Moth to the Flame (10 page)

recesses. And the bed she was lying in surely belonged more

properly in a museum, she thought apprehensively as she gazed up

at the brocaded canopy over her head, and the long curtains that

swept down on either side of it. She supposed the curtains could be

drawn round the bed at night, but last night they had not been, They

had been looped back with heavily gilded and tasselled cords. The

sheets and pillowcases were of linen so fine that it felt like silk

against her skin, and they were edged with exquisite lace that even

her untrained eyes suggested was probably handmade.

Which brought her to the next realisation—that the sheet, and the

elaborately quilted and embroidered bedcover, were the only

covering she had. The colour stormed into her face. Someone had

brought her here, undressed her and put her to bed, and she had not

the slightest recollection of any of it happening. The last thing she

remembered, she forced her mind back, was music and the swift

motion of a car, and a man's voice.

She pressed her hands against her burning cheeks as her memory

began to stir sluggishly, and she began to recall all that had taken

place—when? The previous evening? It was difficult to say, but

surely she had not been to sleep for so very long?

There was a faint unpleasant taste in her mouth, and after a

moment's hesitation she reached for the carafe of fruit juice which

stood on the carved chest of drawers beside the bed and filled the

glass, draining it to the last drop. It was deliciously cool and

refreshing, and her head was beginning to clear that little bit more

with each minute that passed.

She looked rather desperately round the room. Where were the

clothes she had been wearing last night? she asked herself. There

was no doubt in her mind that wherever she was, Santino Vallone

had brought her there, and she writhed inwardly with shame at the

thought of herself naked and helpless under his cynical gaze.

She wanted to get out of bed and start looking in the huge,

elaborately carved wardrobe for something to wear, but her lack of

any kind of wrap made her hesitate, feeling vulnerable. After a

moment she dragged at the bedcover and twisted it around her

shoulders like some exotic Renaissance cloak. It wasn't an ideal

dressing gown by any means, but anything was better than nothing,

she thought as she climbed out of the high bed and trod across the

thick goatskin rug which was laid over the bare wooden floor.

The bedcover was far from being an adequate cloak. It kept

catching on things and slipping, and it was heavy, but she held on to

it tightly because it was all she had. The literal truth of that only

dawned on her a moment later when the heavy wardrobe door

swung open with a protesting squeal of hinges, and she saw that its

cavernous depths were completely empty.

She stood gazing at it with stupefaction. She hadn't expected a

complete range of daywear, but at least she'd anticipated that the

black dress she had worn at dinner would be there.

She swung round, hitching the bedcover up around her shoulders,

and tried the chest of drawers beside the bed. Each drawer was

carefully lined, and a bunch of some sweet herbs was laid in each

one, but that was all. And there was no other kind of storage space

in the room at all.

Juliet slammed the last drawer shut, biting her lip angrily. Of all the

ridiculous situations to be in! she thought. She clasped the bulky

folds of the coverlet more securely round her and set off for the

door. It was a solid-looking affair with ornate hinges, and a heavy

ring handle. She twisted the ring this way and that, but it made no

difference, the door did not budge. She tugged and pulled, and in a

kind of desperation even shoved at it, but all to no avail. She felt

suddenly, murderously angry. She began to beat on the door with

both fists, oblivious of the fact that her improvised cloak had fallen

to the floor.

'Open this door!' she shouted at the top of her voice. 'Let me out,

damn you! Open it, do you hear?'

The words sounded brave enough, and the noise she made was

somehow reassuring, but as its echo died away, she felt suddenly

forlorn, and more than a little scared. And as the minutes passed,

and there wasn't the slightest response to her appeal, she began to

feel cold and sick.

She turned and leaned back against the door, splaying her fingers

over the sturdy timbers as if they would give her some kind of

moral as well as physical support. Where was she? What was this

place where she was being kept, and how long would she be forced

to remain here?

Judging by the wall, it must be some kind of fortress, she thought,

and remembered something Santino had said at that ill-fated dinner

the previous night. Something about a fortress half in ruins and an

island across an amethyst sea. Kicking the folds of the coverlet

impatiently aside with her bare foot, she walked across to the

window and looked out.

She seemed to be looking straight down the face of a steep cliff,

and sure enough, the sea crawled there at its foot. But it was not the

evening light Santino had mentioned. Judging by the position of the

sun, Juliet guessed it must be around noon. Her watch had stopped

at some time during the night. A shimmering heat haze hung over

the water, and in the distance she could vaguely see the outline of a

mass of land—possibly the island he had mentioned. She gave one

last, shuddering look down and abandoned any idea she might have

had of climbing out of the window. Even if she had managed to

fabricate herself some kind of tunic out of one of the sheets, such a

descent would have been quite beyond her.

Her shoulders slumped defeatedly as she turned away. She wanted

very badly to cry, but she wouldn't allow herself the luxury. She had

lost her temper already and had achieved absolutely nothing. Crying

would simply be a waste of energy.

She wished she could gauge the time more accurately. She

wondered how long it was since they had left the restaurant. She

knew one things—she was hungry again. She bit her lip. She had

been deprived of clothes. Was Santino Vallone barbaric enough to

keep food from her as well? Juliet shook her head; This was

assuming the proportions of a king-sized nightmare. How long did

he intend to keep her here? She would not be missed for quite some

time. Jan might wonder where she had gone, but would probably

assume she had drifted on to sightsee elsewhere —until she came

across her clothes and her passport. Then she'd realise something

was wrong. That, of course, was always assuming she returned to

the apartment immediately on her return. But perhaps she wouldn't.

Maybe she would simply move in with Mario and forget about the

apartment —even for weeks.

Juliet swallowed. In fact the first person to sound any kind of alarm

might well be Mim, and that was the last thing she wanted to

happen. Wasn't it really to protect her mother and keep her in happy

ignorance of the mess Jan had got herself into that she was in this

predicament at all?

She groaned silently. All the tried and true maxims she had

practised all her life about looking before one leapt, and the kind of

tangled web that transpired when one practised to deceive, came

back in force to taunt her. The whole thing was just impossible, she

thought roundly. She was asleep and dreaming, and presently she

would pinch herself and wake up and find that none of it had

happened.

Oh, please let it be like that, she prayed inwardly, but even, as the

prayer took shape in her mind, she knew that it was all too true.

And just to reinforce the fact that this was cold, stark reality, she

heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

Juliet did not wait to retrieve the abandoned bedcover, but took a

flying leap into the big canopied bed, seizing the sheet and tugging

it up around her neck. At the same time she was uneasily aware that

the slender curves of her body were revealingly outlined under the

fine linen, but it was too late to do anything about that now,

because a key had grated in the lock and the door was opening.

Santino Vallone walked into the room. He was wearing denim pants

and a dark close-fitting shirt, partially unbuttoned. He stood looking

down at her, his hands resting lightly on his hips, and Juliet thought

dazedly that this casually dishevelled beachcomber didn't bear the

least resemblance to the elegantly dressed businessman she had

encountered the previous evening. Except in one respect, she told

herself, bitterness threatening to choke her. That incredible physical

attraction she had been aware of then was there in full force,

perhaps even accentuated, and she loathed herself for the

undeniable response that it was evoking from her shivering body.

He looked at her lying there, not a muscle moving, the sheet tightly

clenched under her chin, eyes damning him over its hem, and he

smiled. The smile told her everything. It told her that he knew she

was naked under its flimsy covering, and that he knew what she

looked like without that covering, because he had seen her only

hours before. She thought she would burn up with shame. It had

been quite bad enough when he had walked into the bedroom at the

apartment while she had been changing. But this— this was

infinitely worse.

'Get out,' she said between her teeth.

He raised his eyebrows. 'I thought from the uproar a little while ago

that you needed company.'

"Not yours,' she said, her voice shaking with rage. 'Never yours.'

He smiled again, but this time there was no amusement in it, nor

even any secret knowledge. 'Then it is sad that we are condemned

to each other for a while,' he said. There was a note of finality in his

voice that frightened her.

After a moment, she said, 'But we don't have to be. You could just

let me walk out of here. I wouldn't say anything to anyone ...' She

paused. She was beginning to beg, and she must not.

But he was shaking his head slightly, the smile widening a little.

'The prospect of you walking out of here at this precise moment has

its appeal,' he said drily, and her face flamed as she realised the

implication in his words. 'But I regret that it is impossible.'

'But that's ridiculous!' Her breathing quickened in spite of herself

and she could see his eyes on the rise and fall of her rounded

breasts beneath the concealing sheet. She tried to steady herself, to

remain calm and in control. Above all not to let him see that she

was very near to panic, and not merely for the reasons he would

expect. 'You can't keep me here against my will.'

'Nevertheless you are here,' he said coolly.

'It's kidnapping,' she protested, aware of the weakness of her words.

'That's a terribly serious offence in Italy— I know it is. You'll be

caught. Someone will realise sooner or later that you're keeping me

here, and then ...'

'Someone will indeed realise,' he said -coolly. 'That they should is

the sole reason for your being here, believe me.' He paused, his

eyes holding her uncomprehending gaze, then he said softly,

'Mario.'

Even then it was several seconds before light dawned. It was as if

she had almost forgotten the reckless charade she had embarked on

the previous day. But he still thought she was Jan.

She said almost incredulously, 'You've gone to all this trouble

simply to keep me away from Mario?' Her heart 'was thumping, and

she kept repeating to herself like a litany, 'He doesn't know. He still

doesn't realise.'

He reached for a chair, velvet-seated with an elegantly rounded

back, and sat down on it astride, his arms resting negligently across

the back.

He said without emotion, 'Not precisely. That, if you remember,

was my original intention. When you refused the offer I made you, I

had to resort to rather more drastic action. I have to ensure, you

see, that Mario will wish in the future to keep away from you.' His

mouth twisted sardonically. 'When he learns that you have been

here with me, it will produce the desired effect. I did not exaggerate

his jealous tendencies, believe me.'

She said slowly, 'But I'm not here—with you. Not like that.'