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She made a sharp, disgusted sound in the back of her throat and sat down on the slatted wooden seat that encircled the venerable old trunk, her legs thrust out in front of her.
Francisco Garcia Casals was working to a plan, she was certain of that. That he meant to seduce her she discounted after only a moment’s consideration. She was too humble, too ordinary for a man such as he, a man who could surely have his pick of the world’s most beautiful women. Not even the boredom of waiting for her father to respond could bring him to the point of wanting to make love to her to pass the time and lighten the tedium.
So the only sensible and logical explanation for his behaviour had to be his desire to confuse and disorientate her, get her to the point of not knowing whether she was coming or going, where she was at, too bewildered by the hard-and-soft, hot-andcold treatment he was dishing out to have any mental energy left to figure a way of getting out of here.
To keep her locked in that suite of rooms for the duration would eventually rouse Rosalia’s suspicions, so the only alternative course was to allow her limited freedom and keep his eye on her at all times. And, that being the case, it would suit him better to have her in such a disorientated state of mind that she would be too witless to cause any trouble.
A movement across the sun-drenched perfumed courtyard caught her eye. Rosalia clearing the breakfast-table. And taking her time about it. Had she been given orders to keep an eye on her master’s ‘guest’? Make sure she didn’t go wandering off, get herself lost in the harsh Andalusian mountains?
Sarah wouldn’t put it past him. In the same breath that he’d told her he was having to leave her on her own for half an hour he had tried to bemuse her with words. And had almost succeeded. He must have felt the need to use Rosalia as an unwitting guard, an extra form of protection.
Deciding to test her theory, she stood up slowly, then turned around and headed for the outer door set in the walls of the courtyard. Somewhere through there she’d find the great outer door.
It was easy enough to retrace the way they’d come yesterday afternoon, and she found the door. But it was locked, and she stood in the cool dim apartment, feeling completely trapped. As completely trapped as she’d been when he’d locked her in his suite of rooms.
Rosalia hadn’t followed, either. Like her master, she would have known there was no way out. And the worst thing was, he had lied to her.
He had told her there would be no more locks. She couldn’t imagine why she should have believed him in the first place. He was tricky and wicked, and she should have expected this. Instead, she couldn’t remember when she had last felt so hurt; like the silence in the great chamber the tearing pain of it seemed to climb inside her and squeeze her heart until she wanted to cry out with anguish.
‘Rosalia told me which way you’d headed.’
She hadn’t heard his soft-footed approach, and stiffened, trying to mask the hurt in her voice, in her eyes as she whipped round to face him.
‘You lied! You said there would be no more locked doors,’ she accused him, unable to understand why this feeling of betrayal should intensify beneath his warm, darkly penetrating eyes, when, if she were sensible, she should have expected him to lie, taken it in her stride. And she hated the way his mouth curled into a slight, compassionate smile, as if he knew exactly how she felt. She couldn’t bear the thought that he could come even close to reading the muddle of mixed emotions that were pounding through her head.
Her emotions, such as they were, had always been tidy, carefully controlled. That this man could churn them up, make them go haywire, shamed her. That he should know it demeaned her in her own eyes.
‘Though I should have anticipated it,’ she snapped out tartly, dragging herself back on track. ‘For a man who would stoop to kidnapping a perfectly innocent stranger, what’s a lie or two?’
She carefully avoided his eyes. He could make all her common sense, every last scrap of her cool control dissolve with one of those melting, disgracefully intimate glances of his; if she had learned anything from the past twenty-four hours, it was that. And she never forgot a lesson. But she couldn’t avoid his voice.
‘I’m sorry you’re upset. It wasn’t my intention.’
She shrugged, defending herself against the smoky drift of his words, denying, ‘Who’s upset? What’s a locked door, set against all the other indignities? Oh! Let go of me!’
‘Hush.’ The hand that had taken hold of her arm slid down to entwine with her fingers now and somehow her loud objections got pushed back down her throat, making her feel giddy, stingingly aware of those strong fingers laced with hers. ‘I have what I hope will be a pleasant surprise for you. And later we shall unlock all the doors. I will even show you where the keys are kept.’
Who did he think he was fooling? He was talking to her as if she were three years old. She snatched her hand away and dug in her heels. Show her where the keys were kept—so she could walk out of here any time she pleased? He must think she didn’t have a brain in her head! And she didn’t want his surprise, whatever it was. In her short but traumatic experience of him all his surprises had been grossly unpleasant!
He turned slowly, watching her, a tiny, annoying smile emphasising the sensuality of his heartstopping mouth. And her face went red as she shifted her feet uncomfortably. She knew she looked a mess in her crumpled, sticky clothes but he didn’t have to give the impression that he found her appearance verging on the hilarious, did he?
‘Stop being mulish,’ he ordered, his mouth tugging at the corners. ‘Come peaceably, like the sensible lady you like to think you are, or be carried. It’s all the same to me.’
Which left her no choice. And he knew it. Her greeny-blue eyes withering, she muttered, ‘Only mental incompetents use their size to bully those physically smaller than themselves. Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to ask nicely? Or wouldn’t that suit your macho image?’
Which earned her the cold blast of his sudden black frown and for some reason she shivered, right down to her toes, and covered it quickly, grumbling, ‘OK, I’m coming. Only don’t expect me to be in the least bit interested in whatever you’ve cooked up. The only thing I’m interested in is seeing you behind bars. Where you belong.’
Which was hardly original enough to be truly cutting but it did stop him staring at her with that odd, frowning look in his eyes and got him moving, walking ahead down the long shady arcade, passing the door that led to the stairs to his suite and entering instead a cool sitting-room, quite magnificent, she noted absently as she trotted behind, with elegant furniture, softly coloured tapestries of enormous age, exquisite carved stone tracery in the deep window embrasures and great bowls of white lilies to perfume the air.
He took her on and through to a central hallway with a high vaulted ceiling and a floor of solid wood blocks polished to a glassy finish, and an awesomely Gothic, balustraded staircase, curving upwards, flanked at almost every step by gilt-framed portraits of oval-faced ladies in black, with pearls and fans and mantillas of awe-inspiring delicacy, and proud, gaudily uniformed officers on fine horses, displaying drawn swords and expressions just as ferociously arrogant as the throw-back who was leading the way.
The sheer size of the place, the quality, age and perfection of everything she saw had her mentally assessing the inexhaustible funds that would be necessary for the upkeep of such tasteful splendour. The income of the estates he’d spoken about provided the wherewithal, she supposed. Whatever, her father couldn’t have picked a more formidable enemy if he’d set out to try.
She was on the point of asking how much further he expected her to trek when Francisco flung open a pair of double doors and led the way through to as feminine a suite of rooms as sh
e could ever have imagined.
Delicate, inlaid furniture graced the sitting-room, the panelled walls painted white, the fabrics soft shades of varying blues with just the odd touch of pale primrose yellow for highlights, and beyond another set of polished wood double doors she caught a tantalising glimpse of an elegant fourposter, the lavish hangings in the purest white, festoons of lace and shimmering shot silk.
