Gift For A Lion. Sara Craven

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ