by Sara Craven
She raised her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. ‘Trying to buy me now, kyrie? Surely you’re not losing faith in your own technique at this late stage.’
He looked at her for a long moment, bleakly, and in silence, his mouth firmed to a harsh line. Then he said, ‘It was a gesture of goodwill, intended perhaps to ease the situation a little. But forget it.’ He shrugged dismissively, and turned away.
Gemma bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said stiffly. ‘Actually, there is something—but I’m sure you don’t have to go all the way to town for it.’ She took a breath. ‘I’d like something to wear, please, if only as an alternative to this.’ She indicated the shirt, with a gesture of self-derision. ‘It surely isn’t too much to ask?’
‘No.’ He went on watching her. ‘At least not when it is asked in the right way.’
‘I said “please”.’ Her chin went up.
‘I heard you, but I would have preferred the request to be made with a little more warmth.’
‘Do you want me to go on my knees?’ She fiddled with the dishes, piling them together fussily on the table, avoiding looking at him.
‘No.’ He paused again. ‘I think I would prefer you to kiss me.’
‘Go to hell.’ Gemma spoke with bitter distinctness.
‘As you wish. Then your request is refused.’
She stared down at the table. ‘You mean—if I kiss you—and only then—you’ll bring me something else to wear.’
‘Why, yes, matia mou. That is exactly what I mean,’ he said mockingly. ‘Is it so much to ask?’ She swallowed. ‘I’m not actually putting you to any trouble. You’ve got my luggage hidden somewhere, after all. You only have to open the case...’
‘And you only have to walk a few paces across this terrace to me,’ the tormenting voice returned. ‘The decision is yours.’
Head bent, cheeks burning, hating him, she took the requisite number of steps. He didn’t move, and she had to stand more or less on tiptoe to reach his olive-skinned cheek with her lips, briefly and awkwardly.
He said something terse and very violent half under his breath, and in his own language. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, forcing her to stay where she was. His eyes glinted down at her contemptuously.
‘Is that what you call a kiss, Gemma?’ he demanded harshly. His dark face seemed to swim before hers, and she closed her eyes on a little shaken gasp as his mouth fastened on hers, taking expert, insolent toll of its sweetness, his tongue exploring its every contour, every moist crevice. She couldn’t speak, or think, or taste anything other than him. He seemed to fill the universe. She felt the deep inner trembling start within her, and knew that without that fierce bruising grip on her shoulders she would have collapsed on to the floor, her legs no longer strong enough to support her.
She was faint, she was going to die. Perhaps she was already dead, and this was Paradise already within her reach. The incoherencies rioted crazily in her head, as the world tilted on its axis dragging her down against the force of gravity into some undreamed-of maelstrom of sensation.
She couldn’t breathe, her head was being forced back at an impossible angle, and when he let her go the pain of separation was almost more than she could bear.
She lifted her hand and touched her swollen lips softly with her fingers, staring down at the tiled floor at her feet, watching wild golden particles whirl and dance before her wide and frightened gaze, trying to control the ragged hurry of her breathing, so that he wouldn’t know—dear God— what his exquisite brutality had done to her.
‘So.’ His own breathing didn’t sound any too sure. ‘Now we begin to understand each other a little.’ His hand took her chin, forcing it upwards, making her meet his eyes, darker than night, harder than obsidian. ‘Let our Cretan sun warm you, Gemma, before I return tonight.’ He added grimly. ‘My patience is not endless.’
He let her go, and she twisted past him into the house, through the living quarters and into the kitchen, as if it represented some sanctuary.
But there was no sanctuary, she thought, as she turned on the tap letting the cold stream of water play gratefully over her wrists and hands.
Not even where she most needed one—inside her own heart.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT seemed a very long time before she heard the sound of the jeep starting up and driving away. But then she had spent most of it leaning against the sink unit, praying that he wouldn’t follow her. She was on the ropes, confused and vulnerable, with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide.
She moved at last, slowly and stiffly, as if she wasn’t quite sure that her recalcitrant body would obey her, would observe the commands of her brain.
But her brain didn’t seem to be functioning any too efficiently or it would have warned her, reminded her just how dangerous it was to provoke him.
She sighed tremulously, letting the tip of her tongue flick along her dry lips, exploring tentatively the slight soreness which still lingered. But that might be the least of her troubles before this long day was over, she thought, wincing.
She sighed again, but more sharply, bracing herself to fight the feeling of inevitability which threatened to overwhelm her.
He had said it would happen, that he would take and she would give, and she knew now how fatally easy it would be to let herself go with the tide, drown with him in sensual oblivion. She had never wanted a man before, and it was a terrible irony that it should be this particular man who was the focus of her first passionate desires.
She wished with all her heart that she really had the experience she’d foolishly boasted of. At least she might know how to cope with what was happening to her. Might be able to judge, to gauge the astonishing intensity of response he seemed able to arouse in her and which nothing in her life so far had prepared her for. She was ashamed of it, but she could no longer deny it existed.
She listened intently for a moment. She’d not heard any other voices, any sounds of movement but his while she’d waited in the kitchen like a cornered animal. Perhaps he’d forgotten to provide her with the alternative jailer he’d threatened her with, she thought hopefully, and if so—if so ...
She went quickly to the stairs and up them, straight to his room. It would have been nice to have had her own things back to escape in, but under the circumstances she couldn’t wait around for them to be returned to her. She would have to make do with whatever she could find.
She pulled back the curtain and scanned the hanging rail. It would have to be another shirt, preferably one even more opaque than the sample she was currently wearing. And not a rope belt either. One of his own sashes from the second drawer in the chest. She’d managed without underwear so far, and supposed she could go on doing so. But shoes of some kind were essential, and not those damned knee boots he favoured. The alternatives seemed to be sandals, or a pair of flat heelless mules. She tried them on. They were far too big, of course, but she thought if she stuffed the toes with paper, she might be able to shuffle along somehow. Anyway, she would try. This was her last chance, and she had to take it.
She changed into the clean shirt, belting it carefully round her slim waist tightly, and frowning a little as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror assessing the effect. It was perfectly decent, just as the other one had been, she thought, and it was only her own self-consciousness about her lack of other attire that made her doubt it. It covered her as adequately as any dress.
The mules were far more of a problem. It took three-quarters of the Greek newspaper she found down in the living room to make them stay on at all, and they felt thoroughly uncomfortable as well as restricting quite considerably her freedom of movement. But then, she wasn’t planning on taking part in a hundred metre sprint, she reminded herself. She wasn’t going to hurry at all, in case anyone was watching her. She was simply going for a gentle stroll—up the mountain.
She wished she’d paid infinitely more attention to Takis’ map, then she might know if there were other villages ro
und about. Slightly more civilised villages, she thought hopefully, where they didn’t conduct weird sexual vendettas ...
Surely, there had to be something else, and, eventually, someone else. Someone who would help her. Loussenas, and its watching, hostile eyes, couldn’t be the end of the line.
She took a deep breath. There was only one way to find out, she told herself resolutely, and shuffled, cursing the unwieldy mules silently, to the door.
For the moment, she thought the low rumbling sound she heard was distant thunder, and paused, scanning the cloudless sky with frank dismay. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a storm, next door to naked. She wanted to escape, not die of pneumonia.
The rumble came again, and she realised with heart-stopping suddenness that it was emanating, not from the Lord Zeus’ displeasure with mankind, but from the throat of a very large dog.
She stopped dead, staring in dismay, and the dog looked back at her, lifting its upper lip in a snarl which was no more pleasant for being silent.
Gemma said in a voice of false cheerfulness. ‘Hello then, boy, Good dog.’ She extended a clenched fist for the animal to sniff, a gesture of confidence which it treated with contempt, snarling again, and this time adding sound to the performance. It was stationed slap in the middle of the terrace, and clearly had no intention of budging.
Gemma toyed with the idea of bribing the thing with the remains of last night’s leg of lamb, but dismissed it. This particular Cerberus looked as if he meant business, and would require a far more substantial sop to be thrown to him than a few leftovers.
Aloud, she said, ‘Cerberus is a good name for you, hell-hound,’ and went back into the house. She stood for a few moments, watching the dog choose a patch of shade and lie down in it. But not, it seemed, to sleep. Massive chin on large paws, it lay and gazed towards the house, ears pricking attentively at every move she made.
A companion, she thought corrosively. The half was not told me.
Moving cautiously, the offending mules kicked into a corner, she began to tidy the house, to sweep and dust, to fill the long minutes with the mundane details of domesticity. And the dog Cerberus seemed to track every move she made with his unswerving gaze.
Once, and only once, she made an attempt to get past him to the steps, but he growled at her with such positive venom that she abandoned it almost immediately.
When she went upstairs, he rose, shook himself and padded after her. Gemma found it almost a relief. She’d been trying to gauge the drop from the terrace where she’d sunbathed that first afternoon—could it really be only yesterday? she asked herself in frank astonishment—and the dog’s presence meant that she wouldn’t even be tempted to try and risk breaking a leg, or worse.
The people who advocated death before dishonour had obviously never actually been faced with the choice, she thought with irony.
The dog lay in the passage and watched her as she moved from one room to the other, tidying bathrooms and straightening beds. As Gemma worked, she chatted to him as if he had been a pet instead of a jailer, and eventually was rewarded by a faint and perfunctory swish of the tail. But that, she thought wryly, was probably as amiable as he was likely to get.
In the Cretan’s room she worked slowly, taking the time to look around her, now that the coast was relatively clear.
He was still very much a mystery, and this room—his domain—provided no clues at all. There were his clothes, expensive and of excellent quality as she’d already noted, but few other personal possessions—no photos, letters or papers to give any indication of his identity. She wondered if that was deliberate—part of the plan—or perfectly usual for the way he lived his life. A man, she thought, who travelled lightly because he travelled alone.
But that, of course, was pure speculation. He probably had a wife and six children somewhere. Perhaps he was with them at this moment, playing the part of the devoted family man, she thought with a little hostile snort.
And if this wife existed—did she know what he was doing in these days away from her? And, if so, would she care? Would her own desire for vengeance align with his, cancelling out all other considerations?
It seemed impossible. What wife could know that her husband was sleeping with another woman, whatever his motive, and endure that knowledge?
I couldn’t, Gemma thought fiercely, and found that her hands had involuntarily clenched into fists at the idea.
She gave a small weak laugh. It seemed she was allowing her imagination to run away with her.
Besides, any woman who married a man like that was asking for trouble, and would deserve all she got.
But being in his room like this, she was forced to admit, was a strange sensation. Straightening his bed, shaking up the pillow, folding the linen sheet which was the only covering, was an only too forcible reminder of what the night could bring.
Gemma swallowed thickly. Simply touching the bed which held him seemed to conjure up an image so powerful that she had the odd feeling she had only to turn round, and she would find him there—waiting to take her in his arms, to draw her down beside him on to the bed ...
The dog barked, gruffly, throatily and Gemma jumped, almost expecting that the Cretan had materialised beside her somehow, and that the dog was giving warning.
But Cerberus’ attention had been engaged by something or someone downstairs, and as Gemma paused to listen, she could hear the sound of footsteps moving about, but not, she thought, those of a man.
The dog was already halfway down the stairs and she followed more gingerly. She heard the dog growl, then bark again, and a girl’s voice speaking sharply in Greek. The dog’s ears went down and his tail wagged. Whatever the girl had said, they were clearly magic words, Gemma thought.
She recognised her at once—it was the girl in the red dress she’d seen earlier, and she still looked sulky, her heavy-lidded dark eyes almost fierce as they met Gemma’s,
Gemma said coolly and clearly, ‘My name is Gemma Barton, and I think you must be Maria.’ The girl shrugged. She muttered, ‘Then katavaleno. ’
Gemma’s Greek was minimal, but that was one of the few phrases she’d managed to master. She said sharply, ‘I think you understand perfectly well. And don’t tell me that you and Mike only spoke Greek to each other because it’s just not possible.’
There was a silence. Then the girl said, ‘You are the woman of Michalis?’
‘His sister,’ Gemma corrected. ‘Adelphi tou,’ she added for good measure.
‘Sister.’ The black brows snapped together frowningly. ‘I do not understand.’
And Gemma did not feel capable of explaining all over again to someone whose knowledge of her language seemed limited. She sighed.
‘Did Mike—Michalis—never mention that he had a sister? Didn’t he talk about his family at all?’
Silence. Another shrug. ‘A little—maybe. But not a sister.’
‘Nevertheless, that’s who I am.’ Gemma made herself smile, speak pleasantly, and was relieved to see the heavy frown lift a little, the sullen expression lighten.
‘You know where Michalis has gone? You can help me?’
‘I think I’m the one who needs help,’ Gemma told her drily. ‘Do you know why I have been brought here?’
The girl nodded. ‘It is a punishment, although this was not my wish, you understand,’ she added hastily. She put a protective hand on her abdomen in a curiously poignant gesture. ‘My father—my brothers were so angry. They threatened many things—bad things.’
Gemma said gently, ‘This is also a bad thing, Maria.’
Maria’s eyes widened sceptically. ‘To be here— with Kyrios Andreas?’ She almost giggled. ‘There are many—many women who would not think so, thespinis. Many who would be glad to take your place.’
‘Including yourself?’ Gemma asked sharply, irritated by the knowing gleam in Maria’s eyes.
The girl drew herself up. When she wasn’t scowling, she was incredibly pretty, Gemma thought, h
er figure full-breasted and voluptuous.
‘Not I, thespinis.’’ She shook her head. ‘The father of Kyrios Andreas was our nonos—our godfather.’ She crossed herself. ‘In his life, a good man, and important man. Always he was most kind to us. But I was not for his son. Never would my father have dreamed of such a thing. When Kyrios Andreas takes a wife, she will be a woman of wealth and property, as is fitting.’
So—his name is Andreas, and he isn’t married, Gemma thought.
She said, ‘Maria—whatever wrongs my brother has done you, I can’t stay here. You must see that. I’m sure that if he’d known you were pregnant, he’d never have gone off like this and ...’
‘But it was because he knew that he went, thespinis.’ Maria sounded almost matter-of-fact about it. ‘If he had stayed, my father and brothers might have killed him. It was better he went. But he promised he would help, and he will.’
Gemma bit her lip. ‘Are you thinking that he’ll marry you, perhaps?’
There was a pause, then a negative shake of the head. Maria said flatly, ‘It would not be fitting.’ She did not meet Gemma’s gaze.
She said, ‘I don’t believe that, Maria, and I know my parents wouldn’t either, if you love each other. But there would be problems. Michalis is still studying. He can’t afford to get married, for one thing. And how do you suppose he will feel if I’m forced to stay here with—with this—Andreas?’
Maria shrugged. ‘As I said, thespinis, it was not my will that you should be brought here. I tried to tell them—to speak against it, but my father would not listen. All his words were of revenge for the harm done to the honour of our family. And for this revenge he goes to Kyrios Andreas, who is a brother to us in all but blood.’
Gemma flushed angrily. ‘Why should he do that? I’m surprised your father didn’t simply arrange to—pass me round the family.’
Maria looked shocked. ‘He could not do such a thing, thespinis. It would cause shame to my mother, and to ,the wives of my brothers. Besides,’ she added on a more practical note, ‘our house is next to that of the priest. The papa would be angry to hear such talk of vengeance. But if he hears that there is a woman here with Kyrios Andreas, he will not think it strange, although he may shake his head,’ she added quaintly.
