Reluctant Hostage. Margaret Mayo

      ‘Someone like you, Libby? Someone with a rare beauty that reminds me of an English rose? Rebecca’s an exotic hothouse bloom, loved by some but not to everyone’s taste, and especially not mine. You are truly remarkable—as delicate as a wild orchid. No man ought to be without someone like you.’

      His compliments bemused her. She felt sure she wasn’t worthy of any of them, but they were satisfying all the same, and she felt much more comfortable about staying. ‘I’ll fetch my clothes,’ she said awkwardly.

      ‘No need,’ he told her. ‘Your case is already here.’ And when she gasped he said with a disarming smile, ‘I anticipated you’d agree, and took the liberty of picking it up while I was out earlier. I trust you don’t mind?’

      Libby did mind, she minded very much, but she felt that under the circumstances it would be childish to protest.

      He detected her anger instantly, and his voice was at its most cajoling. ‘Libby, don’t be cross; this is the best solution all round.’

      ‘You could have asked me first,’ she protested fiercely, her eyes deeply purple.

      ‘It didn’t occur to me until I was out, and I thought it would save wasting time later.’ He pulled a little-boy face, the face of a boy who was trying to get back into his parent’s good books. ‘Do you forgive me?’

      How could she not when he looked at her like that? ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed, ‘but it doesn’t mean to say I like what you did. It was a sneaky trick.’ But already she was smiling. It pleased her to think that he was so sure of her, because she was just as sure of him.

      He stood up and held out his hands. ‘Come here, Libby.’

      Without hesitation she walked into his arms. Already it felt the right thing to do. Confidence had grown in her, even though she still found it absolutely amazing that he should find her attractive when no other boy had looked at her twice. It was obviously true what they said about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. And, although outwardly she had not changed, inside she felt beautiful and feminine and sexy, and every one of her senses was responding to him.

      She wanted him to hold her close, to kiss her, she craved real physical contact, but all he did was hold her very gently and look into her eyes. He seemed to be searching deep inside her, and his expression was as evocative as a kiss. The longer he looked at her, the more she responded. Tiny hidden tremors ran through her until her whole body sang with sensation. She would not have believed it possible to feel this way without being touched.

      ‘You’re beautiful, Libby,’ he murmured and then, to her intense disappointment, he put her from him. ‘I think a nightcap’s in order. What will it be, a tot of whisky or rum, or——?’

      ‘Just some orange juice, please,’ said Libby, and instantly felt like an unsophisticated teenager. But she really wasn’t ‘into’ drinking alcohol and, besides, she wanted to keep a clear head. He all too easily made her forget Rebecca.

      He took a carton from a refrigerator, which was cleverly hidden behind a polished wooden door, and filled a glass. Her mouth was so dry that she drank it swiftly and gratefully. Then she went down into the galley and washed up.

      Seeming to sense that she needed time to herself, Warwick stayed m the saloon, but, even so, Libby could still feel his presence. His male odour lingered on her skin, and she insanely wished that he weren’t such a gentleman.

      ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said hesitantly when she had finished, needing to put some distance between them if she didn’t want to torture herself further.

      Warwick was stretched out on one of the dove-grey seats, his glass empty, his expression carefully guarded. ‘Goodnight, Libby,’ he murmured softly.

      He still made her name sound different, and she wanted more than anything to go across the room and have him take her into his arms again, but she hated the thought that she could be making a fool of herself. Although he seemed to be genuinely attracted to her, she was too inexperienced in the ways of men to be sure. Besides, what she admired about him most was his restraint. She felt safe with him as things stood, and if she encouraged his kisses who knew what might happen?

      She smiled weakly. ‘Goodnight, Warwick.’

      When she looked at her reflection in the bedroom mirror she was shocked to see the sparkle in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks. She looked like a different person. Who would have believed that one man, a stranger, in fact, could be capable of doing this to her? He could melt her at a touch or a glance. Simply thinking about him made the blood race through her veins. It was mind-boggling. But she was also very tired and, without bothering to unpack, she pulled a nightdress out of her case and got ready for bed.

      The instant she slipped beneath the quilt she was asleep. She dreamed about Warwick—wonderful, erotic dreams where he was making endless love to her and telling her over and over again how beautiful she was. She awoke at the crack of dawn with his name on her lips, and for a few seconds felt deliriously happy, until the movement of the boat and the steady hum of its engine told her that they were no longer tied up in the harbour. They were on the move!

      Instantly unease took the place of happiness, and she sprang out of bed. This man she had trusted—what was he doing? What was happening? Where were they going? What the devil was going on?

       CHAPTER THREE

      THE saloon was empty when Libby rushed up. There was no Warwick at the controls, no Warwick to watch or diagnose the meaningless pictures on the radar screen. And yet they were moving! Through the windows she could see nothing but open sea. They had obviously been going for some time.

      The brief flicker of panic when she thought she was alone subsided when she realised Warwick must be up on the flybridge. She had asked him about it yesterday when he had shown her over the Estoque. She had felt like an ignorant fool when he’d told her that it was a duplicate set of controls.

      Out of the saloon she hurried up the short, vertical ladder. The metal rungs were hard on her bare feet, the fresh wind billowing out her short cotton nightdress, but she was heedless of everything except her need to find out what was going on.

      He sat at the wheel, his back to her, his dark hair ruffled, completely oblivious to the fact that she had come up behind him. When she spoke his name he turned his head, and she was shocked by the grimness of his face. ‘So, you’re awake!’ he rasped harshly.

      For just a second Libby froze, wondering what had happened to bring about this change, but the next instant she was at his side, arms akimbo, purple eyes flashing. ‘Yes, I’m up, and I want to know what you think you’re doing?’

      ‘I have business to attend to in Lanzarote,’ he told her calmly.

      ‘“Business”?’ she shrieked. ‘At a time like this? How about Rebecca? Aren’t you forgetting her?’ This was a different Warwick Hunter from the sensual man she had met on the plane, the man who had held her in his arms last night and made her feel as though she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. He was cool and distant, giving her the distinct impression that she was the one in the wrong, almost as though she were his enemy, which was crazy in the circumstances.

      ‘How can I forget your dear sister and what she has done to me?’ The sunglasses he wore prevented her seeing his eyes, but his caustic tone told her that there was no warmth in them. She guessed they were cold as ice, hard as flint, and directed straight at her.

      ‘“Done to you”?’ she queried, feeling a faint chill ride down her spine. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘I think it’s time you knew what your precious Rebecca’s been up to.’

      Libby frowned. Something was obviously going on that she knew nothing about, something involving both Rebecca and Warwick. Perhaps he even knew where