking ‘—I too have a loyal staff. Jenny, for one, knows where I went. When I don’t show up she’ll get the Spanish authorities to make a search. I should be easy enough to track down.’

  She stabbed the air in front of him to emphasise her point. ‘There’s the hotel receptionist in Arcos for one, the taxi driver who brought me here for another, not forgetting Dad’s neighbour. I don’t suppose she’ll forget your face in a hurry—not the way she was giggling and bridling!’

  She took a triumphant bite of her roll, watching for the apprehension that she was sure would dawn on the handsome face that fronted what must be a spectacularly empty brain. Had to be empty if he hadn’t realised just how easily she could be traced once her disappearance became known, or even suspected.

  But she slowly crumpled up inside when that slightly pitying smile flickered around the corners of his mouth as he informed her lightly, ‘I phoned your office this morning, while you were catching up on your sleep. This Jenny you speak of was very understanding. Apparently, you contacted her yesterday afternoon and explained that you’d be away a little longer than expected.

  ‘Anyway, when I told her who I was, reminded her that we’d met briefly in your office, explained that fate had brought you and I together again, that the need to be with each other was irresistible, that we were staying together, exploring the future possibilities of our affair, she became even more understanding. She even asked me to tell you not to hurry back, to assure you that she could cope— and said that I was a big improvement on the guy you had been dating.’

  He flicked up a questioning brow. ‘Serious, is it? Not to worry; I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something to soothe his ruffled feathers. I’ve noticed how inventive you can be. After all, you only need tell him the truth. But I wonder if he’ll believe you?’

  She wouldn’t be telling Nigel Baines a single thing. That lukewarm relationship had been heading nowhere. So it didn’t matter. The only thing that was capable of flooding her mind with grinding chagrin was the knowledge that he’d jumped one step in front of her again.

  He could be very persuasive, him and that husky, sensually accented, dark, smoky voice of his. Jenny would have readily fallen for his explanation of a blinding grand passion, adding it to her own breathily rushed excuses of yesterday. A romantic at heart, Jenny would be soldiering on, dreamyeyed, probably even getting as far as mentally selecting the outfit she’d wear to the wedding!

  ‘You are the absolute pits!’ she muttered, hateful tears stinging the back of her eyes. She tried to stem the threatened shameful flow, using her knuckles. She never cried. He couldn’t make her! And it was all his fault.

  She was hot and cross and she had dripped honey all down the front of her shirt, and she just knew he wouldn’t give her the privacy to take it off and wash it through, sitting around in her bra while it dried. He would follow her like a damned shadow, that look of spurious caring on his face, then turn round and accuse her of showing herself off for his amusement and interest. And then he’d turn round again and tell her thanks but no, thanks; he didn’t fancy what was on offer because who could fancy someone who looked like a bag lady? Or Chairman Mao! Oh, how she hated him!

  ‘Don’t.’ His voice was a gentle dark velvet whisper as he took her hands away from her face. She shuddered, keeping her suspiciously moist eyes on the plate in front of her, feeling naked and vulnerable under that suddenly understanding, compassionate gaze. ‘You mustn’t be unhappy. Your father will get the message soon. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy what is here. There will be no more locks and there is much to see. It will only be for a little time. And who knows? You may find freedom of a different kind while you are here with me. The freedom to roam idly with me beneath the hot Spanish sun, to feel the warm, soft wind in your hair, on your face, your body, to enjoy the cool caress of a mountain stream, the seduction of fine wine as it slides down your throat, the scent of wild flowers borne on the wind. The freedom to savour what the moment offers, to find what is inside you…’

  Sarah’s eyes drifted shut, the tight lump in her throat relaxing away. That sensationally seductive voice, the things he was saying, reached right down into her subconscious, drawing out needs, fantasies she had never known she had, pulling her onwards to the point of mindless capitulation to the suggestions he was implanting. Almost, almost…

  ‘And again, you might discover that I am not quite the monster you think I am. If you took the trouble to look deeper. I am here, right here with you.’ His hands tightened on hers. ‘Explore me.’

  That did it. Brought her right back to her senses. Explore him? No, thanks! She wouldn’t even demean herself by trying to figure out exactly what he meant. As she opened her mouth to tell him just that, he pushed the indignant words back down her throat by the simple expedient of closing her lips with o
ne finger.

  His touch scalded. Recovering from the shattering effects gave him time to rise to his feet and tell her, ‘I must leave you for half an hour. No longer, I promise. Wait here, under the shade of the fig tree. I plan a small surprise.’ His teeth gleamed whitely against her tanned olive skin. ‘So think of that while you wait in the shade, listening to the music of the fountain, letting your senses be seduced by the scent of lilies, until I am ready for you.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IF FRANCISCO thought for a single second that she would allow herself to be seduced by anything— lilies, or him!—then he would have to rethink his strategy. For strategy it most certainly had to be.

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed to dark blue slits as she took herself off to the shade of the enormous fig tree and determinedly closed her ears to the music of the water as it played in the ornate stone fountain. She had to think. To think hard and logically.

  Sure now that he intended to confuse and disorientate her, she had to figure out how to anticipate him, and block each and every move he made. He had started out by treating her like his enemy, with cold, hard unforgiveness, switching to insults—like last evening when he’d practically eaten her with his eyes and then turned round and told her ‘no, thanks’.

  And the same thing had happened this morning. He had got her into such a state that, had he kissed her, held her, stroked her melting body, she would have mindlessly, weakly, allowed him to make love to her. Would probably have gone down on her knees and begged! But he’d calmly refused what he must have known was on offer, or could have been had he taken the situation a tiny step further, by telling her she looked like a bag lady!