Gift For A Lion

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 rugs surrounding the bed. A dressing chest had been set against one wall, and Joanna noticed that as well as a valuable-looking antique mirror on a silver stand, it held a varied collection of cut glass bottles, presumably containing scents as well as other toilet requisites.

She rolled on to her back, and stared up at the black silk curtains looped back at the head of the bed which, presumably, the occupant could release before going to sleep. She thought with a curl of her lip that such a diaphanous shield would only give an illusion of privacy at best. Her gaze wandered again to the barred windows and back to the dressing chest, and she sat up, gripped by a sudden disquiet. This was a woman's room—almost seductively so—and yet there were no women living at the palazzo. He had said so.

She slipped off the bed, grateful for the caress of the soft goatskin under her bare feet, and padded across to the dressing chest. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for one of the bottles and withdrew the stopper. It was unmistakably ‘Calèche'—one of her favourites. She replaced it quickly, her mouth suddenly dry, as she studied the other cosmetics that were laid out there. They were all brands she used regularly. That dossier of his seemed to be complete, she thought, with another spurt of rage. She was sorely tempted to send the whole lot crashing to the ground with one sweep of her arm, but common sense prevailed. She had no doubt that her host would retaliate by making her sleep in the over-exotic atmosphere such an action would create, and her nose wrinkled at the thought.

She stared around again. A woman's room, filled with the sort of pretty toys that women loved, and men loved to give them. She thought, ‘Silk and perfume and bars at the windows. It's like a harem.’ And her hand crept to her throat as the idle thought assumed a nightmare reality.

Was that—could that be why she was here? She tried desperately to think back over her conversation with the man downstairs. He had told her he was the master of Saracina. Did he mean to imply that he was her master too? Was that to be her punishment for having invaded his privacy? She gave a little moan of rejection and paused, appalled by the despair in her own voice. Quickly she took a grip on herself. This was the twentieth century, she told herself, and no matter how arrogant he might be, he could not be a complete barbarian. She was allowing her imagination to play her tricks. Anyway, and her face grew hot at the thought, if that had been what he wanted, she had been at his mercy in that small shadowed room downstairs. Besides, she knew desire when she saw it in a man's eyes and heard it in his voice, and he had displayed only a certain cold anger mixed with contempt. She could not imagine that hard face ever softening under the impetus of tenderness for a woman, she thought wryly, or those brilliant eyes of his glowing with anything other than mockery. And to her amazement she felt herself catch her breath on a little sigh.

Pulling herself together, she turned away, and stared in consternation as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Was this really Joanna Leighton, this bedraggled-looking creature with the matted hair and swollen eyelids? It made her fears of the past few moments seem ludicrous. No man would want her like this, least of all a haughty Renaissance lord.

She gave a little groan as she studied herself. She wanted a shower to wash the lingering traces of salt from her body, and restore her hair to its usual gleaming beauty. She owed it to herself to confront her jailer on her own terms, she told herself resolutely. No wonder he had treated her with such contemptuous arrogance, but she would make him see that she was someone to be reckoned with.

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