The Power of the Legendary Greek Page 9

  ‘My pleasure. Alex sends his regards, by the way. He saw Luke when he was at the hospital and assures you he’s fine.’

  Isobel raised an eyebrow. ‘Why should Alex assure me?’

  Alyssa fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Who knows? Now, be good and I’ll come back tomorrow. We’ll have extra help then, so I can stay longer. If you like.’

  ‘I’d like that very much! Thanks a lot, Alyssa.’

  After concentrating for hours to make use of the light, Isobel was very tired by the time Spiro helped Milos take down the canopy. ‘Time to stop, kyria,’ he said severely, taking charge of her painting materials. ‘Now you rest, then eat good dinner.’

  It was a programme Isobel was only too glad to follow. She had a long shower, but felt so tired halfway through the meal she gave up and let Eleni help her to her room, scolding all the way because Isobel had been too weary to eat.

  ‘I bring tea,’ said the woman as they reached the room. ‘You go to bed now, ne?’

  ‘Yes, Eleni,’ Isobel promised meekly, startled to feel suddenly cold in the evening breeze coming through the veranda doors. Shivering, she searched in her suitcase for a pair of leggings to go with her vest, and even pulled tennis socks over feet that were suddenly icy.

  ‘Too much sun, work too hard,’ said Eleni sternly when she returned with the tea. ‘You want blanket?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine now, thank you. Goodnight, Eleni.’ Isobel drank the hot tea gratefully and settled back against the pillows.

  Luke rang before she had time to wonder if he would. ‘How are you, Isobel?’

  ‘I’m in bed now, but I’ve had a busy day. I’ve been painting.’

  ‘I heard this. Out on the cliff edge,’ he said sternly.

  ‘I wanted a painting of the beach to take home as a souvenir.’

  ‘To remind you of Chyros—and me? I need no reminders,’ he said softly. ‘I shall never forget my beautiful trespasser.’

  Good, thought Isobel, who had painted the watercolour with just that end in view. ‘How are your scrapes and scratches?’

  ‘Healing fast.’

  ‘Do you know why the man attacked you?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice hardened. ‘After much persuasion, he told the police he was paid to wound me but not to kill. He insists he has no idea who paid him, but I refuse to believe this. The man is obviously too frightened to name names. He said the money and instructions were delivered to him by courier, along with threats to harm his children if he refused.’

  ‘Then, for heaven’s sake, take care, Luke,’ warned Isobel, startled. ‘Whoever paid him might find someone else to hurt you even more. Is there good security where you live?’

  ‘The best. The building I live in has every security device known to man. I have excellent security staff, also temporary police protection. But as soon as I can I shall return to Chyros, where no hurt ever comes to me.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS a long time before Isobel slept. She felt worried because Luke was in danger, and even more worried because she felt that way. Don’t go there, she warned herself forcibly. She was just about getting over the recent hateful episode. Only a fool would lay herself open to more emotional trauma. Especially with a man who lived his life to a very different set of rules from hers. She tossed and turned endlessly, but when heavy, exhausted sleep overtook her at last she was jolted out of it into a waking nightmare by rough hands which dragged her out of bed, her terrified scream smothered by a pungent cloth clamped over her face.

  When Isobel opened her eyes again she felt icy-cold as she stared up into a starlit sky. She could hear an insistent put-putting noise, but instead of fear her knee-jerk reaction was sheer bloody-minded anger when she found she was tied up. Other people had nice package holidays, uneventful except for lost luggage, plane delays and sunburn, while so far hers had been one disaster after another. But burning resentment swiftly morphed into the cold chill of fear as she identified the noise. It was an outboard motor and she was not only in the bottom of a boat, but trussed up like an oven-ready chicken. How long had she been unconscious? And where on earth was she being taken? Even more frightening, what would happen when she got there? At least the smothering cloth had gone. Chloroform, probably. She swallowed down on a wave of nausea, thankful she hadn’t been gagged, then clenched her teeth in anguish as she prayed hard that nothing had happened to Eleni and Spiro. And, instead of howling in anger at fate, she forced herself to lie perfectly still. Better to pretend she was still unconscious than risk the chloroform treatment again.

  But why had she been snatched? If ransom was the motive, she had no money so she was no earthly use to a kidnapper. She shivered, feeling cold for all kinds of reasons. And hideously helpless. Then her heart lurched as the engine died and the boat grated against shingle. Now what? She kept her eyes tightly shut, playing dead as she was heaved over a burly shoulder. Her nostrils were assaulted by unwashed wool and sweat and tobacco as she was carried over what appeared to be rocks, by the way she was jolted. The rough handling had started up the throbbing in her temple again and her ankle was joining in. When I get home, Isobel promised herself bitterly—if I get home—I’ll never leave it again.

  She heard a door creak, then she was dumped on some kind of bed, pungent with the smell of wet wood and fish. She opened her eyes a crack to see a nightmare shape outlined by the moonlight shining through the small window of some kind of hut, and swallowed a scream as a huge hooded figure bent over her. He spoke to her roughly in Greek very different from Luke’s, but when she stared at him in speechless horror he took her by the shoulders, obviously demanding a reply.

  Isobel cleared her throat. ‘I—I’m British. I don’t understand Greek.’

  This was seriously bad news to him by the stream of what were obviously curses as he yanked her upright until her bound ankles hung over the bunk. He’d wrapped her in some kind of rug before trussing her up, which made it hard to keep her balance.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ she asked hopefully.

  A negative grunt was the only response.

  ‘Could you possibly untie my hands?’ she asked without much hope. ‘My wrists and shoulders are hurting.’

  To her surprise, he did as she asked, then removed the rug and retied her wrists in front of her. Isobel forced herself to sit as upright as possible, horribly conscious now of how little she was wearing on her top half as he lit a lantern suspended from a hook on a roof beam. As the light fell on her the man cursed again, his eyes glaring through the slits of the hood. Isobel backed away in terror, her skin crawling as he ran his fingers through her tousled curls to frame her face. What was he going to do? Then she found out. He pushed a newspaper between her tied hands and took photographs of her with his phone, and for a finale took her breath away by flicking a knife open to slice off a lock of hair. Determined not to show fear, she glared at him defiantly as he pointed to a box which held a package and bottles of water. He fetched a metal bucket and placed it at the end of the bunk, then turned out the lamp and left the hut. The door slammed shut behind him and bolts rammed home, and shortly afterwards the outboard motor roared into action as the boat took off, leaving Isobel limp with relief because rape had not been part of the plan. Not yet, anyway.

  As the moonlight faded, instead of the total darkness she’d dreaded, the first faint light of dawn took its place. Isobel’s spirits rose as the light gradually increased enough for a look round her prison. She was in some kind of fisherman’s hut, and a primitive one at that. The bunk was the only seating, and the mattress was damp and smelly.

  The man had tied her wrists more loosely than before, which was good news. Otherwise, using the bucket would have been tricky, so would the eating and drinking part. How long was the man intending to leave her here? And who would be the lucky recipient of the hair and the candid camera shots? Luke? The kidnapper now knew she was British and obviously not some relative of Lukas Andreadis, so was he banking on the fact that she was his l
over and worth ransoming? But in most cases kidnappers tended to get rid of their victims, whether the money was paid or not, didn’t they? Isobel batted that thought away and set about solving more immediate problems. She had to get her hands free as the first step to getting herself out of here. There was no way she was just going to curl up in misery like a victim and wait for rescue or rape, whichever came first.

  Fired with new determination, she tested the ropes. She’d deliberately tensed her wrists as the man retied them to gain a little leeway, and once she could see clearly she began tugging at the knots with her teeth. Ignoring the oily taste of the hemp, Isobel kept at it until the knot loosened and her teeth ached, but with freedom in sight she worked frantically, ignoring the soreness of her wrists until after what seemed like hours the knot finally gave and the rope fell away. Bingo! Triumphant, she smoothed her sore wrists for a while as she took a breather, then after some wriggling swung her feet up on to the bench to get to work on the ankle restraints. By some miracle, the support bandage was still in place though the ankle was aching. But with two hands instead of teeth for tools, unravelling this set of knots was marginally easier. After an endless, muscle-straining interval she managed to free herself and collapsed back on the bunk, panting but jubilant, as the ropes fell away.

  The morning sun was revealing her primitive surroundings in all their glory now she had attention to spare for them. Isobel smiled sardonically as she reviewed her dramatic change of circumstances. Just a short time before she had been enjoying the luxury of Luke’s villa, waited on hand and foot and coaxed to eat. Today, she was in a rude hut odorous with fishing tackle and nets, with only herself to rely on and her own two feet to get her anywhere. And, in spite of fright and the oily rope she’d been gnawing on, she was hungry. Wishing she’d eaten more last night, Isobel stood up gingerly and limped over the dank plank floor, the ankle hurting enough without her crutch to make her sweat as she grabbed her supplies. The bag contained bread, a chunk of hard cheese, a container of the inevitable olives and a few tomatoes. Panting as she got back to the bunk, Isobel eyed her haul thoughtfully. Exactly how long was the food, what there was of it, intended to last?

  She ate some bread and a tomato, gnawed on a bit of the cheese, then packed the rest away for later. She drank the water thirstily, but stopped after a few needy mouthfuls. Who knew how long that had to last, either? Tired after her labours, Isobel decided a rest was only practical to sharpen her wits, and fell into such an exhausted sleep she woke to find more than an hour had gone by. Furious about taking a nap instead of looking for an escape route, it was some consolation to find she at least felt better for the rest. But now it was time to take action. She was heartily sick of being victimised by a man purely because he was bigger and stronger, like her kidnapper. And Gavin.

  Isobel knelt up on the bunk to look out of the window. The hut was in a narrow cove with rock formations and shingle edged by pines and shrubs, but hemmed in by cliffs so steep and sheer it was a dark, forbidding place. She limped over to inspect the door, which was made of solid wood planking. The memory of bolts going home confirmed that there was no possibility of opening it, so she returned to the bunk and sat down, determined to stay positive at all costs. Cheering herself on with the prospect of Joanna’s reaction when she got home to describe her adventures, she reminded herself that this was a fisherman’s hut. Its owner might return and help her. She rolled her eyes. In fiction, maybe. But this was reality. The only one around to give her a helping hand was herself.

  Isobel leaned her forehead against the glass, then moved back, eyes narrowed. The window was small, but if she smashed the glass she might just about wriggle through. But first she had to break the window. Isobel inspected the fishing paraphernalia stacked against the wall. Nothing there to break glass. Back at the dirty window, she used a corner of the rug to wipe a section of window clear to survey her section of the beach. And made an exciting discovery. The windowpane was made of hard, opaque plastic, not glass, which was why she could barely see through it. Her eyes lit up. If she heaved the metal bucket at the window it should do the trick. She gave a hysterical little chuckle. It was a good thing she’d thought of it now, before using the bucket for its intended purpose. Steadying herself on her good foot, Isobel picked up the bucket, stood back and heaved it at the window with skill retained from her netball-playing days in school. She checked the result. The window showed a few cracks but remained disappointingly intact. Damn!

  Isobel drank a little more water, then resumed her window battering. It was tiring, noisy work, but she kept on doggedly until her entire body ached with effort. Then at last she gave a yell of triumph as the window gave and shards of plastic showered outside. Covered in sweat, her breath heaving through her chest, she wrapped her hand in the rug to hammer out the remaining bits, then shook more fragments out of the rug and sat down, head bowed and hands on knees while she heaved air into her lungs. After a minute or two she straightened to assess her escape hatch. It would be a tight fit, but she would manage. No choice. She had to. And her provisions had to go with her. She knotted up the bag of food and bottles of water in the rug and scrambled up on the bunk, wincing as her ankle protested. Stop that, she ordered. Cooperate. I’ve got to get myself out of here. She hoisted up her makeshift bundle and lowered it outside, then let it go the short distance to the ground, praying that the bottles wouldn’t burst on impact, but, to her relief, the bundle touched down quietly on the sand between the rocks.

  Isobel took a deep breath, then began to wriggle her way backwards through the opening. When she was halfway out she managed to get her good leg free, tearing her leggings in the process, then clung to the window frame, breaking a fingernail as she manoeuvred the other leg out. She hung there for a moment, gasping, then let go and landed on her bottom and fell flat on her back in the sand. Good. She stayed there, panting, pleased to find she was still in one piece. Isobel sat up and slowly got to her knees, and then to her feet. Her ankle was doing its usual throbbing thing but the rest of her was in reasonable working order. She could stand if she put most of her weight on the good foot.

  Isobel stood on it to lean against the wall of the hut and size up the situation. If she hung about here, hoping to catch the attention of a passing fisherman, she was far more likely to attract the attention of the kidnapper, who was bound to return sooner or later, either to exchange her for money, or… She blanked out the alternative and concentrated on a survey of the beach and the belt of greenery edging it. Beyond it, the cliffs rose even more steeply than those leading to the Villa Medusa, but her eyes lit up as she realised that what looked like a ribbon winding up the cliff was actually a path leading from the far side of the beach. It looked more user-friendly for a mountain goat than a human, but even if she climbed up it on her hands and knees she had to try rather than stay here like a sitting duck.

  Isobel picked up her unwieldy bundle and, with the help of a sharp pebble, made a jagged tear in the cloth and ripped the thin rug in two. She tied one half round her shoulders for protection like a shawl, finished off the half empty bottle of water, then tied up the remaining two with the food and fastened the ends of the rug round her waist. She limped across the sand as far as she could go, then picked her way over the shingle, glad to leave the scorching sun for the shade of the pines. She winced as needles caught in her socks. Shoes would have been nice. So would a hat and sunglasses. But when she finally reached the foot of it the path was a crushing disappointment; far narrower than she’d thought, and so vertiginously steep she had no hope of climbing up it, hands and knees or any other way. She regrouped. Time to do some serious thinking. Thankful that her watch had survived intact, Isobel saw it was later than she’d realised. It had taken her far too long to get free of the ropes, and the nap had been a big mistake.

  She stiffened suddenly, her heart in her throat as she heard an engine out to sea. Panting in panic, she dropped to the ground, dispensing with her bundle to wriggle under cover as t
he sound grew louder, and scrabbled around until she found a tree branch sturdy enough for a weapon. Just in case. She fought to lie still, ignoring the spiny plant pricking at her as the engine noise grew louder, then had a sudden change of heart. No more victim nonsense, Isobel! She scrambled to her feet, squaring her shoulders as she brandished her weapon. If it was the kidnapper she’d face him on her own two feet and put up a fight, rather than burrow into the ground like a coward. Her heart began pounding like a trip hammer as the boat came nearer; then, to her overwhelming relief, a familiar voice shouted her name and Luke leapt from the boat as it reached the shingle.

  With a cry of joy Isobel dropped her weapon as he came racing towards her; the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen in her life, villainous black eye included. He swept her up in his arms, hugging her hard enough to crack her ribs as Spiro came hurrying to wring her hand in passionate relief before excusing himself to ring Eleni with the wonderful news.

  ‘Are you hurt, Isobel?’ demanded Luke roughly, slackening his hold to look her up and down.

  ‘Not really,’ she gasped. ‘Please! Can we just get away before he comes back?’

  ‘Just one man?’ demanded Luke as he carried her to the Athena.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘It was dark and he wore a hood. But he was very big, and spoke Greek with an accent very different from yours.’

  ‘He was definitely strong,’ said Luke grimly. ‘He carried you down the cliff path to the beach to get to the boat. And I have made sure that path is difficult to discourage trespassers.’

  She smiled valiantly. ‘Good thing I was unconscious for that part!’

  Luke deposited his burden very gently on a seat in the boat and, ignoring her protests that she was hot, wrapped her in a light rug very different from the one provided by the kidnapper. Luke gave her wonderfully cold water to drink and then held her close as Spiro untied the boat and jumped aboard to restart the engine. Something unclenched inside Isobel as the boat headed out into the sea and she leaned against Luke in the cool salt breeze of their passage, savouring his warmth and strength, hardly daring to believe she was safe.