time, as she sat there, watching the little flame and thinking, she was listening for the moment when he would come upstairs.
He’d promised—but would he keep that promise, she thought, her heart thudding oddly. After all, he’d brought her to the brink of surrender as his own instincts and experience must have told him. Wasn’t it more than likely that he might decide to follow up the advantage he’d gained?
And if he came upstairs and saw a light under her door, mightn’t that provide the final prompting he needed?
With a burst of nervous energy, Gemma blew out the lamp. Moving quietly in the darkness, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the bathroom. The shirt she removed and hung over a chair. It might once again be all she had to wear tomorrow, she thought wryly. She turned back the coverlet to the bottom of the bed, and slipped under the thin sheet, welcoming its fresh coolness against her heated skin.
But she couldn’t relax. Tensely she lay looking up at the ceiling, and waiting for what might be.
It wasn’t a very big house, and in the quiet night air every little sound seemed magnified. She could hear him moving around downstairs—even, she thought, hear the chink of a bottle on a glass. It sounded as if he was drinking, and she wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or a bad.
And it was while she was trying to decide, that exhaustion finally claimed her, and she fell asleep.
When Gemma awoke, it was early daylight. For a moment, she was totally disorientated, staring round her wondering where she was, then memory came flooding back, and she sank back against the pillow with a little groan.
The events of the past twenty-four hours might just have been some awful dream. Now, she knew, it was all only too real.
She wondered what had woken her. It was at least an hour before she normally stirred. She slid out of bed, and, naked, padded over to the window, opening the shutters a cautious fraction. She could see the road leading down to the village quite plainly, and walking down it, away from the villa, was a girl, dark-haired and wearing a red dress.
As Gemma watched, the girl swung round in her tracks and stared back at the villa. Even from that distance, Gemma could see that she was a vibrantly pretty girl, although her looks were currently marred by a sullen expression, and her shoulders had a dejected droop as she continued to trudge down the track.
Gemma pursed her lips in a silent whistle, then grabbed the shirt from the chair, and thrust her arms into the sleeves, her fingers clumsy with haste as she tried to fasten the buttons. She needed to talk to that girl, and fast.
She let herself quietly out of her room, and slipped stealthily down the stairs.
The sun pouring in through the light curtains illuminated the living room with merciless emphasis. Gemma’s nose wrinkled as she surveyed the bottle and used glass which stood by the sofa, the ash tray, overflowing with butts, and the general disarray of cushions and rugs. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now, she told herself impatiently, and if she could just talk to that girl for a few moments, she might never have to bother about it at all.
She’d expected to have to wrestle with bolts on the door, but to her surprise it wasn’t even locked. She opened it with care, gritting her teeth as the hinges squeaked slightly. Not that it mattered, she thought optimistically. If that bottle was anything to go by, her captor should still be sleeping it off at noon.
‘You’re going somewhere?’
Gemma almost screamed. Certainly she jumped, whirling round, her heart thudding painfully. And, of course, he wasn’t sleeping anything off. He was standing in the archway watching her, hands resting lightly on his hips. He looked the worse for wear, however, his eyes narrowed against the light as if it hurt him, and she hoped that it did. His hair was dishevelled too, and he hadn’t shaved.
‘I was just letting in some
He’d promised—but would he keep that promise, she thought, her heart thudding oddly. After all, he’d brought her to the brink of surrender as his own instincts and experience must have told him. Wasn’t it more than likely that he might decide to follow up the advantage he’d gained?
And if he came upstairs and saw a light under her door, mightn’t that provide the final prompting he needed?
With a burst of nervous energy, Gemma blew out the lamp. Moving quietly in the darkness, she washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the bathroom. The shirt she removed and hung over a chair. It might once again be all she had to wear tomorrow, she thought wryly. She turned back the coverlet to the bottom of the bed, and slipped under the thin sheet, welcoming its fresh coolness against her heated skin.
But she couldn’t relax. Tensely she lay looking up at the ceiling, and waiting for what might be.
It wasn’t a very big house, and in the quiet night air every little sound seemed magnified. She could hear him moving around downstairs—even, she thought, hear the chink of a bottle on a glass. It sounded as if he was drinking, and she wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or a bad.
And it was while she was trying to decide, that exhaustion finally claimed her, and she fell asleep.
When Gemma awoke, it was early daylight. For a moment, she was totally disorientated, staring round her wondering where she was, then memory came flooding back, and she sank back against the pillow with a little groan.
The events of the past twenty-four hours might just have been some awful dream. Now, she knew, it was all only too real.
She wondered what had woken her. It was at least an hour before she normally stirred. She slid out of bed, and, naked, padded over to the window, opening the shutters a cautious fraction. She could see the road leading down to the village quite plainly, and walking down it, away from the villa, was a girl, dark-haired and wearing a red dress.
As Gemma watched, the girl swung round in her tracks and stared back at the villa. Even from that distance, Gemma could see that she was a vibrantly pretty girl, although her looks were currently marred by a sullen expression, and her shoulders had a dejected droop as she continued to trudge down the track.
Gemma pursed her lips in a silent whistle, then grabbed the shirt from the chair, and thrust her arms into the sleeves, her fingers clumsy with haste as she tried to fasten the buttons. She needed to talk to that girl, and fast.
She let herself quietly out of her room, and slipped stealthily down the stairs.
The sun pouring in through the light curtains illuminated the living room with merciless emphasis. Gemma’s nose wrinkled as she surveyed the bottle and used glass which stood by the sofa, the ash tray, overflowing with butts, and the general disarray of cushions and rugs. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now, she told herself impatiently, and if she could just talk to that girl for a few moments, she might never have to bother about it at all.
She’d expected to have to wrestle with bolts on the door, but to her surprise it wasn’t even locked. She opened it with care, gritting her teeth as the hinges squeaked slightly. Not that it mattered, she thought optimistically. If that bottle was anything to go by, her captor should still be sleeping it off at noon.
‘You’re going somewhere?’
Gemma almost screamed. Certainly she jumped, whirling round, her heart thudding painfully. And, of course, he wasn’t sleeping anything off. He was standing in the archway watching her, hands resting lightly on his hips. He looked the worse for wear, however, his eyes narrowed against the light as if it hurt him, and she hoped that it did. His hair was dishevelled too, and he hadn’t shaved.
‘I was just letting in some
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