Reluctant Hostage

Cover Page

Excerpt

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

“What if I say I don’t want anyone else, that I want you?”

“Then you’ll be in for a big disappointment.” Libby’s breathing was rapid now. The way Warwick looked at her, a long, slow, calculated appraisal, was as intimate as if he were actually touching her, and to her shame she felt herself respond. She swung away, disgusted with herself. “I have no intention of being treated as a plaything.”

Reluctant Hostage

Margaret Mayo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Tina and Andy

Happy memories always

CHAPTER ONE

THE man’s smoky eyes were still on her, not wavering to left or right, making Libby feel that she was the centre of his universe, that no one and nothing else mattered. It was a whole new experience. The unaccustomed warmth that had started in the pit of her stomach had spread to every corner of her body. It was a feeling that surpassed all other feelings, creating exciting, alien sensations. And the fact that it was happening to her, plain Libby Eaton, whom boys rarely looked at twice, made it all the more amazing.

‘I think we should introduce ourselves. My name’s Warwick.’ His smile was easy and all-consuming, and Libby felt as though she were drowning in the depths of his eyes, which was madness, insanity, but she hadn’t the will-power to shake him off, to snap out of this plethora of feelings and emotions that had surprisingly crept over her.

He held out his hand as he spoke, and hesitantly she took it. It was the first physical contact they had made since the plane had left Heathrow more than three hours earlier, and tiny shock waves of electricity stabbed through her, heightening the feelings that already existed. His hand was warm and strong and held hers in a grip so firm that it told her this chance meeting meant something to him too.

‘Libby,’ she announced shyly, her response coming a mere second after his question, yet it felt like an aeon.

‘Libby?’ He gave her name a whole new meaning, making it sound special and somehow sexy. She had never heard it said in quite the same way. He had a deep voice with an unusual timbre that sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. ‘Is that short for anything?’

‘Elizabeth, but I’m never called that.’

‘I prefer Libby too. It suits you. You’re not an Elizabeth. Libby suggests a softer, more feminine person. Mmm, yes, Libby; I like it.’ Still he held her hand, and Libby’s whole body felt as if it were on fire.

‘And how old are you, little girl with the beautiful name?’

‘Little girl’? She was five feet seven! And as for feminine, well, Rebecca was the glamour girl, the pretty one, the one who was never short of boyfriends. Libby had always considered herself unattractive and gauche. ‘I’m twenty-three,’ she announced, almost defiantly.

A thick dark brow rose. ‘So old!’ he mocked.

‘And you, what are you? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?’

‘Thirty-four.’

‘So old!’ she returned, laughing, but it was old to her. The only boys she had felt any interest in had been nearer her own age.

Finally he let go of her hand, and Libby was left with the sensation of a million electric impulses shooting through her skin. She clasped her two hands together and savoured the feeling. This was a moment in life to be remembered. It was doubtful she would see this man again once they touched down in Tenerife. He was a ship that passed in the night, a magical stranger who made her feel like a different girl.

Libby’s experience of men was limited. She was too conscious of the fact that she was a mere pale shadow of her beautiful sister, too uninteresting to hold the attention of any man for long. Besides, there had been little time for boyfriends since their mother died. When she wasn’t working there was always so much to do in the house.

‘Are you married?’ The question was out before she could stop it and her cheeks coloured with faint embarrassment. But it troubled her to think he could be expertly playing with her emotions. She wanted to savour the memory with no regrets.

‘Would it bother you if I were?’

Libby did not know how to answer that. To say yes would reveal too much, but to say no would be a lie. She lifted her narrow shoulders in what she hoped was a careless shrug. ‘It was idle curiosity.’

He grinned, not believing her for one second. ‘No, I’m not married, Libby.’

‘Do you live in Tenerife?’ Although they had talked non-stop for most of the journey, it had been nonsense talk: anecdotes, observations, ambitions. He had told her that he wanted to fly to the moon, she had said she wanted to own an island. It was obvious from his accent that he was English, but that was all she knew.

He nodded. ‘I have done for the last twelve years.’

‘Do you intend spending the rest of your life there?’

It was his turn to shrug. ‘I might do. I’ve really no long-term plans at the moment.’

‘What do you do for a living?’

He laughed. ‘All these questions. It is of no consequence at this moment what I do. Today you are the most important person in my life. You have transformed a mundane flight into something magical. I have made this trip dozens of times, but never met a girl who has made me forget the tedium of repetition.’

Could he really be talking about her? thought Libby. Her straight ash-blonde hair was too pale and thin to be attractive, unlike her sister’s thick golden locks that hung over her shoulders in a tumult of rich waves. Her complexion was too pale as well, and her wide eyes made her look like a waif.

And yet the way this man spoke, the way he looked at her, made her feel different, almost beautiful. It was a foreign and totally unexpected sensation, and goose-bumps rose on her skin as he continued to appraise her.

‘I’m not a seasoned traveller myself,’ she admitted. ‘In fact flying makes me nervous.’ She had only ever flown once before, and that was on a short holiday to Jersey when their parents were alive. Yet now, with this man at her side, she had not given it a thought. From the moment she’d sat down she had been aware of nothing but him.

‘You’ve not shown your fear today.’

That’s because of you, she wanted to say, but he knew it anyway. It was there in the way he looked at her. He had such deep-seeing eyes, an unusual blue-grey, with thick dark lashes. His hair was almost black, cut quite short and brushed back, only the front few strands falling untidily and yet attractively forward. His deeply tanned skin covered the chiselled bones of his face. There was a raw masculinity about him that could not be ignored.

A nice face, she thought, kind and considerate. He had a full lower lip, suggesting he might be a passionate lover, and Libby felt her skin crawl again. Why was she thinking like this? What madness was possessing her? She had never entertained such thoughts in her life.

‘Are you cold?’ His hand came over hers again, a frown of concern in his eyes.

‘Someone walking over my grave.’ She tried to laugh off the feeling, but it was a poor attempt—a weak smile, no more, as her eyes were drawn to his.

It happened now as it had earlier—everyone else on the plane became non-existent. They were in their own private universe where hearts thudded and pulses raced—and, as there was no likelihood of this chance meeting developing into any sort of relationship, she decided she might as well make the most of it—and then forget him!

Libby’s eyes, which she disparagingly called mauve, and privately thought were too large for her face, were an unusual amethyst. Unknown to herself, they were sometimes a deep, regal purple, sometimes as pale as lavender blossom. At this moment, as hunger for this man took possession of her, they were richly purple, full and luminous, seeking and searching every plane of his face, every pore, every line.

He let her hand go, and she felt strangely bereft, and at that moment the captain announced that they would soon be approaching Tenerife’s Reina Sofia airport. Sadness welled up inside Libby, a deep, unremitting sadness that threatened to fill every corner of her being. The end of a beautiful, unexpected encounter was near, and she did not want it to happen. She wanted this flight to go on for ever.

Briefly she looked at Warwick, and he saw the sadness and smiled. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be the end, Libby. I shall see you again?’

This was something she had not expected, and she looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. She really had thought this was a brief passage in time, that he would say goodbye and that would be that. She wanted to see him again, yes, of course she did, but she did not want him meeting her sister—she did not want to run the risk of losing him to someone who was far more attractive than she.

It went without saying that once he met Rebecca it would be all over. It was a fact of life. No matter how much he might think he liked her now, once he met her beautiful younger sister…

‘I’m not sure it will be possible,’ she said huskily, hurting inside as she uttered the words. ‘I intend spending all of my time with my sister. This is actually a surprise visit—I haven’t seen her for months. We have a lot to catch up on.’ She had already told him that she was paying Rebecca a visit.

‘That’s a pity.’ He made no attempt to hide his disappointment. ‘I was hoping to see more of you.’ His hand on her arm paralysed her—not firm, the lightest touch, but holding her in its power as though it were a vice. ‘Perhaps I’ll be able to persuade you to change your mind?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Libby felt a sense of impending deprivation as she uttered the words. She could not understand how or why she felt so strongly when she had known him for only a few hours, but she would far rather lose Warwick now and save the happy memories than risk losing him to Rebecca. Rebecca was a vulture where men were concerned.

He moved his hand and looked away through the window. Libby became aware of the girl sitting in the seat next to her. It was hard to believe that she had not known of her existence. She smiled at her faintly, and wondered if the girl had heard all that had been going on, whether she was an interested observer, and would be telling her friends. Then Warwick spoke again, and the girl was forgotten.

‘You’ll like Tenerife; it’s an island of contrasts—both in lifestyle and geographically. Do you like discos and plenty of night-life? Or is a quiet dinner and a stroll along the beach more your scene?’

Libby had not been to many discos—not from personal choice but because of circumstances at home. ‘A bit of each, I suppose,’ she said, adding, ‘It all depends on the mood I’m in.’

‘And the person you’re with?’

She did not miss the meaning behind his words. ‘The person I’m with,’ she agreed—not that she had ever gone out with a man where they’d done anything so romantic as walking along a beach when it was dark. The very infrequent dates she’d had were to the cinema or the local pub in the East End of London where she lived, and a quick peck on the cheek at the end of the evening was all any of them had managed. It had done nothing for her self-esteem, confirming only what she already knew: that she wasn’t attractive to any man—until now! She still couldn’t get over it.

‘I prefer a quiet life myself. Good food, good wine and good company. Not for me the bright lights. I had enough of that in my youth.’

Libby smiled. ‘You make me sound young and yourself old.’

‘Ten years is sometimes a lifetime. On the other hand it can pass in an instant.’

Libby knew what he meant, but it would need a unique relationship to make life go that quickly. Such as could develop between themselves! Was that what he was suggesting? After a mere four hours? It sounded crazy, and yet Libby felt the same deep gut reaction that had drawn him to her.

Their attention was diverted by the hostess requesting passengers to make sure their seatbelts were fastened and to extinguish all cigarettes. Libby lapsed into an unhappy silence as the plane made its final descent. Was she doing the wrong thing in saying that she did not want to see him again? Perhaps he wouldn’t fancy Rebecca. Perhaps she was being overly cautious.

Her thoughts tailed away as the plane landed and they waited their turn to get off. The heat hit her like a blast from an oven as they descended the steps, and as they waited for their luggage in the grey concrete building she was vitally conscious of Warwick still at her side. He was much taller than she had imagined, standing a good eight inches above her.

Their cases retrieved, he accompanied her outside to the line of waiting taxis. It was already growing dark. ‘Perhaps we can share?’ he suggested, making it clear that he was as anxious as she to prolong their time together. ‘Where is your sister staying?’

‘Torviscas—but I’m sure it must be out of your way.’ Rebecca had told her that it was on the outskirts of Playa de las Américas, the popular tourist area. He would surely live nowhere close to that?

‘Not’at all,’ he said with an encouraging smile. ‘By a strange coincidence that’s precisely my own destination. Something tells me, Libby, that you’re not going to escape from me as easily as you think.’

She felt flattered and enormously pleased, but suddenly apprehensive also. She really did not want him to meet Rebecca. In the taxi, thigh touching thigh, his hand on hers, adrenalin pumping and pulses racing, she wondered again if she was over-reacting.

‘Do you realise I don’t even know your second name?’ he said.

‘Nor do I know yours,’ she rejoined with a soft smile.

‘Hunter,’ he supplied readily.

‘Eaton,’ she grimaced. ‘I’ve never liked it.’

‘Eaton? Your sister wouldn’t be named Rebecca by any chance?’

Libby nodded. ‘That’s right, and she works on a ship called the Estoque. Do you know it?’

‘By another quirk of fate, Libby, yes, I do. The Estoque belongs to me.’

Libby was astounded at the coincidence, and felt a moment’s panic as she wondered if he was already involved with Rebecca. But there was nothing at all in his expression to suggest her sister meant anything to him. His smile was as warm and encompassing as it had ever been.

A broad smile broke out on her face. She was worrying for nothing. Warwick wouldn’t have paid her so much attention if he had been attracted to Rebecca. Everything was suddenly wonderful. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said excitedly. ‘What a small world it is.’

‘A small world indeed,’ he agreed. ‘It looks as though we’re going to see a lot more of each other than you thought.’

Libby was so estatically happy that she did not notice the hardness that had entered his eyes, or the sudden tension in his body.

The journey took no more than twenty minutes along a good fast road, but by the time they got there it was completely dark. No long-drawn-out dusks here; once the sun went down it was dark within minutes.

Puerto Colon was a man-made marina, flanked by bars and boutiques, restaurants and palm trees. Ships were anchored in regimented rows, and the whole scene was floodlit. The water looked bottle-green in the artificial light and the wind slapped ropes against masts in a musical melody. People strolled and watched and laughed, and Warwick led her along a pontoon to a boat which was the last in a line.

The Estoque was large and imposing, painted white or some other pale colour—it was difficult to tell in the electric light. Inside was a huge saloon where the steeringwheel, radar screen and a host of other very impressivelooking equipment occupied one corner. There was velvet seating in a relaxing dove-grey, a deep-piled ruby carpet, a table, a bookcase, a drinks cabinet. It wanted for nothing. But there was no Rebecca!

‘Your sister is out most evenings,’ Warwick said unconcernedly. ‘It’s too early yet for her to be back. Do sit down. Can I get you something to eat, or a drink perhaps, while you’re waiting?’

‘No, thank you,’ Libby answered quietly. She felt shy of this man on his home ground, an inexplicable shyness that was at odds with the feelings she had entertained earlier. Perhaps it was because they had been cocooned together on the plane, so that there was no escaping him? The intimacy enforced. Now, with space between them, she could think rationally.

He sat opposite, looking at her with a quizzical expression in his eyes. ‘You look nothing like your sister.’

Libby gave an inward groan. Here it came—the disparaging comparison she had been used to all her life.

‘Rebecca’s beauty is superficial, yours comes from deep down inside.’

Beautiful? He was saying she was beautiful?

‘You have an inner serenity that reflects itself in your demeanour and your lovely eyes. You’re quite right to wear very little make-up; you don’t need it. Your sister slaps it on like layers of paint. It’s enough to put any man off.’ Libby’s heart beat uncomfortably fast at these compliments. ‘You’re a lovely young woman, Libby. I find it difficult to believe that you’re related to Rebecca. Yes, very difficult; there’s no comparison between you. What are your parents like? Whom do you take after?’

Libby shrugged, his flattery, the soft expression in his eyes creating havoc with her senses. Simply looking at him, listening to his deep, sexy voice was enough to melt her bones, and she knew that if she got up she would be unable to stand. It was a whole new experience.

‘My mother had the same pale complexion as me, though her hair was golden like Rebecca’s.’

‘Is your mother no longer alive?’ he asked softly, noting her use of the past tense.

‘She died three years ago.’ Libby’s face clouded at the painful memory. Alcoholic poisoning, the doctor had said; Libby preferred to think it was a broken heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said compassionately. ‘And your father?’

She compressed her lips, wishing he weren’t asking all these questions. ‘He’s dead too. Nearly eight years ago he had a fatal accident at work. My mother never got over it.’

Libby would never forget the day her mother had been brought the news of Jim Eaton’s death. A freak accident, they’d told her, a one-in-a-million chance. Mary Eaton had collapsed, and was inconsolable; she did not want to live without him, and over the years she had turned more and more to the bottle for comfort, leaving the running of the house to Libby.

Rebecca had been ten when her father died, wayward even then, becoming even more uncontrollable without his firm supervision, and, with the death of her mother when she was almost sixteen, she would listen to nothing Libby ever said. ‘I’m grown-up now,’ she’d declared haughtily. ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ She’d only ever turned to Libby when she was short of money.

Once the police had called at the house, saying that Rebecca had taken part in a robbery from one of the local big houses. Libby had nearly gone out of her mind with worry until it had transpired that Rebecca had not been involved at all—that a girl with a grudge against her because Rebecca had stolen her boyfriend had deliberately tried to get her into trouble. Fortunately Rebecca had an excellent alibi, but it had nevertheless been a worrying time for Libby.

She was fortunate that in her job as a self-employed, mobile hairdresser, either going out to clients’ homes in her battered Mini, or using their own front room as a salon, she had been able to spend a lot of time looking after her mother, and always tried to be at home when Rebecca came out of school. Every penny she’d earned had gone into the house—or to Rebecca!

‘So you two girls were left alone? What sort of an upbringing did you have? Were your parents strong on discipline?’

Libby shot him a sharp glance at this unexpected question, feeling sure it had something to do with Rebecca. Or was she being too sensitive? ‘My father was, yes,’ she admitted. ‘He was very old-fashioned in his attitudes. My mother wasn’t so bad, but once he died she had no interest in anything. She was broken-hearted. It was left to me to bring up my sister. Do you think she’ll be long?’

‘I’m sure not,’ he said reassuringly, and, after a moment’s pause, ‘I see now why you’re so different. Rebecca would appear to take after your father. She has very strong convictions, and probably rebelled over what she saw as his totally outmoded views, whereas you are as soft and sensitive as your mother, and, although you did your best after she died, Rebecca went very much her own way.’

He was so uncannily accurate that Libby wondered whether Rebecca had told him about their home circumstances.

‘No, your sister hasn’t said anything,’ he assured her, almost as though she had asked the question out aloud. ‘Please, let me pour you a drink.’ Without more ado he walked across to the drinks cabinet. ‘Gin? Campari? Bacardi?’

‘Just a tonic water, please,’ she said. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she feared it might go to her head. It was all very well feeling attracted to him on the plane, where there had been safety in numbers, but here, with just the two of them, she could find herself in an uncomfortable situation. And she was still stunned by his summing up. Was he able to judge all people so accurately?

He looked surprised by her choice, but nevertheless filled a glass with ice and a slice of lemon and poured the tonic over it. With a flourish he presented it to her. ‘For you, señorita, one very special drink.’

Libby took it from him with a smile, feeling the power that emanated from him to her as their fingers touched. He seemed in no hurry to move away. ‘Aren’t you drinking anything?’ she asked, surprised to hear how breathless she sounded.

‘But of course.’ He turned and poured a generous measure of whisky into a glass and then resumed the seat he had been sitting in earlier.

As the minutes passed Libby began to get more and more restless, constantly looking at her watch. It was almost midnight now, and still no sign of Rebecca.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘your sister is a night-bird.’

‘What if she doesn’t come back?’ she asked worriedly. ‘What if she stays out all night? Has she ever done that?’ Frequently at home Rebecca had stayed with friends, but she had always rung Libby to tell her where she was—persuaded, Libby suspected, by her friend’s parents, but at least she had never needed to worry as to her whereabouts. Here she could be anywhere and doing heaven knew what. Into the drug scene, anything. It didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Rebecca has always been here to cook my meals,’ he told her, which was no answer at all.

This was something else that had bothered Libby when Rebecca had written and told her that she had got a job as a cook and deck-hand on a cabin cruiser. Rebecca, cooking? It didn’t sound right; it was far too domesticated for her fun-loving sister. Her initial thoughts were that there was a man involved, but, having met Warwick, having heard him say that her sister was not his type, she knew this was not the case. So why was her sister working here, doing jobs she had always abhorred at home?

When Rebecca had announced six months ago that England had nothing to offer and she was going out to the Canary Islands to look for work, Libby had nearly had a fit. It was Rebecca’s own fault that she was unemployable, she’d told her. ‘If you’d worked harder at school you’d have had some qualifications. What do you think you’re going to do out there?’ But Rebecca had not listened and, together with Zelda Sanders, a friend from her school days, she had packed her bags and gone.