cream in her toilet bag. She used it, and for the first time in her life sunbathed nude, turning herself delicately and languorously in the hot rays, enjoying the sensation of freedom it gave her. This time, however, she was careful not to fall asleep.
The sun was already sinking down behind the mountain peaks when she went for her shower. Andreas—her mind used his name tentatively, more accustomed to thinking of him as the Cretan, or, more simply even, the stranger—had still not returned. Not that she wanted him to, she thought stormily. In fact, it would give her infinite satisfaction to know that he and his damned jeep were at the bottom of some precipice, with the buzzards already circling overhead. But his return would mean she’d have some decent clothes to wear again. Being only half-dressed like this made her vulnerable, undermined her morale, she thought, and it was no earthly use reminding herself that during the ordinary course of her holiday only a short while before she’d worn scarcely any more. That was different, and she knew it. And, presumably, he knew it too.
He’d worked out his plan of campaign very carefully, Gemma thought savagely. He knew exactly how to play upon her hopes, her fears, and, she had to admit, her desires.
She shivered as she stepped under the jets of the shower, but not simply because of the impact of the cool droplets on her heated skin. Oh God, but he was dangerous, and she’d known it from the first moment she saw him. Dark as the devil, arrogant as one of the gods of old in this land, powerful as the Lord of Life and Death who’d ruled in his bull mask at Knossos, taking tribute from the alien captives brought in chains across the sea.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the cascading water, letting it pour through her hair and over her shoulders. Then with a little sigh of satisfaction, she turned off the flow.
There was no warning—none at all. The dog hadn’t uttered, and the noise of the shower had effectually blocked out all other sounds.
She turned, reaching for a towel, and saw him standing in the doorway, watching her. He was smiling faintly as the dark eyes coolly assessed every inch of her naked body.
Her first instinct was to shrink, to cover herself somehow with her hands, her hair, yet something told her that such a belated and useless attempt at modesty would only amuse him further. It would be just another petty victory for him if she seemed to care too much about herself so completely. Far better to brazen it out, to let him think his presence here was immaterial because she despised him. Her eyes flared contempt at him, and her chin lifted defiantly as she scooped the heavy strands of damp blonde back from her face, and tossed them over her shoulders. The gesture arched her small high breasts, a fact he acknowledged with a mocking downward slant of his mouth.
Then he moved, stepping towards her, his purpose clear in the sudden intensity of his dark gaze, and Gemma moved too, at speed, all her bravado disintegrating as she grabbed frantically for the errant towel. Her foot slipped on the damp tiles, and she fell down on one knee, cracking the bone painfully as she did so. She cried out involuntarily and at once he was beside her, his hands under her shoulders lifting her effortlessly.
‘You are hurt? Tell me ...’
He carried her into the adjoining bedroom and put her down on the bed. The discarded shirt was lying there and she seized it and held it in front of her.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘Get out of my room.’
He’d been bending over her, but at her words, he straightened and stood back, the concern in his face giving way to overt amusement.
He pointed to the shirt. ‘Isn’t that a little late?’ he asked, laughing.
That this was her own view as well made it no easier to bear. She glared at him savagely. ‘Kidnapper, rapist and now Peeping Tom,’ she hurled at him recklessly.
The sun was already sinking down behind the mountain peaks when she went for her shower. Andreas—her mind used his name tentatively, more accustomed to thinking of him as the Cretan, or, more simply even, the stranger—had still not returned. Not that she wanted him to, she thought stormily. In fact, it would give her infinite satisfaction to know that he and his damned jeep were at the bottom of some precipice, with the buzzards already circling overhead. But his return would mean she’d have some decent clothes to wear again. Being only half-dressed like this made her vulnerable, undermined her morale, she thought, and it was no earthly use reminding herself that during the ordinary course of her holiday only a short while before she’d worn scarcely any more. That was different, and she knew it. And, presumably, he knew it too.
He’d worked out his plan of campaign very carefully, Gemma thought savagely. He knew exactly how to play upon her hopes, her fears, and, she had to admit, her desires.
She shivered as she stepped under the jets of the shower, but not simply because of the impact of the cool droplets on her heated skin. Oh God, but he was dangerous, and she’d known it from the first moment she saw him. Dark as the devil, arrogant as one of the gods of old in this land, powerful as the Lord of Life and Death who’d ruled in his bull mask at Knossos, taking tribute from the alien captives brought in chains across the sea.
Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to the cascading water, letting it pour through her hair and over her shoulders. Then with a little sigh of satisfaction, she turned off the flow.
There was no warning—none at all. The dog hadn’t uttered, and the noise of the shower had effectually blocked out all other sounds.
She turned, reaching for a towel, and saw him standing in the doorway, watching her. He was smiling faintly as the dark eyes coolly assessed every inch of her naked body.
Her first instinct was to shrink, to cover herself somehow with her hands, her hair, yet something told her that such a belated and useless attempt at modesty would only amuse him further. It would be just another petty victory for him if she seemed to care too much about herself so completely. Far better to brazen it out, to let him think his presence here was immaterial because she despised him. Her eyes flared contempt at him, and her chin lifted defiantly as she scooped the heavy strands of damp blonde back from her face, and tossed them over her shoulders. The gesture arched her small high breasts, a fact he acknowledged with a mocking downward slant of his mouth.
Then he moved, stepping towards her, his purpose clear in the sudden intensity of his dark gaze, and Gemma moved too, at speed, all her bravado disintegrating as she grabbed frantically for the errant towel. Her foot slipped on the damp tiles, and she fell down on one knee, cracking the bone painfully as she did so. She cried out involuntarily and at once he was beside her, his hands under her shoulders lifting her effortlessly.
‘You are hurt? Tell me ...’
He carried her into the adjoining bedroom and put her down on the bed. The discarded shirt was lying there and she seized it and held it in front of her.
‘Don’t touch me.’ Bright spots of colour burned in her face. ‘Get out of my room.’
He’d been bending over her, but at her words, he straightened and stood back, the concern in his face giving way to overt amusement.
He pointed to the shirt. ‘Isn’t that a little late?’ he asked, laughing.
That this was her own view as well made it no easier to bear. She glared at him savagely. ‘Kidnapper, rapist and now Peeping Tom,’ she hurled at him recklessly.
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