Alien Vengeance (2 page)

In fact, Gemma allowed judiciously, he would almost have been beautiful, but for the tough uncompromising lines of his mouth and chin.

She thought that he must be aware of the fact that he was under close scrutiny from the bus, but preferred to appear arrogantly unaware of the fact.

‘Pseud,’ she thought dismissively, but watched with unwilling approval as he, at last, overtook the bus with maximum leeway, but minimum effort. He wasn’t her type, but he knew his car and how to handle it.

‘I expect he’s one of those Greek tycoons one reads about,’ Hilary said dreamily. ‘Maybe we’ll meet him, stumbling round the ruins at Knossos. If he’s smitten, and invites you to cruise on his yacht, I hope you won’t feel bound by our prior invitation.’

‘He’s more likely to be someone’s chauffeur, joy-riding on his day off,’ Gemma said crushingly. ‘And if he does have a yacht, it will probably be already crammed to the gunwales with starlets.’ Hilary sighed extravagantly, ‘Oh, Gemma, you’re so prosaic sometimes. Don’t you like to fantasise a little?’

Gemma smiled. ‘Why, yes, but my fantasies don’t centre round macho Greeks driving cars like virility symbols.’

Hilary gave her a curious look. ‘Just for the record—is there anyone serious?’

Gemma shook her head rather wryly. ‘No one,’ she admitted. ‘They used to say that it was women who wanted to get serious, who always had marriage in mind, but it seems to me that every man I meet wants to rush me into—into some kind of commitment or other, and I’m just not ready for that. Perhaps it’s a fault in me but I like to take my relationships slowly—one step at a time, but they seem to want—instant
rapport
.’

Hilary smiled drily, ‘You’re right to be cautious. I used to be that way myself, then I met James and within a month we were engaged. Don’t freeze them all off, Gemma, or you could miss out on something wonderful.’

Gemma laughed. ‘Not so far, I haven’t, and that I can guarantee, I’m afraid.’ She leaned forward. ‘It looks as if we’re nearly there.’

On leaving the bus, they walked down the narrow road towards the Palace, skirting the tavernas and souvenir shops, threading their way gingerly between the cars parked at the side of the road.

There was traffic edging down the road all the time, and in spite of herself, Gemma found she was watching out for an opulent dark blue sports car.

‘I’m letting Hilary’s nonsense get to me,’ she told herself severely.

‘It’s too hot for much culture,’ Hilary said as they queued up at the admission gate behind a party of French, who’d arrived with their own guide and were arguing noisily about numbers. ‘I vote we belt round, then go and find something cold to drink.’

But inside the gate, it was like stepping into a different world. There were trees and shade, and Gemma saw that people were moving more slowly, talking more quietly, as if in respect of the fact they were present in one of the ancient places of the earth.

Even Hilary seemed subdued as they walked up the causeway towards the Palace ruins. It was all so much vaster than Gemma had imagined and not even the amount of restoration work which had been carried out, and the crowds of people wandering about could affect the power of its atmosphere.

By mutual consent, they decided not to attach themselves to any of the official tours which were being conducted round. Instead they walked quietly through the remnants of corridors and courtyards, past the remains of sacrificial altars, trying to come to terms with the size of the place.

They looked at restored frescoes, glowing in the brilliant sun, and wandered through dark state chambers where once King Minos and his Queen had sat in splendour.

Hilary was busy with her camera, making Gemma pose for her against painted columns, beside the big pottery jars, tall enough to conceal a man, and near the great Bull’s horns carved in stone, a chilling reminder of the Minotaur myth.

It was while they were standing studying the fresco of the Lily-Prince that Gemma first felt they were being watched. She told herself she was being silly. There were dozens of other people around, all doing the same thing as themselves. It was the young Priest-King with his plumes and flowing locks which was the real centre of attention, as a casual glance around confirmed.

All the same she was glad to be back in the open air again.

Hilary looked around at the clustering hills and tall cypresses which bordered the enclosure fence like sentinels. ‘It can’t have been too easy to defend—in a valley like this,’ she remarked dubiously.

‘They wouldn’t have had to,’ Gemma said. ‘It wasn’t a fortress. It was a symbol of how powerful and mighty the Cretan empire was. People came here to pay their respects, not attack.’

Hilary grinned. ‘They probably came to admire the drainage,’ she said. ‘It says in my book that the Queen’s apartments had the first recorded flush loo. I like that—a homely touch among all this fallen splendour. And talking of splendour, just look at that.’

In a corner, rooted among fallen stones and rubble, a huge bush was just beginning to break into delicate blue blossom.

Hilary pushed Gemma gently. ‘Go and stand by it, love. I want one last photograph.’

Gemma obeyed, waiting while Hilary adjusted the camera, muttering to herself, and motioned to her to alter her position fractionally.

‘Remember, don’t smile,’ Hilary cautioned. ‘Just look up when I say your name.’

Gemma stared down at the dusty ground. She heard Hilary call out, ‘Gemma’ and glanced up, trying to look into the sunlight without blinking, and saw a figure standing behind Hilary, tall and dark in the brilliance. She knew him at once. It was the driver of the car which had followed the bus—Hilary’s supposed tycoon. He was the last person she had ever expected to see again. But even as she registered all this, her shocked mind told her something else—that he was terrifyingly, blazingly angry. She felt her face go rigid, as if she was bracing herself against some blow, and heard Hilary groan.

‘I may have said “don’t smile”, but there’s no need to look as if you’d just seen Marley’s ghost. Wait one second while I take another.’

Gemma closed her eyes, passing the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. When Hilary spoke again, and she looked up, the man had gone.

She thought feebly, ‘It’s the sun. I’m seeing things.’

But she knew she wasn’t. On the face of it, he was an unlikely sightseer, but he’d been there.

And anyway, she adjured herself impatiently, it was wrong to judge by appearances. Perhaps he wasn’t a chauffeur or a wealthy playboy, but an expert on the Minoan period.

His unexpected appearance could be rationally explained, but she couldn’t justify to herself that odd sense of his rage she’d experienced as he looked at her.

She hadn’t simply been surprised to see him. She’d felt threatened—frightened even. And yet there was no logical reason for it. They were strangers to each other—she knew they were.

She thought, ‘If I’d ever met him, I’d remember. And now that I’ve seen him again, I have a feeling I won’t forget him in a hurry.’

Hilary joined her, putting her camera back into its case. She said, ‘Are you all right. You look a bit green round the gills. Is it the sun?’

Gemma forced a smile. ‘Maybe. What about that cold drink you mentioned?’

All the way back to the gate, she had to resist an impulse to look over her shoulder and see if he was following. She told herself that she was being a complete idiot. She was imagining things, that was all. The sun, the power of the ruins, her worry over Mike had all conspired against her suddenly, and knocked her off balance. A cold beer, she thought, and something to eat would restore her normal equilibrium.

They bought some postcards and walked slowly back up the hill, turning thankfully into the vine-covered shade of one of the tavernas. The waiter was playing water from a hosepipe on to the floor, and the air smelled fresh and cool as they sat down.

They ordered beer and souvlaki—little chunks of lamb grilled on skewers and served with french fried potatoes, and a Greek salad of cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers and fetta cheese, dressed with herbs and olive oil. Gemma sat and looked through the guide book, while Hilary wrote a couple of postcards and changed the cartridge in her camera.

Other people started to come in. Some Germans took the next table, and one of them had a radio playing music softly. The beers, when they arrived, were ice cold and Gemma began to feel relaxed.

Then Hilary said under her breath, ‘Hell’s bells. You’re never going to believe who’s just walked in.’

Gemma put down her glass. She said too brightly, ‘Not the mystery tycoon?’

‘As ever was.’ Hilary’s tone sharpened. ‘My God, he’s looking right at us. Supposing he comes over...’

Gemma remembered the force of the curious anger. She said, ‘He won’t come over.’

‘No, you’re right,’ Hilary conceded. ‘He’s taken one of the far tables, but he’s facing this way, and it’s you he’s looking at.’ She grinned. ‘Maybe that cruise is on, after all.’

Gemma’s mouth was dry, and she took another sip of beer. ‘I really don’t think so.’

The food was on its way, but she wasn’t hungry any more. She was remembering how she’d felt she was being watched near the corridor of Processions—how he’d appeared out of the blue when Hilary was photographing her, and now here he was again—as if he was following them.

If she could look at it from Hilary’s lighthearted viewpoint, it would almost be flattering, but somehow that wasn’t possible.

She pushed her food around, going through the motions of eating, but her appetite had died on her completely.

This, she told herself stormily, is really ridiculous—allowing a total stranger to put me off a meal I’m going to have to pay for anyway.

With a feeling almost of defiance, she ate the last few morsels of lamb, and mopped up the salad juices with a piece of crusty bread, before asking the attentive waiter to bring her some ice cream.

As she did so, she looked towards the stranger for the first time, and realised with a tremor of apprehension that he was watching her. He’d removed his dark glasses, and without their concealment, she had to admit he was stunningly attractive, his swarthy face brooding and enigmatic.

Their glances met—locked, and Gemma felt her cheeks redden as his firm lips twisted in a contemptuous little smile, and the dark eyes looked her over in an insolent, overtly sexual appraisal.

Mortified, Gemma tore her gaze away. She thought savagely, ‘If I went near any yacht of his, I’d sink it.’

Hilary said in an undertone, ‘He can’t take his eyes off you, Gemma.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Gemma pushed away the remains of her melting ice cream. ‘Do you think we could have the bill, and get out of here?’

But this wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The waiter was clearly upset by their intended departure. He offered them coffee, he offered them more beers, he offered cigarettes from his own pack, produced with a flourish from his shirt pocket. Gemma smiled tautly and refused, and asked for the bill, all the time tormented by the burning conviction that the stranger was deriving sardonic amusement from this little piece of by-play.

As they left, amid the waiter’s lamentations, Gemma found herself praying that they wouldn’t be followed.

She could hardly believe the state she was in. She thought impatiently, ‘Oh, get a grip on yourself. There’s nothing sinister in all this. We’re two girls on our own, and he’s the predatory type. He probably thinks he’s God’s gift to the female sex, and that his technique is infallible.’

To do him justice, with his looks, she doubted whether he would have many failures.

But all the same, she felt on edge all the time they were waiting for the bus to come.

Hilary said teasingly, ‘Your problem, Gem, is that you don’t know when you’re on to a good thing.’

Gemma shook her head. ‘He is not a good thing,’ she said. ‘Believe me.’

The bus came at last, and as she climbed aboard, Gemma took a last jittery look over her shoulder. The stranger, however, was nowhere to be seen, either on foot or in his car.

She felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Soon, she’d be back in the safe anonymity of Heraklion, and tomorrow she’d be driving towards Chania with James and Hilary on the next stage of her holiday, and she’d be able to put this oddly annoying series of incidents out of her mind.

But as she went into the hotel, Takis the manager hailed her from behind the reception desk. ‘Ah,
kyria
Barton. There is a message for you.’ He turned to the pigeon holes behind him and extracted an envelope. It bore the single typed word ‘Gemma’.

She thought, ‘Mike—at last.’

She smiled at Takis. ‘When did this arrive?’ ‘Just after you and
kyria
Trent had left for Knossos. Spiro says there was first a phone call, and he explained you had gone out. Then when he came back from coffee, this letter had been left for you.’ Takis nodded paternally. ‘This pleases you, ne?’ Gemma tore open the envelope and scanned the single typewritten sheet within.

‘Is it good news, or bad news?’ Hilary asked.

Gemma shook her head. ‘I’m honestly not sure. He wants me to join him, but he sounds very curt about it.’ She sighed. ‘Perhaps I’m being a nuisance. Maybe I’ll drop him another line, telling him to forget it and make the trip to Chania after all.’

She handed the note to Hilary, who read it through in silence. Then she said, ‘You don’t think he’s sick or in trouble of some kind?’

Gemma groaned. ‘That’s just what I was wondering. Knowing Mike, it could be both, but he wouldn’t want to spoil my holiday by involving me.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m going to have to hire this car as he says and go to him.’