Kitabı oku: «Gift For A Lion», sayfa 3

An order was shouted and they were moving forward again. More cobbles. An odd sound somewhere close at hand—water splashing. Could it be a fountain? The jeep stopped.

‘Please to alight, signorina.’ The request was as courteous as ever.

It was good to be on her feet again, even if her legs did threaten to betray her if she took a step.

‘There are some steps to climb. Giuseppe will help you.'

She put out her hand and felt the sun-warmed stone of a wide balustrade. She lifted her foot, feeling for the edge of the step, and began to climb with Giuseppe making encouraging noises behind her.

‘Only one more,’ said the leader's voice. ‘We have arrived, signorina. Soon you can be comfortable again.’ He laughed. ‘There is a reception committee waiting for you.'

And then she heard it—the sound that lifted the hair on the back of her neck as it penetrated her blind, stifling helplessness. The long low, rumbling growl of a large animal.

The sound seemed to fill her head, pressing down on her as the blackness dipped and swooped, and Joanna heard herself scream as, for the first time in her life, she fainted.

CHAPTER THREE

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.

She marched to the door and hammered on it with her fists, listening intently as the furious sound died away. Eventually she heard footsteps approaching and the sound of a key turning in the lock. She took up a position at the foot of the bed, holding herself very straight as the door swung open.

‘Signorina?' She recognised the short slim figure in the neat black suit immediately. It was the man who had brought her here in tears. She recalled the impression she had received of kindness and sympathy as he had helped her from his master's study, and she smiled at him, and saw his own expression relax in answer.

‘The signorina needs something? The room is not comfortable?'

‘It's a wonderful room, but …’ she lowered her voice to sound deliberately conspiratorial, ‘a bathroom would be even more wonderful.'

‘But of course. If the signorina had not been so distressed when I brought her here—please to come this way.’ He escorted her out into a long marble-floored corridor and opened a door opposite her room. ‘Here, signorina.'

Joanna looked round appraisingly as she stepped inside. The fittings were in a delicate pink marble, and as well as the shower cabinet, there was a small sunken bath. Glass shelves held bath oils and other cosmetics, and a silver towel rail sported a selection of white fluffy towels.

‘If there is anything else, signorina?'

‘Only some clothes.’ Joanna indicated the black silk robe with a rueful expression.

‘The signorina's luggage will soon be here. Until then, I regret …’ He spread his hands apologetically. ‘You see, signorina, there are no women here.'

‘So I have been informed.’ Joanna gave him a smiling glance. ‘I must say I'm surprised. From what I've seen of your master I wouldn't have thought of him as the celibate type.'

The friendly expression disappeared and was replaced by the enigmatic mask of the well-trained servant, she saw with a sinking heart. She should not have brought the master of Saracina into the conversation, she realised.

‘Knock on the door when you are ready, signorina, and I will escort you back to your room.’ With a slight bow, he vanished and Joanna heard the door lock behind him. She sighed impatiently. Lesson one—no cracks about the signore, she thought.

She found some sachets of a herbal shampoo on one of the shelves and thoroughly washed and rinsed her hair under the shower, towelling it vigorously until it hung in damply curling tendrils around her face. Then she filled the bath with steaming scented water and began to soap herself in a leisurely manner. If it were not for the locked doors and the fact that she was not at liberty to leave the island if she wished, she could be quite happy in these surroundings, she thought drily. Of course her lack of wardrobe would soon cause a serious problem, but … the soap slipped from her hand as something that had been teasing her consciousness thrust itself sharply into the forefront of her mind. That little man had said something about her luggage—that it would soon be here. But how could that be? Surely Tony and the others would not simply hand over her clothes to strangers without question. If so, the note that the signore had sent must have been convincing in the extreme, and it annoyed her that she had no idea what he had said in it.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea that Tony would come himself with her clothes, but had to admit it was a forlorn hope. If he believed, as the signore had hinted, that she had deserted the cruise because a more attractive invitation had come her way, he would probably be hurt and angry. And Paul and Mary would only be too glad to believe the worst of her behaviour, she realised ruefully.

She got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a huge bathsheet. It really seemed as if there was very little to prevent the signore from keeping her on Saracina, just as he had said. And she was still at a loss to understand the reason for her enforced stay. Her body dried, she picked up the black silk robe with a sour expression. It was nauseating having to wear a garment of his. She must ask the servant to bring back her bikini and the towelling shift, which must surely be dry by now. She tied the sash of the robe and looked at herself critically. She felt altogether fresher and more able to cope with whatever the evening might bring, as she knocked on the door for the manservant to release her.

He must have been waiting for her signal, for he appeared almost at once.

‘The signorina would like to rest before dinner?’ It was a statement rather than a question as he took her arm and led her gently but firmly back towards her black and silver prison. Joanna hung back a little.

‘Won't you tell me your name?’ she asked, again trying one of her most devastating smiles.

‘I am Josef, signorina.'

‘Oh.’ Joanna digested that for a moment. ‘Then you are not Italian, even though your master is.’ She could at least establish the nationality of her captor, she thought triumphantly.

‘You are correct, signorina. I am not Italian. Please enjoy your rest.'

She looked at the closed door, wondering why she should feel so ridiculously snubbed, when God knew that was the least of her troubles.

She had never felt less like resting in her life. It was beginning to get really dark, and she switched on the pendant lamp which hung in the centre of the room, and the two lamps with silken shades that stood on each side of the bed. As she did so, she saw that another light had come on as well, a light above a painting that she had not really noticed before, hanging on the wall by the door directly opposite the bed.

Her curiosity aroused, she went over to have a look at it and gasped in amazement. For a moment she thought it was an actual portrait of the man downstairs, then she saw that the man in the painting was wearing the clothes of a bygone century and that the canvas itself had the patina of great age.

But it could almost have been the signore, his tawny hair hanging smoothly under a little jewelled cap, one hand raised to display the hooded falcon which sat obediently on his wrist. Another prisoner in the dark, she thought ironically.

The portrait was certainly an original, although she could not recognise the signature that was barely visible on the canvas. There were other words too, dim against the dark background, and with a sudden excitement she realised they could well be the name of the sitter, which was often included in the portraits of notables in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. She was hazy about historical costume, but it seemed to her that the velvet doublet opening over a snowy shirt probably belonged more to the earlier period, and she fetched the stool from the dressing chest and stood on it to get a better look.

Even the eyes were the same, she realised, oddly disquieted. Almost topaz in colour, they stared enigmatically down at her as if mocking her attempt to discover the identity of her jailer. It must be her imagination that the firm lips even seemed to quirk a little as she peered more closely. To her disappointment, the words were too old and indistinct for her to decipher, and she climbed down feeling as if she had merely encountered yet another brick wall.

With a sigh she wandered restlessly to the window and stared out through the tracery of wrought iron. She gripped part of the grille and tried to shake it, but it was immovable as a rock and she struck at it, aware even as she did so of the complete futility of the gesture.

It occurred to her for the first time that she was hungry and that the chicken rolls she had eaten on the beach had been a long time ago. That was why she felt so depressed, she told herself resolutely. Josef had mentioned dinner, so it was obviously no part of his master's plan to starve her. Besides, this bedroom was nothing like the popular conception of an oubliette, she decided, forcing a wry grin at her too-vivid imagination.

But there were so many questions still to be answered that it was small wonder that she was tending to overreact. She looked back over the happenings of the last few hours with a kind of dazed amazement. She had been soaked, kidnapped, threatened and frightened to the edge of panic and beyond. She shuddered again as she remembered her arrival at the palazzo and that warning growl from the animal she could not see. What was that phrase she had once read—‘the terror that walks about in darkness'? With a shiver, she felt she understood what that meant now.

So it seemed the lion did exist, after all, but surely it must be a tame one, judging by the unfussed reaction from her guards. And yet was any wild animal ever really tamed? she thought, and wondered why the cold, proud face of the master of Saracina should be suddenly so vivid in her mind.

She walked back across the room to the bed, and looked down at it restlessly. How long could one go without sleep? she asked herself, because she was sure she would be too disturbed ever to relax in this room. And when she did lie in this bed, would she be alone? She bit her lip, as a strange quiver ran through her body at the thought.

She turned and stared at the portrait again. The likeness was quite incredible, even down to the same blatant sensual attraction, she thought bitterly. Had that unknown noble of long ago been as aware of his own sexual power as the man downstairs undoubtedly was? She thought it only too likely.

She was so immersed in her own thoughts that she did not notice the noise straight away, and when she did, she did not place it immediately. Instinctively she moved closer to the window and stared out through the grille, gazing up in astonishment at the helicopter coming in above the roof of the palazzo. It was so low that she could almost see the faces of the men sitting in it, and incredulously she thought, ‘It's going to land.'

This was a new development, and no mistake. People who came by sea were forced away with guns, or arrested, yet others apparently could fly in and out as they wished. And it meant too that there was an alternative means of leaving the island. Joanna found she was weighing up the chances of being able to stow away on board a helicopter, and allowed herself a wry laugh. First, she had to get out of this room, and heaven only knew how she was to find her way out of the palazzo, let alone discover the whereabouts of the landing strip. But nevertheless she felt the first stirrings of hope at this evidence that Saracina did have some contact with the outside world, a contact that in some not yet conceivable way she might be able to turn to her advantage.

She strained her ears, but she could not hear the sound of the helicopter's engine, which could mean that it had already landed, perhaps even in the palazzo grounds themselves.

She swung round with a start as the key turned in the lock and Josef entered carrying a tray which held a decanter of sherry and two glasses.

‘The signore has asked me to tell you that he will do himself the honour to dine with you this evening, signorina,’ he announced, setting the tray down on a small antique table.

‘Well,’ Joanna shrugged, ‘I suppose I'm in no position to refuse, so you had better tell him that I too shall be honoured. That is if he feels he can leave his other guests.'

‘Other guests, signorina?’ Was that a wary look she detected in Josef's dark eyes?

‘Why, yes. The two men who just flew in by helicopter. Aren't they expected, or have they merely been locked in some other part of this jail?’ Joanna made her voice as innocent as possible.