Gift For A Lion. Sara Craven

it. The only thing that need concern us now is your reason for doing so.'

      Joanna was silent. She realised she would rather die than admit to this haughty Italian—bandit—that she had come to Saracina out of sheer wilful perversity, precisely because she had been told not to.

      ‘My reasons are private and need concern no one but myself,’ she said eventually. ‘It's true I was warned against coming here and equally true that I'm sorry I ever set foot on the place. Is that enough for you?'

      ‘Alas, no.’ If the words were regretful, the tone was not. ‘You came, and for the present you must stay.'

      ‘Indeed?’ Joanna's nails bit into the palms of her clenched hands. ‘You may change your mind when you hear who I am. My father is not entirely without influence, and when he hears about this—outrage …'

      ‘The only outrage has been committed by yourself. You have trespassed where you had no right.’ He sounded almost bored. ‘And your identity is no mystery, Signorina Leighton.'

      He opened a drawer in the desk and removed a folder which he tossed across the polished surface to her. Joanna opened it almost mechanically, numbly registering that her name was neatly printed on the manilla cover. Inside there was a photograph of herself, blown up from a newspaper print of some mouths before, she noticed, as well as every press cutting in which she had ever been mentioned, all neatly tabulated.

      ‘Where did you get hold of this?’ she demanded huskily, throwing it down on the desk so that some of the contents spilled out.

      ‘That need not concern you,’ he said. ‘But it may help to convince you of my sincerity when I say that your identity makes no difference to me at all. You are a very well known young woman.'

      ‘And my father is a very well known man,’ she completed for him, savagely. ‘So you're going to hold me for ransom?'

      He sighed elaborately. ‘No, signorina, I am not.’ He opened the file again and looked at some of the cuttings, his brows raised. ‘But if I did, what price would you put upon yourself, I wonder? Not very high, perhaps, if these are anything to go by.'

      She felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘Are you sure they tell the whole story?’ she asked, wondering why she should attempt to justify herself to this man.

      ‘Young, spoiled, headstrong—the pattern doesn't seem to have altered greatly.’ He closed the folder and tossed it back into the drawer.

      ‘You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble.'

      ‘It is one way to become acquainted with a prospective guest.'

      Joanna's legs were shaking under her. Frowning a little, he waved her towards a highbacked chair with a leather seat, similar to the one he was already occupying. ‘Sit down, signorina, before you fall down. My floor is hard and it would be a pity to bruise a second time such exquisite and utterly pampered skin.'

      She sat frozen as the implication of what he had said sank in.

      ‘Whose dressing gown is this?’ she asked unsteadily.

      ‘It's one of mine.’ He spread his hands in a mockery of an apology. ‘It is not worthy of you, signorina, but with no women in the palazzo, suitable garments were difficult to come by in an emergency.'

      ‘Emergency?’ This wasn't—couldn't be happening to her. It was a nightmare, and oh God, let her waken from it soon.

      His voice went on. ‘Your clothing—such as it was—was soaked from your ill-advised attempt to escape from my men. I could not leave you to catch pneumonia.'

      ‘Then it was you …’ The shame of it prevented her from finishing her words. The caress of the silk on her skin was suddenly abhorrent as she visualised herself naked and helpless under this man's disturbing amber gaze.

      ‘Don't look so stricken, signorina,’ he said crisply. ‘You didn't deny my men the privilege of a glimpse of your undoubted beauty. Am I supposed to be less human? Or would you have preferred their attentions?'

      Her eyes felt as if they were burning, but she was incapable of tears. Finally she lifted her head and looked at him. He was leaning back in his chair, out of the range of the lamplight, and his expression was hidden from her.

      ‘If you wanted to totally humiliate me, then you have succeeded,’ she said quietly. ‘I can only hope that you're now satisfied and that I can leave without any further delay.'

      ‘Has humiliation also rendered you deaf, signorina? You are not leaving.'

      ‘I think you must be mad!’ she fought against the bubble of hysteria rising within her. ‘You can't keep me here—surely you see that? My friends know where I am. They'll come and search for me, and you can't take all of us prisoner.'

      ‘I have not the slightest intention of doing so, and I would not count on any search being made. Your friends believe that you are my willing guest.'

      ‘Why should they believe that?'

      ‘Because they have received a note, presumably from you, which tells them so, and asks them to send on your luggage.'

      ‘They'll know it isn't from me. Tony knows my writing.'

      ‘Then he will recognise your signature.’ He tossed something across the desk to her. With a sinking heart she recognised her cheque card, taken no doubt from her wallet in the beach bag. ‘Your style is a distinctive one, signorina.'

      ‘So you're a forger as well as a kidnapper,’ she flung at him. ‘What a list of charges there'll be when I get free of this place, unless you mean to add murder to your other crimes!'

      ‘Such hard words.’ That detestable mockery was back in his voice. ‘You did go to considerable pains to visit me, after all. Am I now to be blamed because I take equal pains to keep you here?'

      For a moment she stared at him impotently, then suddenly the tears came, slow and scalding, and she buried her face in her hands and gave way to them. A thousand miles away, it seemed, a bell was ringing, but she took no notice, even when a kindly arm assisted her out of the chair, and a voice encouraging her in heavily accented English murmured in her ear as she moved in a blurred, obedient dream to the door.

      The room itself was beautiful. In spite of the rage and humiliation that consumed her, she could appreciate that. She could also appreciate the fact that the door was locked and that exquisite wrought iron grilles effectively blocked the only other possible escape route through french windows on to a balcony beyond. The french windows themselves stood tantalisingly open, a soft evening breeze, warm and scented, wafting into the room.

      Lying across the enormous divan bed on her stomach, her chin propped in her hands, Joanna tried to think calmly and clearly about her predicament. She wept no longer. A phrase that the much-loved nanny from her childhood had often used strayed into her mind. ‘Temper's tears are soon dried, my dear.'

      Well, they were dried, and from now on she would keep her emotions under control. No matter what happened to her, he would never again see her collapse into a grovelling, tearful heap.

      The most irksome thing about her predicament was that she still did not know why she was being kept on Saracina. She frowned in real bewilderment. Surely he was not detaining her out of revenge, simply for trespassing on his property? In spite of the way that he had treated her, his face was not that of a petty person. She shivered slightly, remembering the ruthlessness of that mouth with the sensually curved lower lip.

      And she still did not know who he was—even though he seemed to be aware of every detail about her. The realisation of just how intimate his knowledge was sent the warm blood flooding to her cheeks again.

      The room itself gave no clue to his identity, she thought, looking round her. Compared to the sparse furnishings she had seen downstairs, it was positively sybaritic with its dramatic black and silver hangings against the palely washed walls. The floor glowed with deep terracotta tiles, with luxurious-looking goatskin