Читать книгу Gift For A Lion - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

SHE was lying on a hard, narrow bed in a small dark space. That was the first panic-stricken thought as she came reluctantly back to the surface of consciousness. But as her eyes became more accustomed to the dim light, she realised that she was lying on a couch in a small arched recess, protected from the room beyond by a massive carved screen in some dark wood.

She sat up slowly, one hand to her head. She felt dizzy and rather sick and was just about to lie back again and wait for the spasm to pass, when she heard in the outer room the scrape of a chair and the sound of papers rustling.

She was not alone. As Joanna assimilated this, she became aware of other things. That the coverlet which lay over her was heavy with embroidery, that the couch, although hard, was apparently a valuable antique and—a rather more shattering discovery—that she was wearing nothing but a man's black silk dressing gown. She paused for a moment, letting the hot angry flush that suffused her body die away, then moving as stealthily as she was capable of, she pushed away the coverlet and slid to her feet.

The exquisite mosaic floor was cold to her bare feet, but she moved on it noiselessly to the edge of the screen and looked around it.

It was not a very large room, and the main item of furniture, apart from the shadowed shelves of books in expensive leather bindings which covered three of the walls, was an immense desk in the centre of the room. Joanna was unable to tell what time of day it was as heavy shutters had been drawn across the windows. A lamp on the desk, incongruously modern, was the room's sole means of lighting, but it was apparently sufficient for the man who sat at the desk, absorbed in the legal-looking document he was holding.

She could not take her eyes from his face. He was not conventionally handsome, with that high-bridged nose and the sardonic curve of that thin-lipped mouth, but he was—arresting, she supposed. Her gaze took in the thick tawny hair hanging almost to the collar of his cream silk shirt, and the way his heavy lids hid the colour of his eyes.

He reminded her of someone—she racked her brain trying to remember whom. It was something to do with a picture she had once seen—not a photograph. She felt instinctively it had not been as modern as that. And then she remembered. It was a reproduction in an art book she had once looked through—a portrait of some Renaissance prince—and he looked like this man who sat only a few yards away from her.

Just as she was telling herself she was being absurd, he spoke, his voice low and resonant. ‘I am not a peepshow, signorina.'

Joanna flushed, angry that for all his apparent absorption he had known of her presence. She felt like a child again, caught peeping through the banisters at her father's guests.

Instinctively she drew the dressing gown more tightly around her and re-fastened the sash, then lifting her head with an air of confidence she was far from feeling, she marched out from behind the screen and across the room to the desk.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, hating the huskiness that nervousness had engendered in her usually clear voice.

‘I am the master of Saracina.'

The sheer arrogance of the simple statement almost took her breath away. She was aware that she was gaping at him, and furiously took control of herself.

‘I see,’ she said, allowing the inflection to be deliberately sarcastic. ‘Then you can arrange for me to leave this island and return to Calista and my friends.'

‘I could,’ he agreed. He still not looked at her, but was studying the papers in his hand.

She forced herself to give a light laugh.

‘You speak as if there was some doubt.'

‘No doubt at all, signorina. I could, but I will not.’ He looked at her then, and she gasped as her eyes met his, tawny eyes, flecked with gold, vividly alive and wildly at variance with the almost patrician hauteur of his face and voice.

‘Are you implying that I am some sort of prisoner here?’ In spite of herself, she faltered over the hateful word.

‘It is more than an implication, signorina. It is the simple truth. You are my prisoner, and you will remain here until I decide you may go.’ He reached towards an ornate silver handbell on the desk. ‘I will have Josef conduct you to the room I have had prepared.'

‘Wait,’ she spoke sharply, and flinched as his eyes flicked haughtily over her. ‘I mean—this is ridiculous! You know nothing about me, or even who I am. You can't just keep me here against my will.'

‘Even though you came here against mine?’ He spoke softly, but a shiver drew an icy finger down her spine. She decided desperately that the only thing to do was brazen it out.

‘If that is the case, then I'm sorry,’ she said. ‘I—I didn't realise this was private property. I can assure you I won't make the same mistake again.'

‘But you will make different mistakes,’ he said slowly. ‘The mistake of lying to me, for example.'

‘I haven't lied to you,’ she protested, aware of the telltale pounding of her pulses.

‘No? Then it was not you who danced in a bar at Calista last night? It was not you who quarrelled with your friends when you were all warned quite clearly to keep away from this place? The warning seemed definite enough to your friends. You are the only one who has chosen to disregard it. The only thing that need concern us now is your reason for doing so.'

Joanna was silent. She realised she would rather die than admit to this haughty Italian—bandit—that she had come to Saracina out of sheer wilful perversity, precisely because she had been told not to.

‘My reasons are private and need concern no one but myself,’ she said eventually. ‘It's true I was warned against coming here and equally true that I'm sorry I ever set foot on the place. Is that enough for you?'

‘Alas, no.’ If the words were regretful, the tone was not. ‘You came, and for the present you must stay.'

‘Indeed?’ Joanna's nails bit into the palms of her clenched hands. ‘You may change your mind when you hear who I am. My father is not entirely without influence, and when he hears about this—outrage …'

‘The only outrage has been committed by yourself. You have trespassed where you had no right.’ He sounded almost bored. ‘And your identity is no mystery, Signorina Leighton.'

He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a folder which he tossed across the polished surface to her. Joanna opened it almost mechanically, numbly registering that her name was neatly printed on the manilla cover. Inside there was a photograph of herself, blown up from a newspaper print of some mouths before, she noticed, as well as every press cutting in which she had ever been mentioned, all neatly tabulated.

‘Where did you get hold of this?’ she demanded huskily, throwing it down on the desk so that some of the contents spilled out.

‘That need not concern you,’ he said. ‘But it may help to convince you of my sincerity when I say that your identity makes no difference to me at all. You are a very well known young woman.'

‘And my father is a very well known man,’ she completed for him, savagely. ‘So you're going to hold me for ransom?'

He sighed elaborately. ‘No, signorina, I am not.’ He opened the file again and looked at some of the cuttings, his brows raised. ‘But if I did, what price would you put upon yourself, I wonder? Not very high, perhaps, if these are anything to go by.'

She felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘Are you sure they tell the whole story?’ she asked, wondering why she should attempt to justify herself to this man.

‘Young, spoiled, headstrong—the pattern doesn't seem to have altered greatly.’ He closed the folder and tossed it back into the drawer.

‘You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble.'

‘It is one way to become acquainted with a prospective guest.'

Joanna's legs were shaking under her. Frowning a little, he waved her towards a highbacked chair with a leather seat, similar to the one he was already occupying. ‘Sit down, signorina, before you fall down. My floor is hard and it would be a pity to bruise a second time such exquisite and utterly pampered skin.'

She sat frozen as the implication of what he had said sank in.

‘Whose dressing gown is this?’ she asked unsteadily.

‘It's one of mine.’ He spread his hands in a mockery of an apology. ‘It is not worthy of you, signorina, but with no women in the palazzo, suitable garments were difficult to come by in an emergency.'

‘Emergency?’ This wasn't—couldn't be happening to her. It was a nightmare, and oh God, let her waken from it soon.

His voice went on. ‘Your clothing—such as it was—was soaked from your ill-advised attempt to escape from my men. I could not leave you to catch pneumonia.'

‘Then it was you …’ The shame of it prevented her from finishing her words. The caress of the silk on her skin was suddenly abhorrent as she visualised herself naked and helpless under this man's disturbing amber gaze.

‘Don't look so stricken, signorina,’ he said crisply. ‘You didn't deny my men the privilege of a glimpse of your undoubted beauty. Am I supposed to be less human? Or would you have preferred their attentions?'

Her eyes felt as if they were burning, but she was incapable of tears. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him. He was leaning back in his chair, out of the range of the lamplight, and his expression was hidden from her.

‘If you wanted to totally humiliate me, then you have succeeded,’ she said quietly. ‘I can only hope that you're now satisfied and that I can leave without any further delay.'

‘Has humiliation also rendered you deaf, signorina? You are not leaving.'

‘I think you must be mad!’ she fought against the bubble of hysteria rising within her. ‘You can't keep me here—surely you see that? My friends know where I am. They'll come and search for me, and you can't take all of us prisoner.'

‘I have not the slightest intention of doing so, and I would not count on any search being made. Your friends believe that you are my willing guest.'

‘Why should they believe that?'

‘Because they have received a note, presumably from you, which tells them so, and asks them to send on your luggage.'

‘They'll know it isn't from me. Tony knows my writing.'

‘Then he will recognise your signature.’ He tossed something across the desk to her. With a sinking heart she recognised her cheque card, taken no doubt from her wallet in the beach bag. ‘Your style is a distinctive one, signorina.'

‘So you're a forger as well as a kidnapper,’ she flung at him. ‘What a list of charges there'll be when I get free of this place, unless you mean to add murder to your other crimes!'

‘Such hard words.’ That detestable mockery was back in his voice. ‘You did go to considerable pains to visit me, after all. Am I now to be blamed because I take equal pains to keep you here?'

For a moment she stared at him impotently, then suddenly the tears came, slow and scalding, and she buried her face in her hands and gave way to them. A thousand miles away, it seemed, a bell was ringing, but she took no notice, even when a kindly arm assisted her out of the chair, and a voice encouraging her in heavily accented English murmured in her ear as she moved in a blurred, obedient dream to the door.

The room itself was beautiful. In spite of the rage and humiliation that consumed her, she could appreciate that. She could also appreciate the fact that the door was locked and that exquisite wrought iron grilles effectively blocked the only other possible escape route through french windows on to a balcony beyond. The french windows themselves stood tantalisingly open, a soft evening breeze, warm and scented, wafting into the room.

Lying across the enormous divan bed on her stomach, her chin propped in her hands, Joanna tried to think calmly and clearly about her predicament. She wept no longer. A phrase that the much-loved nanny from her childhood had often used strayed into her mind. ‘Temper's tears are soon dried, my dear.'

Well, they were dried, and from now on she would keep her emotions under control. No matter what happened to her, he would never again see her collapse into a grovelling, tearful heap.

The most irksome thing about her predicament was that she still did not know why she was being kept on Saracina. She frowned in real bewilderment. Surely he was not detaining her out of revenge, simply for trespassing on his property? In spite of the way that he had treated her, his face was not that of a petty person. She shivered slightly, remembering the ruthlessness of that mouth with the sensually curved lower lip.

And she still did not know who he was—even though he seemed to be aware of every detail about her. The realisation of just how intimate his knowledge was sent the warm blood flooding to her cheeks again.

The room itself gave no clue to his identity, she thought, looking round her. Compared to the sparse furnishings she had seen downstairs, it was positively sybaritic with its dramatic black and silver hangings against the palely washed walls. The floor glowed with deep terracotta tiles, with luxurious-looking goatskin rugs surrounding the bed. A dressing chest had been set against one wall, and Joanna noticed that as well as a valuable-looking antique mirror on a silver stand, it held a varied collection of cut glass bottles, presumably containing scents as well as other toilet requisites.

She rolled on to her back, and stared up at the black silk curtains looped back at the head of the bed which, presumably, the occupant could release before going to sleep. She thought with a curl of her lip that such a diaphanous shield would only give an illusion of privacy at best. Her gaze wandered again to the barred windows and back to the dressing chest, and she sat up, gripped by a sudden disquiet. This was a woman's room—almost seductively so—and yet there were no women living at the palazzo. He had said so.

She slipped off the bed, grateful for the caress of the soft goatskin under her bare feet, and padded across to the dressing chest. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for one of the bottles and withdrew the stopper. It was unmistakably ‘Calèche'—one of her favourites. She replaced it quickly, her mouth suddenly dry, as she studied the other cosmetics that were laid out there. They were all brands she used regularly. That dossier of his seemed to be complete, she thought, with another spurt of rage. She was sorely tempted to send the whole lot crashing to the ground with one sweep of her arm, but common sense prevailed. She had no doubt that her host would retaliate by making her sleep in the over-exotic atmosphere such an action would create, and her nose wrinkled at the thought.

She stared around again. A woman's room, filled with the sort of pretty toys that women loved, and men loved to give them. She thought, ‘Silk and perfume and bars at the windows. It's like a harem.’ And her hand crept to her throat as the idle thought assumed a nightmare reality.

Was that—could that be why she was here? She tried desperately to think back over her conversation with the man downstairs. He had told her he was the master of Saracina. Did he mean to imply that he was her master too? Was that to be her punishment for having invaded his privacy? She gave a little moan of rejection and paused, appalled by the despair in her own voice. Quickly she took a grip on herself. This was the twentieth century, she told herself, and no matter how arrogant he might be, he could not be a complete barbarian. She was allowing her imagination to play her tricks. Anyway, and her face grew hot at the thought, if that had been what he wanted, she had been at his mercy in that small shadowed room downstairs. Besides, she knew desire when she saw it in a man's eyes and heard it in his voice, and he had displayed only a certain cold anger mixed with contempt. She could not imagine that hard face ever softening under the impetus of tenderness for a woman, she thought wryly, or those brilliant eyes of his glowing with anything other than mockery. And to her amazement she felt herself catch her breath on a little sigh.

Pulling herself together, she turned away, and stared in consternation as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Was this really Joanna Leighton, this bedraggled-looking creature with the matted hair and swollen eyelids? It made her fears of the past few moments seem ludicrous. No man would want her like this, least of all a haughty Renaissance lord.

She gave a little groan as she studied herself. She wanted a shower to wash the lingering traces of salt from her body, and restore her hair to its usual gleaming beauty. She owed it to herself to confront her jailer on her own terms, she told herself resolutely. No wonder he had treated her with such contemptuous arrogance, but she would make him see that she was someone to be reckoned with.