Devil At Archangel. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ she adjured herself briskly, fighting a feeling of slight panic. You’re not lost. You just think you are. One of the main streets will be just around the corner, and you’ll soon get your bearings again.

      But the corner merely led to another street, narrower even and shabbier than the one she had just left. The shadows were lengthening now, and the tall houses with their crumbling stucco seemed to crowd in on her disconcertingly. A dog lying on its side in the shade lifted its head and snarled at her, and she crossed the street, her heart beating a little faster, to avoid it.

      This is what happens, she scolded herself, trying to regain her confidence, when you overestimate your capabilities as a tourist. The fairy-tale had suddenly degenerated into a nightmare in this grimy and unprepossessing place, and like a child, she found herself wishing desperately for the fairy-tale again—for the silken thread that would lead her out of the labyrinth and to safety, back to the bright streets and the scent shops and the flowers.

      Her footsteps slowed as she gazed uncertainly around her. Somewhere in one of the high shuttered houses, a child was crying, a long monotonous drift of sound that played uncomfortably on her tautened nerves. There were other footsteps now coming steadily and purposefully along the street behind her, and she gave a short relieved sigh. At last there was someone she could ask, and surely, even with her limited French, she could make herself understood and obtain directions back to the hotel.

      But even as she turned, the halting words died on her lips. There were three of them, youths of her own age or even slightly younger. When she stopped, they did the same. They stood a few feet away from her, their hands resting lightly on their hips, silent, even smiling a little, and Christina knew she had never felt so frightened or so helpless in her life. For the first time since she had left the hotel, she was acutely conscious of the length of leg revealed by her skirt, and the expanse of bare flesh between her shirt and the waistband of the skirt.

      It was a war of nerves that was being waged, she thought despairingly, as they stood facing each other, but she didn’t know what else to do. Something told her that to make a run for it would be fatal. Besides, where could she run to? They were cutting off one of her lines of retreat, and who knew what might lie at the end of the other.

      She tried to drag the rags of her courage around her, lift her chin, bluff them into thinking she was unconcerned, but she knew by the widening grins on their dark faces that they were not deceived.

      Someone had once told her that panic affected the throat muscles, making it impossible to scream, and she thought it must be true, because when the hand fell on her shoulder from behind her, the cry that welled up inside her found utterance only as a strangled gasp. The street dipped and swayed suddenly, and instinctively she closed her eyes. A man was speaking in patois, his voice resonant, slightly drawling even. The fingers that gripped her shoulder felt like a vice.

      When she opened her eyes again, the street in front of her was empty and the silence seemed to surge at her. She turned almost incredulously to look at the man standing behind her. He was tall, his leanness accentuated by the lightweight tropical suit he wore. His hair was tawny, and there were lighter streaks in it where the sun had bleached it. His grey eyes looked silver against his deep tan, and his firm, rather thin-lipped mouth looked taut, either with anger or some other emotion she could not comprehend.

      She wanted to thank him, and instead she said inanely, ‘They’ve gone.’

      ‘Naturally,’ he said coolly. ‘Are you disappointed?’

      His English was faultless, without even a trace of an accent, she thought in the few seconds before the meaning of his words got through to her.

      ‘You must be out of your mind!’ she flared at him.

      ‘I must?’ His brows rose. ‘And what about you—roaming the back streets of a strange town? Do your parents know where you are?’

      ‘I’m not a child.’ Infuriatingly her voice trembled. ‘And I’m here with my employer.’

      ‘Employer?’ He studied her for a moment, and a smile touched his mouth that flicked her, unaccountably, on the raw. ‘My apologies. I didn’t think you were old enough to be a—working girl. But the way you’re dressed should have given me a clue, I suppose. What are you—an actress or a model?’

      He was laughing at her. He had to be, although she couldn’t read even the slightest trace of humour in his voice. Instead, there was a cold cynicism which chilled her.

      ‘I’m a sort of secretary,’ she said quickly, trying to still her sense of annoyance, reminding herself that she had to be grateful to him. ‘And I ought to be getting back. I’ll be missed by now.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said drily. ‘Well, Miss Sort-of-Secretary, and what do your duties consist of, precisely? Can you type?’

      ‘A little,’ Christina said, her bewilderment increasing with every moment that passed. After all, he had come to her rescue of his own volition. She hadn’t even called for help, so why was he behaving in such a hostile manner?

      ‘Only a little? But then I suppose your talents really lie in other directions?’

      For a moment, Christina remembered the advertisement she had drafted in her own mind days ago in the back kitchen of the cottage, and a rueful grin lifted the corners of her mouth.

      ‘I suppose you could say that,’ she admitted, then cast a distracted glance at her watch. ‘Heavens—the time! Can you—would you be kind enough to direct me to the Hotel de Beauharnais? I thought I was heading there, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’

      ‘What an admission,’ he said satirically. ‘You know, you aren’t running true to type at all.’ He put out lean brown fingers and cupped her chin, lifting her face so he could study it more closely. The insolent assurance of his touch unnerved her, and she jerked her chin away.

      ‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, making a perceptible effort to stop her voice from trembling again. ‘I—I don’t like to be touched.’ She hesitated. ‘I know I should have said so before, but I don’t know how to thank you for—for coming along when you did. I really was so frightened. If you hadn’t been there, I—I can’t bear to contemplate what might have happened.’

      ‘You’d have had your handbag snatched,’ he informed her mockingly. His smile widened, as her startled disbelieving gaze flew to his face. ‘Poor Sort-of-Secretary. Expecting to be another rape statistic when all they wanted was your money!’

      Their eyes met and held. To her horror, Christina realised she was near to tears. The shock of her recent experience coupled with this incomprehensible attitude on the part of the stranger who had aided her was having a devastating effect on her emotions. More than anything else, she wanted the refuge of her hotel room.

      ‘I didn’t know what to think.’ She lifted her chin with unconscious dignity. ‘Situations like this are rather new to me. Now, if you could show me the way to the Beauharnais.’

      ‘Just follow the scent of affluence,’ he advised sardonically. ‘Actually you’re not too far away. You want the next left turning, and the second right after that, but unless you know them these back streets can seem like a maze. Next time you want to play tourist, stick to the boulevards. At least the people you meet there will know the rules of the game.’

      With a brief nod, he turned away and continued on down the street. Christina watched him go, aware that her heart was thumping in an erratic and СКАЧАТЬ