Alien Vengeance (7 page)

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.

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.

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.

Except tonight, she thought, putting tentative fingers against the swollen fullness of her mouth.

Decent men, with perfectly honourable intentions, had wanted her, and she had sent them away without one pang of regret. Why in hell, she asked herself despairingly, had she had to learn her first lesson in desire from a stranger who cared nothing for her, who was only taking her to satisfy some primitive notion of justice?

Yet he himself was far from primitive, she thought wonderingly. He might wear peasant clothing, but everything he had, including the shirt she herself was wearing, was of the finest quality. He was educated and sophisticated—so how could he lend himself to this barbarity?

And all the time, as she sat there, watching the little flame and thinking, she was listening for the moment when he would come upstairs.

He’d promised—but would he keep that promise, she thought, her heart thudding oddly. After all, he’d brought her to the brink of surrender as his own instincts and experience must have told him. Wasn’t it more than likely that he might decide to follow up the advantage he’d gained?

And if he came upstairs and saw a light under her door, mightn’t that provide the final prompting he needed?

With a burst of nervous energy, Gemma blew out the lamp. Moving quietly in the darkness, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the bathroom. The shirt she removed and hung over a chair. It might once again be all she had to wear tomorrow, she thought wryly. She turned back the coverlet to the bottom of the bed, and slipped under the thin sheet, welcoming its fresh coolness against her heated skin.

But she couldn’t relax. Tensely she lay looking up at the ceiling, and waiting for what might be.

It wasn’t a very big house, and in the quiet night air every little sound seemed magnified. She could hear him moving around downstairs—even, she thought, hear the chink of a bottle on a glass. It sounded as if he was drinking, and she wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or a bad.

And it was while she was trying to decide, that exhaustion finally claimed her, and she fell asleep.

When Gemma awoke, it was early daylight. For a moment, she was totally disorientated, staring round her wondering where she was, then memory came flooding back, and she sank back against the pillow with a little groan.

The events of the past twenty-four hours might just have been some awful dream. Now, she knew, it was all only too real.

She wondered what had woken her. It was at least an hour before she normally stirred. She slid out of bed, and, naked, padded over to the window, opening the shutters a cautious fraction. She could see the road leading down to the village quite plainly, and walking down it, away from the villa, was a girl, dark-haired and wearing a red dress.

As Gemma watched, the girl swung round in her tracks and stared back at the villa. Even from that distance, Gemma could see that she was a vibrantly pretty girl, although her looks were currently marred by a sullen expression, and her shoulders had a dejected droop as she continued to trudge down the track.

Gemma pursed her lips in a silent whistle, then grabbed the shirt from the chair, and thrust her arms into the sleeves, her fingers clumsy with haste as she tried to fasten the buttons. She needed to talk to that girl, and fast.

She let herself quietly out of her room, and slipped stealthily down the stairs.

The sun pouring in through the light curtains illuminated the living room with merciless emphasis. Gemma’s nose wrinkled as she surveyed the bottle and used glass which stood by the sofa, the ash tray, overflowing with butts, and the general disarray of cushions and rugs. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now, she told herself impatiently, and if she could just talk to that girl for a few moments, she might never have to bother about it at all.

She’d expected to have to wrestle with bolts on the door, but to her surprise it wasn’t even locked. She opened it with care, gritting her teeth as the hinges squeaked slightly. Not that it mattered, she thought optimistically. If that bottle was anything to go by, her captor should still be sleeping it off at noon.

‘You’re going somewhere?’

Gemma almost screamed. Certainly she jumped, whirling round, her heart thudding painfully. And, of course, he wasn’t sleeping anything off. He was standing in the archway watching her, hands resting lightly on his hips. He looked the worse for wear, however, his eyes narrowed against the light as if it hurt him, and she hoped that it did. His hair was dishevelled too, and he hadn’t shaved.

‘I was just letting in some fresh air,’ she returned defensively. ‘Or perhaps you don’t think it’s necessary?’

He shrugged as if fresh air or poison gas were all the same to him. ‘Do as you wish,’ he said flatly. ‘And then you may prepare breakfast. You will find fresh bread in the kitchen,’ he added shortly.

‘Oh?’ Gemma was intrigued in spite of herself. ‘How did that get here?’

‘One of the villagers brought it.’ His tone was impatient. ‘Now, if you have no more questions, I will go and finish dressing.’

She said, ‘I saw a girl from my window. I thought that perhaps it might be Maria.’

‘Then I advise you not to think,’ he said unpleasantly. ‘Just do as you’re bidden. And call me when breakfast is ready,’ he flung at her over his shoulder, as he turned towards the stairs.

‘Certainly,’ Gemma returned coolly. ‘And where would you like breakfast—in the dining room—on the terrace?’ Or thrown at you, she added silently.

He shrugged again. ‘On the terrace will do perfectly well.’

‘And when I do call you,’ she went on cordially, ‘what do I say?’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean.’

‘Well, I don’t know your name,’ she said. ‘So how do you wish to be addressed. Sir, perhaps? My lord? Your majesty?’

The frown deepened to a scowl. ‘I recommend you to guard your tongue,
thespinis
. I am not in the mood for your insolence this morning.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ she returned drily. ‘Sexual frustration and a hangover seems to be a lethal mixture.’

His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘What do you dare say to me?’

‘Nothing,’ Gemma said hastily. ‘A little joke, that’s all, but out of place. I’m sorry.’

He looked at her for a long, disturbing moment. ‘I think you will be,’ he said at last, and went upstairs.

Gemma drew a deep breath, and expelled it shakily. She was a fool to provoke him, even mildly, under the. circumstances. She would have to keep her natural sense of mischief firmly under control, she decided wryly.

She tidied the living room hastily, clearing away the debris from the previous night, and shaking up the cushions and hanging the rugs to air over the terrace balustrade.

Then she went into the kitchen. The bread was on the table. It was still warm, and it smelled wonderful, Gemma thought ecstatically, as she emptied a carton of orange juice into a jug, and filled a dish from the tin of jam in a cupboard. There was fresh coffee, but she wasn’t sure how to make it in the Greek manner, so she compromised with instant.