Alien Vengeance (6 page)

She wished the sofa was bigger. He was resting his arm along the back of it, and his hand was too near her bare shoulder.

‘Then that is a pity,’ he said. ‘I thought, you see, that we might indulge ourselves, you and I, with a little pretence. I thought we might pretend that yesterday at Knossos, I had joined you at your table for lunch, and afterwards driven you and your companion back to Heraklion, and that later you and I had dinner together.’ His voice deepened and softened. ‘And that when I suggested you might allow me to drive you into the mountains today, you agreed. So that we have spent the whole day alone together, walking and talking, and now we are here—and our meal is cooking, and we both know it is too late for me to take you back to your hotel—and we are content that it is so.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper. Gemma felt his fingers on the nape of her neck, under the fall of her hair, stroking her skin softly and sensuously. ‘And you are waiting, Gemma
mou
for me to kiss you.’

He had moved while he was speaking, she realised with a jolt. He was so close to her now that their bodies were almost brushing. If she turned her head even a fraction, then their lips would meet...

She had no intention of doing any such thing, of course, only his warm hand smoothing her skin was dangerously, treacherously compelling. She could feel an answering warmth, deep inside her body, an excitement constricting her throat.

She fought it away fiercely. ‘Enjoy your egotistical fantasies,
kyrie
,’ she said huskily. ‘But they don’t alter a thing. As it happens, I wouldn’t walk to the end of the street with you—in Knossos, or anywhere else. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have potatoes to peel. Your primary requirement is still for food, I understand.’

‘At the moment,’ he said between his teeth, ‘my most crying need is to give you a beating you will always remember. You had better get out of my sight.’

Her impulse was to run like a hare, but she made herself saunter, head held high as if indifferent to the very real threat in his voice.

Once in the kitchen, she sagged against the table with a barely stifled whimper of relief. Just for a moment or two there, it could have been so easy, so fatally easy to let him get to her.

No matter how much she hated him, there was no way she could deny his attraction. Physically, he was one of the most devastating men she had ever seen. He would have turned heads on any street in the world, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given Gemma Barton, with her fair hair, grey-green eyes and chain store clothes a second look.

And no matter how much he might charm her now, no matter how skilfully he might exercise that potent sexuality, that seductive expertise, she couldn’t forget that he was taking her only for some twisted motive of revenge.

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.

‘You talk like a fool,
thespinis
. You—from your safe, conventional English town—what do you know of me—of any of us? If you find this affair sordid, then it is a member of your own family who has made it so. If he needed a woman, he should have gone to a brothel, or sought out one of his own countrywomen who understand how such games are played.’ His eyes were grim as he surveyed her. ‘You think that to be here with me is the worst that could happen? You are wrong. You are lucky that your brother still lives, and you are buying his life, make no mistake about that. Now, do you still want to run away?’

‘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.