Reluctant Hostage. Margaret Mayo

      ‘About eight.’

      ‘And it’s almost that now,’ claimed Libby, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘She’s cutting it a bit fine, don’t you think?’

      ‘If for some reason she’s detained, she’ll send a message, I’m sure,’ he said quietly, but as the minutes ticked away they heard nothing, and as morning progressed into afternoon Libby began to get seriously worried.

      ‘I think we ought to contact the police,’ she said.

      ‘And what would we tell them?’ he asked reasonably. ‘It’s too soon, Libby. She’ll either turn up or be in touch. Whatever is detaining her must be out of her control.’

      ‘Was she happy working for you?’ asked Libby sharply. She felt so responsible for her sister. She hadn’t been keen on her leaving home in the first place. What if she’d got in with the wrong crowd? Who knew where she was or what she was doing? ‘Cooking and cleaning isn’t exactly the sort of thing Rebecca enjoys.’

      His lips suddenly quirked. ‘For the first few days I thought I was being poisoned, but she learned quickly when I made her eat her own food. Yes, I would say she’s happy here. She certainly never complains.’

      The thought of Warwick and Rebecca sitting and eating together disturbed Libby. It wasn’t the sort of relationship she had expected them to have. Had anything else happened between them? Was there something she did not know? ‘So why did you employ her in the first place?’ she asked with some asperity.

      ‘She was introduced by an acquaintance of mine,’ he told her. ‘He said she desperately needed a job with accommodation thrown in. Like a fool, I thought all women could cook. Nevertheless she pulled her weight, did whatever I asked of her, and was appropriately decorative about the place.’

      Libby imagined this last was at least accurate. She could imagine Rebecca sunbathing in a minuscule bikini on the deck. Rebecca coming out of the shower with nothing but a towel between her and her modesty. Rebecca in all sorts of seductive poses. That was the sort of girl her sister was. But where was she now? And why wasn’t Warwick as worried as she?

      ‘Are you sure you don’t know where she is?’ she asked in sudden suspicion.

      ‘You think I wouldn’t tell you if I did?’ His tone was surprisingly sharp. ‘I’m as anxious to find your sister as you are.’

      ‘But not anxious to involve the police?’ she swiftly returned.

      ‘Simply because it’s too soon,’ he pointed out.

      ‘Can I have a look at my sister’s room?’ He was right, but what else could they do? How long did he expect her to wait before they did anything?

      ‘Of course; it’s down here.’ A short flight of steps led through the galley and dinette, a cursory glance revealing an inset microwave oven and refrigerator, everywhere spotlessly clean. Between the galley and dining area a door led into the forecabin, which was much larger than she had expected, with a double bed and plenty of hanging space and cupboards, and behind another door was a shower-room.

      Libby looked into the wardrobe, and was surprised by the number of new dresses Rebecca had bought in the short time she’d been working for Warwick. He either paid her very well or…The alternative did not bear thinking about.

      ‘It doesn’t look as though she was planning not to come back,’ commented Warwick. He was standing close behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his breath warm on her cheek. Libby felt her senses tingle, but concern for her sister had to take precedence.

      She pulled away from him. ‘I still think there is something terribly wrong.’

      He shrugged. ‘If it will make you happy I’ll go and have a word with the policia, even though I think it’s premature. Your sister has always given the impression that she’s more than capable of looking after herself.’

      ‘But she wouldn’t just disappear without leaving word,’ Libby insisted. ‘Rebecca might have her faults, but she wouldn’t do that. There is something wrong, I know there is.’

      She hurried up the steps to the saloon, but when she would have left the boat Warwick put a detaining hand on her arm. ‘I’ll go alone. You wouldn’t want to miss Rebecca if she turns up, would you?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised, holding her hands and looking deeply into her eyes.

      Libby felt herself quiver. They were still all there—the feelings she had felt so strongly on the plane, and once Rebecca was found, once she knew her sister was safe, then they could take up where they had left off. She gave him a wan smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

      ‘It’s not your fault,’ he replied and, lifting her hands, he placed a kiss, gently, in each palm. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

      When he had gone Libby paced the saloon anxiously, then, because it was so stiflingly hot, she made her way out on to the deck and sat in the sunshine, her hands clasped around her knees, absently watching holidaymakers strolling by, but not really taking in the busy scene.

      When she tired of sitting she pushed herself to her feet and took a walk around the marina. It was filled with boats of all sorts: yachts, motor cruisers such as the Estoque—some larger, some smaller—catamarans, speed-boats. It was a fascinating sight. Most of them were silent and empty, but some were a hive of activity, decks being hosed, paintwork touched up; one was slowly making its way out of the mouth of the harbour and another was getting ready to leave.

      She strolled around and climbed some steps up on to the harbour wall, where she had an uninterrupted view across the Atlantic Ocean. Here the breeze lifted her hair and cooled her skin, but never did she let the Estoque out of her sight. When she saw Warwick return she quickly joined him.

      ‘Well, what did they say?’ she asked at once.

      He grimaced. ‘As I said, it’s too soon for them to do anything. A few hours is nothing. A few days might be more serious.’

      ‘“A few days”?’ asked Libby in alarm. ‘This is preposterous. I can’t just sit and wait, it’s out of the question.’

      ‘I’m afraid that’s all we can do.’ His hand was comforting on her arm, his voice soft and reassuring.

      She felt a feathering along her nerves, and again wondered how she could feel such sensations when Rebecca was missing. It seemed that this man had the ability to make her forget everything except him.

      ‘You must be hungry,’ he said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘How about if I cook us a meal?’

      ‘I couldn’t eat,’ confessed Libby. The very thought of food made her feel ill.

      ‘You need to keep up your strength,’ he told her firmly. ‘I’ll make us something you’ll find impossible to resist.’

      Libby knew it would be pointless to protest, and to be truthful it felt good to let him take over. She sat down again and closed her eyes, letting the late afternoon sun wash over her, and the next thing she knew Warwick was touching her arm and telling her to wake up.

      For a few seconds Libby did not know where she was. She felt warm and lethargic, and Warwick’s face close to hers made her heartbeats quicken. She wanted to pull him down beside her, to draw her strength from him, to savour once again all the new and wonderful sensations she had experienced on the plane.

      She had no idea how appealing she looked, her amethyst eyes soft and misted from sleep, her cheeks flushed, her ash-blonde hair attractively tousled. She took his extended hand and let him help her up, and the next second found herself pulled against a chest that was packed with hard muscle.

      ‘My lovely Libby, you’re irresistible,’ he muttered against her ear.

      Her heart hammered with all the intensity of a jungle drum; in fact it was