by Sara Craven
And that was her safeguard, Gemma realised painfully. Because she was beginning to realise that if this stranger who had forced his way into her life had wanted her—really wanted her—for herself, then she would not have known how to resist him.
Gemma put the final touches to her appearance, and contemplated her reflection with satisfaction.
The towel lay discarded on the bed, and in its place she was wearing one of the Cretan’s own shirts which she’d filched from his room. She’d had a quick look for the car keys too while she was there, but hadn’t dared spend too long in case he came upstairs and caught her.
It was dark by now, and he’d lit the lamps downstairs, creating little intimate pools of brilliance against the encroaching shadows.
Soft lights, Gemma thought caustically, but at least there’d be no sweet music to accompany them. And no sweet talk either. He’d barely addressed a word to her, except to ask when the meal would be ready.
His shirt was too large for her, of course, but she’d belted it in with a piece of rope she’d found in one of the kitchen drawers, and rolled up the sleeves a little, making sure they still hung down over her wrists, hiding her watchstrap, and the knife now tucked into it. She would have to be careful not to scratch herself on it, but its mere possession gave her new confidence in herself.
If he laid a hand on her now, he could lose it, she told herself defiantly.
She’d managed to take a quick look outside too, and seen that he hadn’t brought the sports car, but a small jeep, which might prove more manageable.
She tugged at an errant strand of hair, nervously flicking her tongue over her dry lips, an image of the man lying stabbed and bleeding on the floor while she searched his pockets for the keys taking nervous hold on her mind. Well—if it happened, he’d asked for it, she assured herself.
With one last jittery glance in the mirror, she went slowly downstairs. The living room was empty, but as she paused at the foot of the stairs, he came through from the kitchen, bending a little to negotiate the doorway. He saw her and stopped, his brows snapping together incredulously as he noticed how she was dressed.
Gemma took the initiative. ‘I hope you don’t object, kyrie.’ She allowed what was almost a coaxing note to enter her voice, as she circled briefly and gracefully in front of him. ‘But I have to wear something—and beggars cannot be choosers.’
‘Beggars usually content themselves with something less than my best shirt,’ he said coolly. ‘But wear it for this evening.’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘I can always reclaim it later. Now serve me this meal.’
She murmured a meek word of acquiescence and slid past him into the kitchen. It smelled wonderful, she had to admit, and she had cooked Lyonnais potatoes and green beans in addition.
She had set a place for him in the dining room, but had laid her own knife and fork on the kitchen table. After all, he’d told her she was to work as his servant, and the hired help wouldn’t normally expect to eat with the master of the house. Besides, while she was getting dressed, another little surprise had occurred to her.
She carved the lamb into thick slices and arranged it on two platters, adding a helping of beans to each. Then she took her own serving of the browned and savoury potatoes, before lifting the top layer of the remainder and adding a hasty handful of salt. It looked innocently appetising, but what it would taste like made her eyes water just to think of it as she added it to his platter.
At the very least, he would complain. At best, he might actually be ill, she thought vindictively, and she would be able to protest in wide-eyed innocence that in England people liked their food well-seasoned.
When she took his food into the dining room, he was pouring wine into two glasses.
‘You are not hungry?’ He looked questioningly, as she set down the single plate.
‘I was going to eat in the kitchen.’
The firm lips tightened. He said coolly, ‘No. You will eat in here at all times. Is that understood?’
‘Perfectly.’ Gemma kept her voice expressionless. She fetched her plate and took the seat opposite, watching under her lashes as he picked up his fork.
He said, ‘You haven’t taken much food.’
‘I’ve plenty,’ she returned hastily. ‘And anyway, I’m on a diet.’
‘Then you should not be. You are already too thin as I have told you.’ Calmly he reached across and swapped her plate for his. ‘It looks delicious,’ he added, and began to eat.
She could have ground her teeth in disappointment, but she picked up her own fork and began her meal. The lamb was succulent and fragrant with the herbs she had used, and the beans too were perfect, but she was careful to steer clear of the potatoes.
He must know, she thought, but how could he? He’d not been in the kitchen during the dishing-up process.
‘You should eat some potato. It is excellent.’
‘Potatoes are my least favourite vegetable,’ she returned, forking up a gingerly fragment and trying not to wince at the taste.
‘And yet you took the trouble to cook them in this special way for me. You are a paragon among women, Gemma mou.’
She didn’t have to look at him. The note of unholy amusement in his voice was enough. She picked up her wine glass and raised it to her lips, then jerked away, looking at it with acute suspicion. ‘What is this?’
He laughed. ‘Retsina. Resinated wine—but a mild one. It is quite safe to drink. I have not doctored it in any way.’
She put down her glass. ‘I think I’d prefer water.’
‘As you wish.’ He wasn’t ruffled in the slightest. ‘There is bottled water in the refrigerator, although it is safe to drink from the taps.’
When she came back, he had finished and pushed his plate aside and was peeling himself a peach from a bowl of fruit on the table.
She began to clear both plates, and he halted her. ‘Do you intend to starve yourself before my eyes? Or are you sulking because your ploy with the food did not work?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Gemma lied coldly. ‘And if I have no appetite, is it really any wonder? I’m worse than a prisoner here.’
‘At least have some fruit.’ He pushed the bowl towards her, but she refused with a curt shake of her head. He sighed. ‘Gemma, I am not a barbarian. If I promise you that tonight you will sleep alone, will you eat something?’
She gave him a startled look. ‘Why should you promise any such thing? And how do I know you’ll keep your word anyway—after all the deceptions of the past couple of days?’
‘I’ll keep my word,’ he said. ‘And I have my reasons, but I do not mean to share them—or my bed—with you tonight.’
A wild hope was beginning to stir in her. She stared at him. ‘How long will this reprieve go on for—a day—a week—longer?’
He shrugged, the dark face enigmatic. ‘Until I decide otherwise, Gemma mou.’
She swallowed. ‘I don’t believe that. I think you’re having second thoughts. You—you have to be. You’ve just said yourself that you’re not a barbarian—but to keep me here like a slave is— inhuman.’ She paused, her wide eyes fixed on his face in passionate appeal. ‘Prove you’re not a barbarian. Let me go—please.’
He didn’t answer, and she went on, her courage rising, ‘If you take me back to Heraklion tomorrow, that will be the end of it. I won’t tell anyone or go to the police. After all, I don’t even know your name.’ She moistened dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘You talked about pretending earlier—well, we can pretend this never happened. You—you can tell your friends some story—say that I ran away—anything. They’d have to believe you.’ She paused again, eagerly scanning his face, his eyes, for some softening, some answering warmth. ‘You can’t convince me that you really want to be involved in this sordid little vendetta. You don’t even belong here. It’s not your concern.’
His clenched fist struck the table, making the crockery dance, and Gemma gasped, shrinking back.
‘Yes,’ she threw at him recklessly. ‘Because I’m not convinced by this—any of it. Mike’s been tried and condemned in his absence, without being given the slightest chance to defend himself. And what about this innocent Maria? It doesn’t sound to me that she was exactly unwilling. You’ve said yourself he didn’t rape her.’
‘It is precisely because of that, he is not a dead man at this moment,’ he said. ‘And take care how you speak of Maria to me. To us, the innocence of our girls is their protection, and so it should have been to your brother who was accepted as a friend by the village. He was trusted and he betrayed that trust, and ran away rather than face retribution.’ The firm mouth curled cruelly. ‘But you, Gemma mou will not run away. You have my guarantee on that.’
She got to her feet slowly, trembling in every limb. ‘And you have my guarantee that I’ll do anything—anything to get away from you. I loathe and despise you for doing this to me. And I know why you’re letting me off the hook tonight— because you’re such a bloody egotist you think if you wait long enough I’ll fall into your arms. Well, forget it. Anything you take from me will be by force. And rape can’t be any worse than the contamination of having to live under the same roof with you.’
He stood up too, his chair crashing violently away. Two long swift strides, and he was round the table, towering over her. Before she could move, his hand had hooked into the open neckline of her shirt, dragging her towards him.
He said between his teeth. ‘Your frankness does you credit. So you can have no objection if we dispense with one source of contamination at least.’
His hand moved downwards, freeing the buttons as it went. His fingers grazed scorchingly against the soft mound of her breast, and she bit back a cry, as if his touch had actually branded her flesh. And knew in that moment, that if she allowed this to continue, allowed him to strip her as he was intent on doing, that she would be branded for life anyway.
Her fingers fumbled wildly under her sleeve, then the knife was safely in her hand.
She said hoarsely, ‘Let me go—don’t touch me, or I’ll use this. I swear I will.’
He stepped back, looking down expressionlessly at the dangerous glitter of the blade between them.
He said, ‘Use it then. Do you know how?’
Her fingers clenched round the hilt in an effort to stop their trembling, her breathing constricted, she watched in disbelief as without haste he unfastened his own shirt down to the waist, pulling the material free of his waist sash so that his chest was completely bare.
His skin was smooth and brown, his chest shadowed with body hair growing down to a vee across his flat stomach. Gemma stood as if paralysed, the knife pointing stiffly towards him. Her mouth was dry, her pulses slow and heavy.
He said again, his voice quiet. ‘Do you know how?’
His hands reached and took both her wrists, drawing her towards him. He placed her free hand over the strong rib cage, her other hand just beneath, the tip of the blade resting against his skin.
‘Strike upwards,’ he advised coolly. ‘Like this.’ The pressure on her wrist increased fractionally, and as if mesmerised, she saw a bright bead of blood appear under the tip of the knife.
She gave a choking, frightened cry and jerked backwards, throwing the knife away, hearing it clatter across the tiled floor.
Her legs buckled and she sank down to her knees, covering her face with her hands, her tortured breathing tearing at her lungs.
His hands were on her, lifting her inexorably to her feet, and she struggled feebly, moaning ‘No.’
His hand twisted in her hair, stilling her, imposing a reluctant submission. His dark face seemed to swim in front of hers. She could read the purpose in his eyes, and a cry of protest formed in her taut throat, never to be uttered as his mouth came down, fiercely, ruthlessly on hers.
She couldn’t think, or breathe. She wanted to stay totally passive, impervious to any demands he might make of her, but his lips parted hers with a sensual dominance which enforced a response in spite of herself.
As she capitulated, shaking, yielding her mouth to the sweet erotic abandonment of taste and touch, the violence in him gentled. The agonising tug on her hair faded, and his hand slid down to cup the nape of her neck, his fingers working warm and sensuous magic against her skin. His other arm closed round her, drawing her forward until her bared breasts brushed against the warm muscular wall of his chest, her sensitive nipples excited unbearably by the subtle friction of his body against hers.
She’d never been kissed like this before, she realised dazedly. Never been held in such an intimate embrace, and her body’s reaction startled and bewildered her.
She could stay in his arms forever, she realised with a shattering sense of shock, if only he would go on kissing her like this, go on exploring every secret her soft mouth had to offer with such heart-stopping completeness.
And when at last he lifted his lips from hers, she felt almost bereft. Her eyelids flickered open, and she stared up at him in utter confusion, the bruised grey-green depths of her eyes betraying her inner turmoil.
His face was taut, cast in lines as harsh as the mountains which surrounded them. For a long moment he looked down into her face, his gaze burning into hers, then his hand slid, unhurrying, the slim curved length of her body, curving with sensuous mastery round the swell of her hip, urging her forward slightly so that their thighs touched, and she was made compellingly aware of the fact that he was deeply and passionately aroused.
Shudderingly, incredulously, she felt her whole inner being clench in response and desire.
And then she was free—no contact between them at all, and she was ashamed to realise that it was he who had stepped away.
He said harshly, ‘You had better go to your room, while I am still capable of keeping my word to you.’
She swallowed convulsively, then turned and went away from him towards the stairs. At the archway, she turned and looked back.
He hadn’t moved at all. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his bare chest as he fought to control his breathing, and below his ribcage, that tiny smear of blood. Her hand stole up to her throat in shock as she absorbed the full force of everything which had happened between them.
His voice came to her soft and remorseless. He said, ‘It will not be rape.’
Gemma gave a small inarticulate cry, and ran from him—up the stairs on legs which threatened to betray her at every step, and into the illusion of safety offered by her room.
CHAPTER FOUR
GEMMA sat for a long time on the edge of her bed, staring blankly into space, trying to come to terms with what had just happened, and failing by a mile.
She could offer neither explanation nor excuse for herself. This was a man she had cause only to hate. A man whose name she did not even know. A man who was using her as the instrument of a vengeance she did not even comprehend.
Why then, in spite of everything, had she fallen into his arms?
For a moment, she’d even had the upper hand, but her own cowardice had let her down. Gemma shivered. She couldn’t have killed him, she thought, but she could have hurt him, incapacitated him sufficiently to allow her to make her getaway unmolested. Now she was back to square one, or worse.
She thought her defiance had surprised him, but there would be no element of surprise in future. He would now be prepared—on the watch for anything she might do.
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br /> But he had no idea that she could drive, she told herself, trying to rally her spirits. And her next plan had to be to find the keys of the jeep, even though the prospect of having to negotiate that mountain road in an unfamiliar vehicle frankly appalled her.
But what other choice did she have, without shoes to walk in, or indeed, proper clothes?
Once inside the jeep, she reasoned, she would be safe until she got to Chania. She’d find James and Hilary somehow, and Hilary would lend her anything she needed. She would have to enlist James’ good offices over her missing passport and travellers cheques, she realised ruefully, and sighed out loud. God, what a mess it all was.
And when she did get away, there was still the problem of Michael to contend with. Somehow she would have to find him, wherever he’d gone, and warn him to stay out of Crete for good, even if he claimed he was innocent of the accusation. If her unknown captor was right, it would be all too easy for any determined and vengeful persons to stage an accident in these mountains.
She looked at the flickering flame of the little lamp beside her bed, and her lips twisted. She’d found it alight when she came in, and realised that he must have done it while she was occupied in the kitchen. Before, she thought, he’d come to the decision to let her sleep alone that night.
She shivered again. She couldn’t count on being allowed another respite, which made her need to escape during the next twenty-four hours not just imperative, but overwhelming.
Those few agonisingly passionate moments in his arms had taught her things about herself that she had never known, could never have guessed. In the past, although she’d had a number of boyfriends, she’d always regarded herself as something of a cool customer. It had always been simple enough to call a halt when more than kisses were sought, and this was why she’d always fought shy of any closer commitment. In a way, she’d almost been afraid that there might be something lacking in her, which would make her a bad bet for any man seeking a normal loving relationship with a wife. So, while the kissing had been enjoyable enough, she’d never been tempted to go further.
