Hostage Of Passion

She couldn’t put it plainer than that. It gave him the opportunity to rethink, to do the civilised thing and allow the whole unfortunate affair to be settled without aggression.

‘No,’ he responded unfeelingly, with not even a flicker of one dark eyelash to change his expression. He went on, his tone unaltered, ‘Tell me, señorita, are you always so prim and pedantic, so completely lacking in passion? Your father is an undisputed amoral hedonist and he has seduced an innocent young girl away from her home, yet all you can do is say that you “sympathise with my concern”—’ his mouth tightened dangerously, the fingers of one hand now tapping restlessly on the spotless linen that covered the table ‘—and mouth meaningless, bloodless platitudes about the ineffectuality of violence. Do you really think I’m the type of man who would be willing to sit tamely in the background and allow a woman to deal with my family problems? Do you think I have no pride?’

Something deep inside her shuddered. This man would never do anything tamely; a basic, atavistic intuition told her that much. No appeal to more civilised instincts, however sensibly couched, could reach him because, for him, civilisation was only a thin surface veneer. But only the restless fingers, the smouldering fires in the dark depths of his translucent black eyes told of the volcanic rage inside him as he continued in the same chillingly measured tone, ‘If ever a man deserved a thrashing, it is your father. And I fully intend to teach him a lesson he will never forget. Without any interference from you. Now, señorita, if you have finished, I will find you a taxi to take you back to the airport.’

He got elegantly to his feet, his arrogant, remote features telling her more clearly than any words that she was dismissed, and, her eyes cloudy, she scrabbled around for her belongings, determinedly bottling up the unwelcome emotion that made her want to hurl her overnight bag at his head, wipe that superior, condescending expression from his face.

She straightened, quickly and nicely back in control again, firmly squashing that brief moment of insanity, her possessions held neatly in her hands. He had talked of passion and violence as if they were qualities to be admired. He disgusted her.

She had seen enough of both destructive emotions during her time with her father, witnessed the cheerful and, from her own viewpoint, utterly demeaning stoicism of her mother, and had made a solemn vow never to allow emotion of any kind to rule her life, mess it up and lead her into a state where she had no control over anything.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ she told him coolly, her bluey-green eyes perfectly clear and steady now. ‘The hotel receptionist has already dealt with it.’ And she watched his tiny, elegant shrug, the small quirk of his beautiful, passionate mouth and put the sharp punch of sensation beneath her breastbone down to the sheer excitement of knowing she had outwitted him.

And now the sensation of churning, bubbling excitement was still with her, hardly containable. She had experienced nothing quite like it in the whole of her adult life. Ever since that proud chunk of Spanish manhood had assumed control—or so he, in his haughty arrogance, had believed—every single thing had gone her way. Which meant that the angels were on her side!

The red vehicle ahead disappeared from sight round a bend on the twisty mountain road and she was unconcerned enough to spare a glance at the awe-inspiring scenery. Dry rocky ranges dropped precipitously to deep river valleys mantled by the green of olive groves and forest trees and somewhere here, in this remote and ferocious landscape, her irresponsible father was hiding away with his latest conquest.

But even her deep distaste for yet again having to sort out the problems Piers had created for himself was almost forgotten in the intense satisfaction to be had from beating the Spaniard at his own game.

She had been eighteen years old when she had finally decided that enough was enough, that it was high time she abandoned her father to his own wild devices and got on with her own life. She had stuck rigidly to that earlier decision and going against it didn’t seem to matter now, not when they rounded the bend and saw the Ferrari disappearing in a puff of arrogant dust around the next.

Whatever his faults, Señor Casals was certainly a careful driver. His sober speed couldn’t have been more granny-like if he’d set out to break a record. Which begged the question of why he’d equipped himself with such a potent piece of machinery in the first place. The scarlet Ferrari was obviously a status symbol only, a look-at-me macho statement which he obviously had the financial wherewithal to purchase but hadn’t the bottle to use to its powerful potential.

Smiling at her own inverted snobbery, she called a halt to her mental carping and gave hearty thanks instead for the way things were. If he’d put his foot down her driver wouldn’t have had a hope in hell. The taxi would never have kept pace and she would never have been given the opportunity to walk in and temper the proceedings when the violent Spaniard met up with her culpable yet unsuspecting, unprepared parent.

But the impressive view that was now unfolding took her breath away, deflecting her thoughts. Great stone walling, fragmented in parts, marched down the precipitous mountainside, partly enclosing what she could see of a tiny village in the deep and distant, verdant valley below. And high above, straddling a rocky spur, dominating the craggy landscape from its austere, arid heights, the imposing walls, crenellations, turrets and towers of a massive castle soared to the raw blue sky.

As a statement of power and authority it would take some beating, she thought, then opened her eyes very wide as the scarlet Ferrari, with a definite flirt of its rear end, turned beneath an impressive archway that could lead nowhere else but to the castle itself.

Surely Piers and Encarnación weren’t hiding up here? And apparently her driver had his own misgivings because he stood on the brakes, turning to her, gesturing expansively towards the archway.

‘Qué quieres, señorita?’

She stared at him, wrinkling her brow. He was, she assumed, waiting for further instructions. Then she shook her head decisively. Discreetly following the vengefully violent Spaniard was one thing, sweeping up to the main entrance in a taxi was another. She couldn’t afford to advertise her presence until she’d managed to slip inside. She didn’t want every door bolted and barred in her face, to have to pace around outside, waiting while Señor Casals gave Piers the punishment he deserved.

‘I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ she said firmly, then met his blank eyes. He didn’t understand a word. Quickly she extracted her purse from her shoulder-bag and the driver smiled. That much he did understand and she paid him off, using most of her remaining pesetas, gathering her belongings and pacing forthrightly towards the arch and beneath it, not wanting to show the obviously curious taxi driver even the smallest hint of the panic that was beginning to beat its frenzied wings against the inside of her head.

Nothing to panic about, she assured herself, refusing to feel intimidated as the great stone arch swallowed her up. She’d been ultra-successful so far; now all she had to do was find a way inside the thick, looming walls and break up whatever mayhem might be going on inside. Put an end to it with the cool voice of reason. At the very least, Casals would surely temper his violence considerably when she appeared on the scene as a witness.

The idea that Piers might have brought his newest mistress to this isolated but obviously magnificently maintained place wasn’t so unbelievable as she had first thought. His enormous talent, not to mention his larger-than-life personality, had earned him many friends all around the globe, some of them in distinctly exalted positions. She now had little doubt that the exalted personage who actually owned this overwhelming place had handed over the keys, no questions asked—and probably with the high-class equivalent of a nudge-nudge, winkwink—so that the undisputed genius could enjoy his latest sordid peccadillo in splendid isolation.

The very idea made her stomach churn. She might be able to save Piers from a physical whipping at the Spaniard’s hands but no way would he escape the scathing tongue-lashing she fully intended to deliver when she got him on his own.

Emerging from the arch, which, because the outer walls were so thick, had seemed more like a tunnel, Sarah took stock. It was early evening now, but the acreage of stone-paved courtyard was still bathed in sunlight. Even so, she slipped her arms into her jacket—the fewer things she carried the better—and carefully eyed the Ferrari which was crouched in front of what surely had to be the main entrance door.

She had the uncanny feeling of being watched but the massive building looked deserted—apart, that was, from the unoccupied scarlet symbol of machismo.

There was nothing to get goose bumps about, she assured herself. And, although the fortress-like structure might give an initial impression of keeping a stern and watchful eye on the tiny village which shimmered whitely in the heat haze down in the narrow valley, the martins nesting in crevices in the walls helped to create a delicate, swooping counterpoint and the stone of the castle itself was a lovely delicate honey tone, adding an air of almost fairy-tale fantasy.

Definitely not forbidding at all, she chided herself, then, as hovering in the shadow of the enormous archway making foolish assessments of the architectural atmosphere wasn’t getting her anywhere, she squared her slender shoulders and set resolutely out across the massive courtyard.

She was here for a purpose and the sooner she got on with it the better. Once she’d taken a project on board she allowed nothing to deflect her from her purpose; that single-mindedness had helped make her agency the success it now was. Francisco Casals would soon find out that he wasn’t dealing with an empty-headed female who was too feeble to stand up for herself!

The Spaniard had known exactly where to find her father, and even now the elderly man might be sampling a knuckle sandwich. Or worse. Her heartbeats quickened. She began to run. If the main door was locked it could take her quite some time to find a way in. And time was something she was short on.

She was dragging the warm dry air into her lungs in painful gulps by the time she reached the intricately carved stone arch that surrounded her objective—the main door.

It was thick and unyielding, studded and strapped with iron, and she twisted the great iron ring with misgivings, only to hear the infinitely satisfying click of the heavy latch, feel the great door swing inwards as if on oiled hinges. She barged straight through to the dim cool silence of the vast space beyond, adrenalin scudding through her veins, then stopped, disorientated, as the door closed silently behind her, making the dimness almost dark. And all she could hear was the rapid thud of her heartbeats. And the sound of someone breathing.

Her breath clogged painfully in her throat then emerged on a foolish squeak as that unmistakable dark, smoky voice said from directly behind her, ‘What kept you?’

CHAPTER FOUR

TOO shocked to speak, Sarah stood frozen as her emotions went into a state of riot, while her stunned, wide-eyed stare took in the glorious, olivetoned features that gave absolutely nothing away. That almost frightening inscrutability increased her whirling sense of dangerous disorientation. Then, thankfully, common sense gained ascendancy and she gathered her mind together. Fast.

His totally unexpected appearance had startled her, naturally enough, making her heart leap up into her throat with shock. But that moment was well and truly behind her and she could breathe a big sigh of relief, congratulate herself on achieving her aim.

Not stopping to wonder why he hadn’t already begun his search of the huge premises for the missing Encarnación and the man he had vowed to beat to a pulp, she did nothing to hide the smile of sheer complacency that curved her soft lips as she suggested, ‘We’ll go and look for them together, shall we? And don’t even think of asking me to wait outside until the shouting’s over.’ She gave him a glittering triumphant look from beneath her eyelashes. ‘No one ever underestimates me twice in one lifetime, Señor Casals, so take my advice and don’t try it again.’

Just to further impress on him that he didn’t have the monopoly on tough-talking arrogance, she straightened her mouth to a cool, firm line and glared haughtily down the length of her nose but his expression was still a total enigma and for some reason shook her all over again, because there was something behind it, a heavy, steely force that could confuse and frighten her if she didn’t keep the upper hand.

And then a slow, beautiful smile spread over his face and that really worried her. She’d outwitted him, after all, so surely he had nothing to smile about! But she refused to step the few paces away from him that all her instincts were urging her to take because she didn’t back down for anyone, certainly not for him.

‘Together. Yes, I like the sound of that.’ Genuine satisfaction honeyed the dark, smoky voice but the sudden trap of his fingers as they closed punishingly on her upper arm was a cruel contrast. ‘Come, little fly. You walked into my web so prettily, and now we will wait. Together, as you said.’

Suddenly, the huge space seemed airless. Those dark, inscrutable eyes rested on her, seeming to map the way her brain was working as it tried to make sense of what he had said.

Wait? Surely he couldn’t be saying that during the relatively short time he’d spent here ahead of her he’d had the opportunity to search the warren of rooms that must make up the interior of the castle? That he’d found someone—one of the staff maybe—who’d told him that Piers was out somewhere, that he’d turn up again if they waited?

It made no kind of sense at all.

She frowned, making a determined effort now to pull away, but that only made the punishing pressure of his steely fingers more intense as he began to urge her across the stone floor. She tried to dig her heels in but it was impossible and she had the horrible feeling that if she resisted further he would pick her up and toss her over his shoulders like a rag doll.

‘Don’t hustle me,’ she snapped, doing her best to sound fully in control and formidably stern. ‘If you’ll show me where we’re supposed to wait, I’ll go without being manhandled, thank you.’ She injected a fine note of sarcasm but it made not a jot of difference, except that she imagined she saw a pitying smile flicker across his lips.

‘And how do you know they’re not in residence?’ she persisted doggedly, doing her level best to keep her breathing nice and regular, to ignore the manacle of his strong, lean, inescapable hand. ‘Dad’s neighbour told you they were here but you only arrived ten minutes before me, so you can’t possibly have had time to make a proper search, and for all you know the owner might be here too, and have us thrown out as mannerless intruders. I don’t suppose you’ve thought of that!’

She might have been talking to thin air for all the response she got and by this time they had emerged through another massive door, out of the dim shadows and into the brilliance of an interior courtyard, open to the deepening sun-shot early evening sky. There were fountains, she noted agitatedly, a single massive fig tree, masses of tubbed exotic flowers and shady arcades surrounding what she took to be the main living quarters.

Whoever owned this place was obviously a man of considerable substance, not to mention clout. But the relentless Spaniard hadn’t taken her warnings on board. He had simply, and with insulting arrogance, ignored every word she had said.

Or so it seemed until he strode into the shade of the nearest pillared arcade and informed her, almost indifferently, ‘I am the owner. And I can assure you that apart from a skeleton staff of two there is no one else in residence. Come, through here.’

Without giving her time to draw breath, let alone gather her thoughts coherently, he steered her through a deep archway into a cool, stone-walled apartment and up a narrow flight of twisting, banisterless stone stairs that clung to one of the inner walls. And her hair, hastily secured back in a makeshift knot with the few clips remaining following the slippery, silky descent in Arcos, flopped down all over again, obscuring her vision, and she could do nothing about it because the arm he wasn’t clutching was hanging on to her bits and pieces. She felt hatred bubble up inside her, vicious and violent and quite unlike her.

The untrammelled mass of hair, tumbling to her shoulders and falling over her face, put her at a distinct physical and psychological disadvantage. She could barely see to put one foot in front of the other, was actually having to rely on that iron-hard hand to guide her. She loathed the sensation of having to rely on this over-privileged boor for anything and the conclusions she was beginning to draw did nothing at all to ease her state of mind.

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