Gift For A Lion

Gift For A Lion Sara Craven Gift for a Lion Sara Craven www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country. TABLE OF CONTENTS COVER (#ud19f46e8-cdaf-593f-adab-697decc9ddb7) TITLE PAGE (#ud4a11ac0-aad2-5598-aa80-108ae29be03f) ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u83bdf452-3cf2-5dfa-9d47-db669f4ea315) CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo) COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#u9d95e83f-9f9a-5f38-af76-5458249d8583) SUN, Joanna thought drowsily. Golden, glorious sun. She sighed luxuriously, pillowing her head on her arms. Oh, but it was good to be here, away from Father's disapproval and Aunt Laura's bleat of ‘But what will people say …?' Joanna grinned to herself at the thought of what Aunt Laura would say if she could see her now, stretched at her ease on the deck of the Luana, the top of her bikini unfastened to complete the perfect tanning of her smooth back, with a makeshift towelling screen to shield her from the gaze of everyone else using the tiny Mediterranean harbour of Calista. The Luana had dropped anchor there on the previous evening, but neither Joanna, nor her cousins Mary and Tony Leighton or Mary's fianc? Paul, had possessed sufficient energy to go ashore. They had simply eaten on board and turned in. But in the morning the boys had decided to go ashore for supplies and to see what entertainment Calista might have to offer and Mary, who appeared, Joanna thought a little disdainfully, to live in Paul's pocket, had immediately volunteered to go with them. Joanna, however, had refused. Calista might be picturesque, with its white houses and gaily tiled roofs crowding almost to the water's edge, but it was also definitely scruffy, she had decided, and the harbour, with its bobbing boats of every shape and size, smelt. Also, if she was honest, it was in many ways a relief to get away from Mary's constant chatter and enjoy a couple of hours of absolute peace and relaxation. Joanna suppressed the thought, feeling guilty. After all, if Mary had not agreed to come, Joanna herself would have been denied the trip. However modern and forward-looking her father might have been on the bridge of his ship or in the world he now controlled from his eyrie in a Whitehall office block, he was quite mediaeval in his view about what decent girls did or did not do. And in his book a decent girl did not go off alone on a Mediterranean cruise on a sailing boat with a single man, even if he was her cousin and in every likelihood her future husband as well. Hence the invitation to Paul and Mary to accompany them. It was only too likely that Tony, who had been summoned for a private interview with her father before the trip, had also received a stern lecture on the kind of behaviour Rear-Admiral Sir Bernard Leighton expected from anyone escorting his only daughter. Certainly he had emerged from her father's study very red around the ears, Joanna thought, her lips curving slightly at the memory. At any rate, Tony's behaviour towards her had been circumspect in the extreme, and Joanna had been content for this to be so. She found Tony's tentative lovemaking very pleasant, but not wildly arousing, and she felt as long as he did not try to rush her into anything, they could probably achieve a very satisfactory relationship in time. Sometimes she even wondered wryly whether Tony was not just a little in awe of her, but she was not so sure that this was such a bad thing. One thing she had decided quite a long time before, and that was that freedom and independence were essential in marriage. Tony, she was certain, would never try to dictate to her or dominate her in any way, and this was one of the reasons that made marriage to him seem so attractive. Joanna had lived with one dominating male—her father—already, and while she had never experienced any real difficulty in twisting him round her finger to obtain anything she really wanted—this cruise, for instance—it was often a wearing and time-consuming process. Joanna's next permanent relationship was going to be an altogether easier affair, she decided, smiling sleepily. ‘Ahoy, Luana!’ It was Tony's voice, and she hastily fumbled with the strings fastening her bikini top before sitting up. Mary scrambled aboard from the dinghy first. Her face was flushed and there were beads of perspiration on her nose. She was carrying two bulging straw baskets. Joanna watched her with slight compunction. Poor Mary hadn't had much of a trip so far. She didn't care much for sailing and had been violently seasick when they ran into some bad weather in the first few days. She was by no means an expert swimmer either, and tended to blister in the very hot sun. In fact, Mary was never happier than when she was below decks in the tiny galley preparing food for the four of them. She and Paul were marrying in the autumn, and Mary had been taking a cordon bleu course in preparation. When she saw Joanna, she gave one of her irritating little shrieks. ‘Oh, Joanna! You haven't gone to sleep and got burned, have you?' ‘No, of course not.’ Joanna tried to keep her irritation out of her voice. ‘It's a glorious day. Is there anything interesting ashore?' ‘There was a sort of market,’ Mary said. ‘Lovely fresh vegetables. I might do gazpacho for supper.' ‘It's not exactly a tourist's paradise,’ Tony complained. He threw himself down on the deck cushions beside Joanna and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘There are a few bars for the locals and one that does duty as a night club, and that's your lot. Shall we push on somewhere else?' ‘Oh, I rather fancy the night club for a change,’ Joanna said lightly. In truth, she would just as soon have taken the boat elsewhere, but some imp of perversity made her gainsay Tony to see what his reaction would be. He leaned forward and brushed her shoulder lightly with his lips. ‘Right then, love. The night club it shall be, though I suppose I shall spend the evening protecting you from the local lechers.' ‘I can protect myself,’ Joanna protested, a little pettishly, and he smiled at her. ‘I've brought you a treat. Would you believe—an English newspaper?' ‘Lord! How many days behind the times?’ Joanna said as he handed it to her. She opened it at the social pages and cast a casual eye over the engagement notices, but none of her friends were among them. Engagements seemed to be going out of fashion, she thought. Trial marriages were the ‘in’ thing, but not, she was secretly relieved to acknowledge, where her father was concerned. She glanced dismissively over some of the items on the front page, ignoring the discussion between Paul and Mary on whether they should have a light or a heavy lunch. ‘Anything interesting?’ Tony squinted over her shoulder. ‘The usual mess. Another big bank robbery in London. A row in the House of Commons over cuts in spending. Some Red scientist defecting from a conference in Venice.’ Joanna tossed the paper to the deck. ‘But it's all so out of date. World War Three could have started without us.’ She looked impatiently at Mary and Paul. ‘Oh, do stop it, you two. It's too hot for anything but salad anyway, and I hope you've brought some decent cheese.' ‘Yes, o queen,’ Paul muttered. ‘Come on, darling. We'll get things started.' Joanna looked after them as they disappeared down the companionway and there was a bright spot of colour in each cheek. Tony touched her arm gently. ‘Joanna?' She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Is that what I'm like?' He hesitated. ‘A bit—but it doesn't matter to me, love, because I know you don't mean it. Having your own way over things comes naturally to you, somehow, and of course Uncle Bernard being as he is …' ‘What do you mean?’ She stared at him. ‘Well, darling, he is—Rear-Admiral Leighton. I know he has a desk job these days, but he does still give the impression of being on a quarterdeck somewhere supervising a keelhauling, and—sometimes—it takes some getting over.’ His voice died away a little unhappily. Joanna said tautly, ‘I see.’ She stared hard at the immaculate polish on her toenails. ‘I'm sorry, Tony. I'll try and be a little less—regal from now on.' He nuzzled her shoulder. ‘I think you're perfect,’ he whispered. ‘Then you're a fool,’ she said, but smiled, robbing the words of their sting. ‘I think perhaps the queen had better make amends by helping with lunch.' Shs got to her feet, slim and lithe in the minuscule black bikini, but somehow the golden day seemed less radiant, she thought. In her attempt to be amenable, Joanna not only helped Mary prepare lunch but insisted on clearing away and washing up afterwards, while Mary sat in the most sheltered corner of the deck with a selection from the stock of paperback thrillers they had found in one of the fitted cupboards in the saloon. As she tidied the last of the cutlery away and wiped down the surfaces, Joanna could hear the murmur of voices from the saloon and guessed that Paul and Tony had got the charts out to plan the next stage of their trip. Tony loved sailing, she thought, pushing a strand of bright auburn hair back from her damp forehead. It was a pity in many ways that he had no boat of his own. He had been loaned Luana by the senior partner of the firm of architects where he and Paul both worked. Both the partner and his wife were keen sailors and kept the boat moored at Cannes, spending as much of the summer as they could in the South of France. This year, however, they had gone to Canada, where their eldest son was being married, and Tony and Paul had been offered the use of the boat. Joanna looked round with slightly critical eyes. Luana was fine for two, she thought, but definitely crowded for four. Not for the first time, she toyed with the idea of persuading her father to give Tony and herself a boat as a wedding present. They could spend their honeymoon on board, she thought, at the same time acknowledging that her father would not really approve of the idea. She could almost hear his voice— ‘Behaving like a lot of damned hippies.' His idea of a honeymoon would be a luxury hotel in Paris or Rome, she decided with amused impatience. On the whole, he seemed quite pleased with the idea of her marrying Tony. His only complaint was that Tony had become an architect, instead of joining the Navy as his uncle had suggested, but eventually he admitted that at least this decision showed that the boy had some mind of his own. Tony must take after his father, Joanna thought, because both Mary and Aunt Laura were hardly strong characters. Her father had taken the whole family under his rather formidable wing when Anthony Leighton had died suddenly of a heart attack some years before. Mary and Joanna were only a few months apart in age, and Sir Bernard had arranged for them to attend the same school, apparently under the conviction that they would be ideal companions for each other. He had also hoped that Aunt Laura would provide Joanna with the mother she had lost while still a baby. None of it had really worked out at all, Joanna thought ruefully. She and Mary had barely anything in common except the family name. Mary was inches shorter than she was and inclined to be dumpy, and she was sometimes quick to show resentment of her taller, more attractive cousin. And while Tony had always appeared totally oblivious to the difference in financial standing between both halves of the family, both Mary and Aunt Laura had made no secret of their awareness that they were the ‘poor relations’ of the Leighton family. In a way, Joanna was thankful that Mary had met Paul and fallen in love with him and settled her own future so painlessly. She would no longer feel obliged to see that Mary received the same party invitations as herself. Not that Mary had ever been particularly grateful for Joanna's efforts to broaden her social life. Joanna had gone through a fairly prolonged art college phase, before eventually recognising the limitations of her talent, and Mary had not approved of the circle of friends she had acquired as a consequence. Mary had an almost suburban horror of ‘getting talked about', and Joanna admitted it was fair to say that some of the past exploits of members of her circle had enlivened the gossip columns of some of the less responsible daily papers, while she had grown quite accustomed to her own doings being highlighted in the social pages of glossy magazines. On top of that, there had been regular battles with her father, who had condemned all her friends out of hand as ‘hippies and long-haired layabouts'. At first Tony had been someone to grumble to occasionally about her father's uncompromising attitude, but soon she began to enjoy his companionship for its own sake, and not merely because he was her cousin and happened to be handy. Probably that was why her father had made so little demur about their relationship. He was undoubtedly relieved that she seemed to have chosen someone who corresponded fairly well to his idea of an eligible young man. She looked into the saloon, thick with the smoke from Paul's pipe, and grimaced at the charts spread over the folding table. ‘Where next, Marco Polo?' ‘Corsica, we think, eventually, but we're going to stop here first.’ Tony's finger stabbed a point on the chart. ‘Saracina. It's only a tiny island, but it sounds quite interesting and it's only a couple of hours from here. Rocky, of course, but with a few nice bathing beaches.' ‘Well, that's what we want,’ Joanna said lightly. ‘Nothing too civilised.' Paul got up and stretched, knocking his pipe out into a large pottery ashtray. ‘I'll go and see what Mary's doing, I think.' Tony watched him go with a grin, then turned to Joanna, holding out his arms and drawing her down on to his knee. ‘That's what is known as a tactical—and tactful—withdrawal,’ he mentioned. ‘Tact isn't the quality I most associate with Paul,’ Joanna muttered. ‘I wish you liked each other better. He's a great guy when you get to know him—and we shall all be related in the near future.' ‘When he marries Mary.’ She took a strand of his fair hair and wound it round her finger. ‘I wasn't just thinking of that.’ He pulled her head down to him and kissed her on the mouth. It was a long kiss, more intimate than those they usually shared, and Joanna found herself enjoying the pressure of his lips and the movement of his warm hands on her half naked body. Nice Tony, she thought, almost drowsily, realising that she was allowing him more licence with his caresses than she normally permitted. But when his straying fingers penetrated into the bra top of her bikini, she drew away at once. ‘Oh, Jo,’ Tony groaned. ‘What's wrong?' ‘Nothing's wrong. You know the rules.' ‘By heart. As formulated by Rear-Admiral Sir Bernard Leighton, R.N.—to name only a few.’ He sounded sulky and she gazed at him, concerned. ‘But I thought you agreed …' ‘Of course I did. I would have agreed to anything to get you away with me. Now you're here and—nothing's really different, is it? Big Daddy's influence reaches a long way.' ‘That's horrible.’ She twisted away from him and stood up. ‘I'm sorry,’ he sounded tired. ‘It's just that I thought once we were out of sight, we would also be out of mind.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I meant to keep my promise to your father, but it did cross my mind that there could come a time when we would be so carried away that nothing would matter except each other. I feel like that whenever I'm with you, but I'm beginning to realise I'm on my own.' ‘Are you saying I'm frigid?’ Joanna questioned him furiously. ‘No—far from it. I think there's a vibrant, passionate woman waiting to be awoken in you, Jo. But she'll never come alive while you're so much under your father's thumb. I've wondered a few times if what you need isn't a man who could dominate you even more than he does. Someone your father wouldn't dare to take aside on your wedding day and order to be gentle with you on your first night. Someone who'd tell the old boy to mind his own damned business.' Joanna looked down unseeingly at the littered charts, her eyes blurred with tears. ‘If you think Daddy interferes too much in my life, it's only because he loves me,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you loved me, Tony. Don't you want to protect me—or would you prefer it if I'd slept around with every man I'd met since I was sixteen?' ‘Of course not.’ He got up and came over to her, drawing her against him with gentle hands. ‘Love, if I've upset you, I'll cut my throat. It's just so—frustrating sometimes, having you so near. Probably your father was right to say what he did to me. He certainly seemed to know more about what I'd be feeling than I did.' He kissed her again, but this time the caress was deliberately light. When he let her go, Joanna stood on tiptoe and brushed his mouth with hers. ‘You're so wrong, Tony,’ she murmured. ‘I don't want another dominating man. I want a real partnership.' ‘I'll just have to hope that's what you continue to want,’ he said, firmly putting her away from him. ‘I could use a drink. I'll go and see what the others want.' While he was gone, Joanna tidied away the charts and collected some cans of iced lager from the refrigerator unit in the galley. She wanted a few moments to allow her emotions to calm down before she presented herself on deck. She was startled and a little worried by Tony's outburst. Startled, because of the sudden depth of feeling he had displayed and worried by the possibility of future friction between her father and himself. She sighed. Maybe the close proximity they had been forced into since the cruise began had something to do with it. It was a strain with the four of them living so close together. They had all become edgy, and an evening ashore even with Calista's limited night life might be good for them all, she thought optimistically. Hours later she was convinced of it. Surrounded by a shouting, laughing crowd, bumped and pushed but loving every minute of it, she danced to every beat record that the trattoria's ancient jukebox could provide. She had dressed with daring simplicity in a pair of stark white trousers, fitting closely over her hips and flaring towards the ankles, and a brief halter-necked black top which made the most of her tan. She had caught her slightly waving mass of coppery hair up off her neck, securing it with a black velvet ribbon. Her wide hazel eyes sparkled, partly through excitement and partly because of the rough red wine which was Calista's most acceptable drink. She knew she was the cynosure of every male eye, and the knowledge delighted her. She was delighted too at the way Tony stuck determinedly to her side, making sure that no one got an opportunity to pester her. There was an expression in his eyes when he looked at her that made the back of her neck tingle pleasurably. She even found herself wondering whether it would be possible for them to return to the boat on their own for a time. She knew what she was inviting, and the thought made her pulses throb uncertainly. Was that what she wanted, or was she merely letting the wine and the music take over? Suddenly she didn't know any more. and when Tony reached out and took her into his arms on the crowded space between the tables that served as a dance floor, her hands came up at once to push him away. ‘Darling, don't be silly. It's the wrong sort of music for that.' ‘Oh, Jo, I want you,’ he said huskily. ‘What we both want is more wine,’ she spoke lightly, trying to dispel the awkward moment, caught suddenly in two minds and uncertain which one to choose. ‘Come on, I'm parched. We'll go back to the table.’ She edged her way, laughing and acknowledging greetings and frankly appreciative comments as she went. Tony followed, his good-looking face mutinous. ‘I don't like hearing you spoken to like that.' ‘Like what?’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Don't tell me you could understand what they were saying.' ‘I don't have to be a language expert to read their minds,’ he retorted sullenly. ‘Well, what people are thinking is a matter of supreme indifference to me,’ she flung at him as they joined Paul and Mary, who were sitting at a candlelit table in the corner making rather laborious conversation interspersed with many gestures with two local fishermen. They rose and bowed admiringly as Joanna dropped into her chair. Then the conversation began again. How long were they staying in Calista? Only until tomorrow? But that was a tragedy, to think that the signorina would never dance in the trattoria again. Where were they going next? ‘Oh, that's easy,’ Paul said. ‘We decided that this afternoon, didn't we, Tony? We're going further down the coast to a little island called Saracina, and we'll tie up there for a night or two … What's wrong?' The taller of the two fishermen had seized his arm with an alarmed expression. ‘Not Saracina,’ he said, shaking his head for greater emphasis. ‘Not Saracina. Not good.' ‘What's wrong with the place?’ Tony leaned forward. ‘Surely it's inhabited.’ He enunciated slowly and carefully, ‘People—live—there.' Both men nodded vigorously. ‘You keep away. Not good. Not want—visitors.' Joanna spoke coolly and incisively, her words aimed at Tony and Paul, who were exchanging concerned glances. ‘Well, I'm afraid visitors are what they're going to get. It all sounds most intriguing, and I wouldn't dream of keeping away simply because the islanders want to remain exclusive.' The shorter fisherman, who had a moustache, broke in excitedly. ‘We go there—fish—since two days. Men come in boats—with guns. You stay here. Not go to Saracina.' ‘Gunboats?’ Tony muttered. ‘Hell's teeth! Perhaps we should keep away at that.' ‘Oh, I don't want to go anywhere where there might be guns,’ Mary said with a shudder. ‘I've never heard such nonsense,’ Joanna exclaimed impatiently. ‘Maybe the fishing's private or something, and they want to keep the boats away, but we don't want to fish. We just want to tie up in one of the bays and spend the night. There's no harm in that.' ‘Well, I think we should give it a miss,’ Paul said, his voice stubborn. ‘Oh, for heaven's sake!’ Joanna threw herself angrily back in her chair. ‘We've made our plans. Are you going to change them just because of a little scaremongering by a couple of fishermen? They probably got chased for—poaching or something, and are just making this story up to cover themselves for running away. There's nothing on the charts about Saracina being prohibited to shipping. I insist that at least we go and see for ourselves.' Looking at Tony, she could see he was weakening, but Paul was made of sterner stuff. ‘Well, I came on this cruise for some sunshine and a few laughs and to help Tony sail the boat,’ he said. ‘We've had plenty of sun, I'll admit, but the laughs are getting thinner on the ground all the time. One thing I'm not prepared to do is take my future wife anywhere where there could be danger of any sort. That's final, and if Joanna still insists on going, Mary and I will find a boat to take us to the nearest large port and go home.' Biting her lip with vexation, Joanna saw that Tony and Mary were both staring at him in open admiration. The two fishermen sat uneasily silent, obviously aware that the previously relaxed group were now in conflict over what they had said. Joanna forced herself to smile. ‘There's no need to go to those lengths,’ she said. ‘If you feel so strongly about it …' ‘I do,’ Paul interrupted. ‘If you really do feel so strongly,’ she repeated, raising her voice a fraction, ‘then why not spend another day and night here? I'm sure while we're anchored in their harbour and coming ashore spending money, the locals will be only too delighted to invent further fairy tales to prevent us from moving on.' ‘Jo,’ Tony murmured uncomfortably, ‘keep your voice down, love. I'm sure some of these people can understand what we're saying. We've had a couple of very funny looks.' Paul got up, scraping his chair. ‘Come on, darling,’ he said to Mary. ‘Otherwise I might say something to Her Majesty that we might all regret.' Joanna had already realised she had gone too far, and had been all set to apologise. But Paul's words halted the apology on her lips. After all, she thought, seething, it was Paul and Tony who had found Saracina on the chart and decided to make it the next port of call. All she had wanted was to stick to the arrangements that had been decided on. She disliked last-minute changes of plan, because in her experience they were invariably for the worse. The thought of spending a further day in Calista, suffering the resentment of Paul and Mary, appalled her. Besides, she had really wanted to go to Saracina. Still wanted to, in fact, in spite of everything that had been said. She drank some more wine, while the first germs of a plan began to ferment in her brain. So the others wanted to spend a day ashore here. Well, they were welcome to do so. She would take her bikini and a towel and some food and find a friendly boatman who would take her to Saracina. But she wouldn't tell the others what she intended to do. She would make the excuse she wanted to stay behind for another sunbathing session on Luana. Her spirits rose. There must be someone on Calista who would be willing, for a price, to take her to Saracina and leave her there for a few hours. She would have a whole day in blissful solitude, while the other three wandered round the same streets, avoiding the same donkey droppings and being taken for a ride by the same street vendors. And it would just serve them right for being so stupid. She came back with a start to the present to find that the two fishermen were apparently taking their leave, leaning over Tony and talking rapidly in their own language. ‘What were they saying?’ she asked idly as they moved away across the smoky room. ‘I don't know. Paul's the language expert, not me. I could only pick up about one word in twenty,’ Tony frowned perplexedly. ‘But they were still talking about Saracina, and I could have sworn that the short one said something about a lion.' ‘First guns, now wild animals.’ Joanna's smile was satirical. ‘They must have a good reason for wanting us to keep away from there. Smuggling, I daresay.' ‘Well, it doesn't matter. We're going to steer well clear of the place. I don't like the sound of any of it,’ Tony said a little impatiently. ‘And there's Corsica to look forward to. Don't forget that.' Joanna looked at him sideways under her long lashes. ‘Oh, I won't,’ she agreed sweetly. They were interrupted at that moment by one of the local young men who had summoned up the courage to ask Joanna to dance with him. In spite of Tony's evident disapproval, she agreed charmingly, telling herself he needed to be taught a lesson and did not deserve any particular consideration. She was much in demand for the remainder of the evening, as the local men vied with each other for a chance to partner her. It was all very flattering and a little heady, and as Joanna glanced through the crowd towards the table, she saw that Paul and Mary had returned and were sitting with their heads together with Tony. Criticising her, no doubt, she thought rebelliously. Well, she'd give them something to be critical about. At last Tony made his way through the crowd to her side. ‘I think it's time we were going, Jo,’ he said tautly. ‘Oh, why?’ she laughed up at him, buoyed up by the chorus of groans from the men around her. ‘Because it's late.' ‘It's not that late, and it was you who discovered this place anyway.’ She knew she was being deliberately obstructive but told herself she didn't care. ‘I'm enjoying myself, and I don't want to leave. You three go on back. I'm sure I can find someone to bring me back to the boat later on.' Tony looked furious. ‘No chance,’ he said grimly. ‘We'll wait until it's convenient for you to leave.' Joanna watched him turn on his heel and walk away and sighed a little. She would have to leave, in spite of what she had said. She didn't want to give Paul and Mary any further ammunition for their complaints about her behaviour. And if she was truthful, she was tired herself. So she followed Tony back to the table, apologised meekly but with a glint in her eye for having kept them all waiting, and allowed herself to be shepherded back to the Luana. She had hoped that the wine and the dancing would have made Mary sleepy, but as they undressed awkwardly in a rather fraught silence in the tiny cramped cabin they shared, Joanna soon realised that Mary wanted to talk and was merely biding her time. It was also obvious that she viewed herself quite erroneously in the role of peacemaker. Mary was quite willing to acknowledge that Paul should not have said what he did, but neither, she pointed out, should Joanna always expect her own way. ‘Tony's patience won't last for ever. After all, living with other people requires give and take,’ she declared sententiously. ‘Precisely,’ Joanna agreed a little drily, allowing Mary's rather self-righteous remarks about making sacrifices for the person you loved and not always expecting to be the centre of attention to drift over her. But after her cousin's voice had died away and been replaced by quiet, steady breathing, Joanna lay awake, thinking. Mary had been right about one thing, she decided. There should be an element of give and take in a relationship. The main problem with her father and herself was that they both seemed to be takers, she realised a little wanly. It was not a particularly comfortable thought and she switched her attention to her plans for tomorrow with a pleasurable feeling of excitement. On her way through the saloon she had appropriated one of the local guide books that were kept on the boat, and now she reached up to the shelf above her bunk for the small torch she kept there. The book dealt mainly with the larger islands in the vicinity, like Corsica, Sardinia and Elba. Saracina, which lay to the north of Corsica, barely merited a paragraph, but that was probably as much as its size warranted, she thought. As if anyone would want to keep people away from a place that size! But as she read the book, she soon discovered that people had once been kept away with a vengeance. One of the features of Saracina, which appeared to be mainly rocky with a small fertile hinterland, was the remains of some old fortifications built by the islanders of long ago to keep away marauders like the Saracen Turks and Barbary pirates who had been the scourge of the Mediterranean at one time. Joanna pursed her lips. In the ordinary way she would have enjoyed a visit to what was left of the fortifications. She liked scrambling around on historical sites and letting her imagination have full play. But this time, she felt she would stick to her original idea and find a quiet little beach to stay on, well away from Saracina town itself or any other centres of population that might exist. After all, on a beach she would be doing no harm to anyone, even hostile islanders who liked to emulate their ancestors by defending their privacy with guns. She tossed the book aside and lay down, switching off her torch, her mind roving as it sometimes did before sleep claimed her. ‘I won't be selfish any more,’ she thought drowsily. ‘I will gave Tony more consideration, and I'll make an effort to get on with Paul and not expect everyone to give way to me all the time.' But such virtuous resolutions deserved one final fling, she convinced herself—her trip to Saracina, before she settled down and became a solid citizen. She was almost asleep when the thought came to her, forcing her to sit up, fumbling once again for the guide book and the torch. But though she searched right through the book, nowhere, to her relief, could she find any reference to lions, past or present, on Saracina. CHAPTER TWO (#u9d95e83f-9f9a-5f38-af76-5458249d8583) JOANNA never forgot her first view of Saracina. It rose out of the faint haze that hung over the sea, a black jagged shape against the unbroken blue of the sky and water. In spite of its rather forbidding aspect, she felt her pulses quicken, and that faint, strange excitement stirred in her stomach again. It had all been worth it after all, she thought exultantly. Getting to the island had proved to be no easy task. The first part of her plan had worked like a charm—if she discounted the obvious hurt she had inflicted on Tony by preferring her own company to his. She had almost been tempted to tell him about her good resolutions for the future—almost, but not quite. Breakfast had been an uncomfortable meal with Tony sulky and reproachful and Paul and Mary exchanging glances, at once pitying and superior. She had seen them safely on their way, then slipped into her black bikini which she topped with a simple white towelling shift with a cowl neckline. She piled her book, cosmetics and other belongings into a big straw beach bag, and went up on deck. It was a matter of moments, hailing a passing dinghy and persuading the owner to take her to the quay, but there her troubles began. It seemed the fishermen in the bar last night had not been alone in their desire to boycott Saracina. Her tentative inquiries about hiring a boat to take her there and bring her back in the late afternoon were met with shrugs, evasions and sometimes downright refusals, accompanied by a spit on the floor. Joanna began to feel thoroughly frustrated. She was afraid too that word might begin to spread through the little port that the English signorina with red hair was trying to get to Saracina and that Tony and the others might hear and arrive in time to prevent her. She had just begun to feel that she would have to abandon her quest and return to Luana to spend the day after all, when someone mentioned the name Pietro. Immediately a ripple of laughter ran round the listening men, and Joanna, straining to follow the quick Italian, learned that Pietro was the one man who might be willing to risk a trip to Saracina in his boat, being, added her informant, tapping his head significantly, completely mad. Joanna was taken aback. She hardly wished to embark in a small boat with a lunatic, but she soon gathered from the halting explanations in very broken English from some of the other men that Pietro's madness lay rather in foolhardiness than in any actual mental deficiency. When the madman eventually appeared in a striped sleeveless vest and jeans covered in fish scales, Joanna thought with a hidden smile that he was the nearest thing to the answer to a maiden's prayer in every way that she had ever seen. Pietro appeared equally impressed. He managed to convey with much gesturing and eye-rolling that he would be overjoyed to convey la bella signorina wherever she might wish to go, and was desolate that anything as sordid as money had to enter into the transaction. But on this point, Joanna was firm. She did not want her trip with Pietro to be on anything but a strictly business footing. Judging by the speed with which he recovered from his broken heart and stowed the generous amount of money she gave him in some mysterious pocket in his vest, Joanna guessed he probably had a strong-minded wife and several children not too far in the background. As they pulled away from the quayside, Joanna saw that some of the boatmen she had spoken to were standing watching them depart. But there was none of the calling, waving and handkissing which usually attended departures. The men's faces were unsmiling, and some were almost contemptuous, Joanna thought resentfully. She got the impression that while Pietro could be mad, and accepted as such with a shrug, she was regarded as a fool, and a fool who was also a woman, which condemned her utterly. She was glad to turn her back on the harbour wall and the row of watching figures and lift her face to the open sea, revelling in the movement of the boat and the slap of the little waves against the bow. A day out of time, she thought exultantly. A day that belonged to her. It was a strangely exhilarating thought and she began to smile. Behind her at the tiller, Pietro started to hum a tune in a loud but not unmusical voice. It was one of the tunes that had been chosen most often on the jukebox the previous evening, she recognised, and after a moment or two she joined in with him. In snatches of conversation between songs, she learned that he was from Genoa and had married a girl from Calista where he now worked for her father. Joanna guessed that a day trip to Saracina, however much risk was involved, was probably preferable to being at his father-in-law's beck and call all day. ‘We all want freedom,’ she thought, smiling to herself, but the smile faded as she suddenly realised what she had implied. But she was free—wasn't she? All her life she had come and gone pretty well as she pleased. She had started and later discarded a number of possible careers including her abortive art college courses without any real pressure being applied by her father. She could have got a flat of her own, if she had wanted, but it had always seemed less bother to live at home. Now for the first time she began to wonder if, in her restless flitting between jobs and courses, she had sacrificed her only real chance of independence. Perhaps it had suited her father quite well to have her living under his eye, without the demands of a career to distract her from acting as his hostess and running his home. Much of her life, she realised, had centred so far on attending to her father's needs and considering his likes and dislikes. He invariably demanded that his home should be run like clockwork, but he always held aloof from any problems that arose, and Joanna had known from her early teens that he expected her to cope with staff and make all the everyday decisions that he preferred to avoid. If she married Tony, would she merely be exchanging one housekeeping job for another? It was an unexpectedly dismal thought, and she noticed with a slight shiver that she had said ‘if’ she married, and not ‘when’ as if there was still a basic doubt in her mind. And it was no use thinking she was going to escape from her father's sphere by her marriage. She knew it was his intention to turn part of his large London house into a flat for them, and she recalled with some surprise that Tony had raised no objection to the plan when it was first hinted at. The reservations had all been hers. She shook herself impatiently, trying to dispel her sombre mood, and grinned almost with relief when Pietro burst into a full-blooded rendering of ‘O Sole Mio.' Her search for a boat had taken longer than she had realised, and it was well after midday when Saracina came into sight. She was watching it so eagerly that it was a few minutes before she realised that Pietro had stopped singing. Of course, it could just have been that he had exhausted his considerable repertoire of songs, but Joanna, glancing at him, noticed that his normally cheerful expression had been replaced by a faint, anxious scowl and that he kept scanning the horizon as if he was searching for something that he did not particularly want to find. She moistened suddenly dry lips. The sea around them seemed to empty. Apart from themselves, the only sign of life was that unwelcoming-looking lump of rock getting steadily nearer. If something happened—she preferred not to be too definitive about what—they could simply disappear into the tranquil water without trace, she thought uneasily. Of course Tony would know where she had gone. She had left a brief note on Luana explaining. And with any luck by the time she got back Paul and Mary would have said all they had to say about her wilfulness, selfishness and general pigheadedness. ‘Nuts to them,’ she thought inelegantly. ‘From tomorrow I'll be so good, they'll award me the Nobel Peace Prize!' It was an odd feeling, standing on the silvery sand of the tiny bay, watching Pietro's boat with its tan sail disappearing round the rocky headland. So—they had come, and he had gone, and no one, gunslinger or islander, was any the wiser. In a way, it was all a bit of an anticlimax. She swung round to the towering cliff behind her, shading her eyes as she stared at the top. Nothing moved—not even a goat. There was a path of sorts leading to the clifftop, but she resolutely ignored it. She had made up her mind to stay on the beach, and Pietro had chosen this bay particularly because, he had intimated, it was furthest from the inhabited part of the island. She dropped her beach bag on to the sand and kicked off her pretty straw sandals. She was here, and the utter peace of this deserted cove was everything she had dreamed. And she had until five o'clock when Pietro was to return to her. She stripped off the towelling shift, throwing it carelessly down beside the bag, and walked into the faintly creaming shallows. The water felt warm to her feet, and she threw back her head, letting the slight breeze take her hair. She lifted her arms, almost in obeisance to the sun, and stood motionless for a moment before running forward and plunging into the slight swell of the sea. Timelessly, thoughtlessly, she swam and floated and basked, feeling for the first time in her life that she was part of the elements, a creature of air, sea and sun. She plunged under the water, digging her fingers into the firm rippled sand on the seabed to find shells. She lay in the shallows, letting the tiny waves wash over her body. She had never known such tranquillity. She thought, ‘I'm happy,’ and wondered with a pang why the realisation should bring such a swift sense of desolation in its wake. Hunger eventually drove her back to the beach. She spread her coloured towel on a large flat rock near the water's edge and produced the lunch she had bought in Calista that morning. There were rolls filled with fresh chicken, some small sweet tomatoes and a huge bunch of black grapes. She had brought some cans of lager from Luana, but it was warm and she grimaced a little as she tasted it, resolving to find a convenient pool to cool the remainder in during the afternoon. Seabirds came sweeping apparently from nowhere out of the dazzling air, screeching and squabbling over the scraps she threw them. When the food was gone, they went too—and that warm drowsy quiet descended again. Motionless on her rock, Joanna felt as if she was poised on the edge of the world. She stretched languidly, enjoying the feel of the sun and salt on her skin, then ran a tentative hand through her damp hair. She reached into her bag for a comb and began to tug it through the worst of the tangles. It was oddly relaxing sitting on her rock, smoothing her hair. ‘I feel like a mermaid,’ she thought dreamily, and giggled. She stretched out her legs, putting her ankles together and pointing her toes, imagining they were the tapering of a long silver tail. Anyone watching would think she was quite mad, she decided idly, and with the thought came a swift feeling of unease. She turned to the cliff again, scanning the top with narrowed eyes, but again all seemed quiet. She looked back at her legs, assessing them candidly, along with her general height and shape. A number of people had suggested to her in the past that she should take up a modelling career, but she had refused to consider it seriously, regarding it as overcrowded a profession as the stage and with as little chance of success. But now she was not so sure. About a month before she had met a leading fashion photographer, Gil Weaver, at a party and he had asked her outright if she would let him photograph her. At first she had thought he must be joking, but he had persuaded her that he was perfectly serious. ‘You're not chocolate box, darling, but then I wouldn't want you if you were,’ he said. ‘But I like the way you look and move, and the way you wear your clothes instead of letting them wear you.' She had been really excited when she told Tony and her father about the conversation, pointing out that Gil Weaver had launched several very successful faces on their careers in the past, but the response from them both had been negative, even faintly hostile. Tony had been jealous, she knew, over the idea of her becoming closely involved even in a professional way with another man, but her father's reaction was less easy to assess. She had decided eventually that it was because she would be moving into a new world, where he had no influence, and it would therefore be beyond his power to help her with her career. He had also made it clear that he regarded it as little more than another of her whims, and that he did not expect it to last. But this time she would stick to it, she thought grimly, in spite of their opposition. She sighed a little, foreseeing battles ahead. She would have to convince both Tony and her father that this time she was not merely being wilful, but really wanted to carve out some sort of professional niche for herself. ‘I'll use a different name too,’ she thought. ‘Then whether I succeed or fail, it will all be my own doing and no concern of the magic Leighton name.' She reached for her suntan oil and began smoothing it on to her shoulders and arms, pushing aside the straps of her bikini to make sure all her skin was covered. Then she paused. After all, she was quite alone and it would be more than a couple of hours before Pietro returned. This was her chance to acquire a proper tan at last, without the danger of strap marks spoiling its perfection. And St Tropez was not so very far away, with its crowded beaches where people wore the absolute minimum without anyone raising an eyebrow, while here there was no one to see her at all—so … She pulled at the fastening of her bikini bra and dropped the tiny garment into her bag. There were many times on the Luana when she had longed to do the same, but she had been so rarely alone, and there had always been Mary to look shocked at her lack of modesty. She oiled and toasted her slim body without reserve, revelling in the warm rays of the sun. She knew that her father and Aunt Laura would be shocked beyond words if they could see her. All their worst forebodings about the Mediterranean would have come true, she thought, smiling to herself. When she had sunned herself sufficiently, she pulled her towel into the shelter of an overhanging rock, and lay down on her stomach in the shade. The air was shimmering and dancing in the full heat of the afternoon, and she closed her eyes against the glare from the surrounding rocks. The sea murmured drowsily in the distance and a soft drone of insects sounded in her ears. She thought ‘I shall be asleep in a moment, but I mustn't … I mustn't …’ even as she drifted away on a cloud of sweet oblivion. She never knew what woke her. She only knew that when she eventually turned her head, feeling the sand gritty under her cheek, her eyes focused suddenly on a pair of highly polished boots only a foot or two away from her recumbent form. And behind them, another pair. And just to the left, yet another pair. For a moment, she lay frozen, staring in disbelief, then with fingers made clumsy by shock and embarrassment, she snatched up her towelling shift and held it defensively in front of her as she sat up. It was worse than any nightmare. There were at least half a dozen of them, all wearing some kind of dark green uniform with polished kneeboots. There were no guns actually being pointed at her, but each man wore a holster at his hip, she recognised, her stomach hollow with fear. She wanted to speak, but to her humiliation words would not come. Her throat was too dry. The silence seemed to go on for ever. The man nearest to her seemed to be in authority. He was wearing a peaked cap, and carried a cane. When at last he addressed her, to her shock it was in heavily accented but correct English. ‘Be good enough to dress yourself, signorina, and come with us.' ‘Come where?’ she managed huskily. ‘That is not for me to say or you to know. I have my orders. Please be quick. We shall not observe you.' He signalled to the other men, who obediently turned their backs, although Joanna caught two of the younger ones exchanging knowing and regretful grins. She was blushing to the roots of her hair by the time she had struggled back into her bikini top and dragged the shift on over it, but at least she was covered again, and a good measure of her assurance returned with the knowledge. She picked up her towel and shook it free of sand before folding it and stuffing it back into her straw bag. She knew the man in charge was watching her, and hoped he could not see that she was shaking, although whether fear or anger was the paramount emotion possessing her she could not be sure. ‘Come, signorina.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘You won't get away with this,’ she protested, hating herself for the involuntary tremor in her voice. ‘My boatman will be returning for me soon and …’ Her voice tailed away as she saw him slowly shake his head. ‘It would be foolish to expect him, signorina,’ he said. ‘But I gave him instructions,’ she began. ‘So did we,’ he said gently. ‘When we stopped friend Pietro not long after he left you here.' ‘You haven't killed him?’ she cried. ‘But no,’ he sounded almost reassuring. ‘We are not savages.' ‘Then let me go,’ she said, despising herself for the pleading note in her voice. ‘But where would you go, signorina?’ His tone was quite reasonable. ‘You have no way of leaving the island, after all.' Suddenly Joanna moved, thrusting at him with her bag so that he involuntarily staggered back as it hit him on the chest. She ran then, twisting madly to evade the clutching hands of the others as they stumbled in the soft sand, straight towards the sea a few yards away. She had no rational idea of what she was going to do, but she was quite a strong swimmer and that headland was not all that far away. If she could only reach those rocks just beyond it, there was always a chance that Tony and Luana would come in search of her and rescue her before her would-be captors could reach her by way of the rocky coves. She could see no sign of a boat and guessed they must have come down the cliff to reach her. She was already waist-deep in water when the first man reached her. She fought him off furiously, striking him with her fists and nails, but he held her long enough for one of the others to reach them and then a third. She was carried, kicking and struggling, dripping wet out of the water, and dumped unceremoniously on the beach. This time they held her tightly by both arms and she knew with a sinking heart that her only chance of immediate escape had gone. Joanna felt cold and sick. She was out of her depth and she knew it. Reality was here in these hands which were bruising the soft flesh of her arms and in the dark, jeering faces of the men surrounding her. She closed her eyes to shut them out and as she stood silently, she heard someone make a low-voiced remark in his own language that was greeted with a shout of laughter. There was an indefinable note in that laughter that somehow alarmed her even more than anything that had gone before, and she swung to the man who spoke English. ‘What did he say?’ she asked, still breathless. ‘Calm yourself, signorina. It was nothing.’ His voice was grave, but she could see amusement flickering in his slanting dark eyes. ‘I insist on knowing.’ This time it wasn't a frightened forlorn girl who spoke, but Sir Bernard Leighton's daughter with a lifetime of demanding her own way behind her. For a moment he hesitated, then shrugged. ‘And why should you not know, signorina? It was an idle joke, nothing more.' ‘And it referred to me?' ‘Si.' He paused again, his lips twitched slightly. ‘He spoke the truth, signorina. He said that such a wildcat would make a fine gift for the lion.' Again she felt that chill. The imprisoning hands and the crowding men were suddenly a threat almost too great to be borne. What did they mean—a gift for the lion? Her mind ran wildly on childhood legends, forgotten long ago, she had thought, but now surfacing in her consciousness to torment her. Stories she had read of human sacrifice to wild animals in arenas not so very far from this spot; of Theseus waiting in the dark of the Cretan labyrinth for the bull-man Minotaur. In spite of herself, she shuddered. Whatever hidden secret Saracina held, she wanted no part of it. She could bear anything—Tony's anger, Paul and Mary's recriminations—if only she was safely out of this. She told herself she was being ridiculous—letting her imagination run riot to feed her fear. And yet wasn't the fact that she was here, a prisoner in the hands of these men, equally ridiculous? ‘Come, signorina.’ She was being urged not altogether gently towards the cliff path, stumbling in the sodden ruin of her expensive sandals which she hadn't had time to kick off before her abortive escape bid. Her dress clung to her in clammy discomfort, and water dripped from her hair down her face and neck. How far were they expecting her to walk in this state? she wondered numbly. At the top of the cliff, she was answered. A small jeep stood waiting, the driver at the wheel. ‘Get in, signorina.’ The leader, his lips slightly compressed, spread her own towel on the seat for her to sit on. Joanna silently complied. She had no choice. The only cheering thought was that the men who had dragged her back from the sea were equally wet and uncomfortable as their uniforms steamed in the sun. One of them sat on either side of her and the leader climbed into the front beside the driver, giving some orders in his own language to the remaining men who presumably had to walk to wherever she was being taken. The jeep set off with a jerk which threw her sideways. She recovered her balance with as much dignity as she could. She still had no idea where they were going, she realised in dismay, but guessed it had to be the town of Saracina itself. She gazed around as they drove along the narrow road, white with dust that led away from the sea. In many ways it was little better than a track, she thought, gritting her teeth as the jeep jolted over a particularly deep rut. But it seemed as if she was to see something of the island after all, which had an irony all of its own. What she could see was rather as the guide book had described, rocky and rather arid, but the lower slopes were thickly covered in a bushy undergrowth, growing almost to the height of a man's waist in parts. Numerous flowering plants were to be seen amongst the greenery and a warm, pungent smell wafted into the jeep as it sped along. There were few really memorable landmarks to guide her, however, even supposing she did manage to escape again. And if she did, was this necessarily the best way to come? Presumably the town of Saracina itself had a harbour. She tried to reckon how much money she had left after her payment to Pietro. Supposing she could get her hands on it, would it be enough to bribe someone to take her back to Calista? The scenery was gradually becoming more rugged, and the hills on each side were becoming steeper and developing a kind of grandeur. One of them, lying ahead of them slightly blurred by distance and heat haze, was almost tall enough to qualify as a mountain, Joanna thought, shading her eyes to look at it. But there were no people about, and not even any real houses, just a few tumbledown stone shacks with empty sheep pens attached to the side of them. She turned to one of the men sitting beside her. ‘Dove tutti? Where is everybody?’ she asked haltingly. The man shrugged and burst into a long excited speech in which the only really comprehensible word seemed to be ‘palazzo'. Wasn't that a palace? Joanna wondered dazedly. Did a tiny island like this really warrant such a place, or had she misunderstood? But before she could inquire further, the leader had turned angrily from the front seat. ‘Silenzio!' he barked, and her informant subsided, looking hot under the collar to add to his discomfort. The leader appeared to be feeling the heat too, for he was unfastening the jacket of his uniform and removing it, before handing it back to one of Joanna's escorts with a muttered instruction. The jeep was climbing steeply now and the mountain was looming over them. Joanna could see the white slash of a waterfall cascading down its side and she craned her neck for a better view. Perhaps when they reached the summit of this hill they were climbing, they would see the town and she would find out if the palazzo existed or not. The jeep breasted the hill and Joanna leaned forward eagerly, peeping round the driver's rather portly frame. But before she had more than a fleeting glimpse of clustering red roofs somewhere below them, and the vivid gleam of the sea again beyond, something dark and muffling was thrown over her head. She cried out hysterically, trying to fight herself away from the hot, smothering folds. From a long way off, the leader's voice said, ‘I regret, signorina, this necessity, but you are neither to see nor to be seen. Those are my orders. You will be more comfortable if you stop this useless struggle.' She slumped in the seat, limp and wretched, conscious only of trying to breathe through the thick folds. It was his uniform jacket, she thought, and hoped vindictively that the seawater would ruin it. She lost all count of time, all idea of distance as they drove. Every jolt seemed somehow worse now that she could not see, and she was flung about at every bend because she was unable to brace herself beforehand. She felt as helpless as a baby. The motion changed. Everything was suddenly much bumpier. A cobbled street? she wondered. The jeep swung sharply to the left and began to climb again. Then it halted abruptly and Joanna could hear men's voices talking. They were laughing again too. At her? In spite of the stifling heat of the jacket and her fear, she was suddenly searingly angry. How dared they treat her like this? When she discovered who was responsible, she would make them sorry they were born. ‘Or perhaps they will do the same to you,’ an insidious inner voice whispered, and anger gave way again to a shudder of fear. 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 (#u9d95e83f-9f9a-5f38-af76-5458249d8583) 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 ‘Cal?che'—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. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sara-craven/gift-for-a-lion/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.