by Sarah Fisher
Title Page
CAPTIVATION
By Sarah Fisher
Publisher Information
Captivation published by
Chimera Books Ltd
www.chimerabooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited 2010
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © Sarah Fisher first printed in 1999 reprinted in 2003
The right of Sarah Fisher to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex
Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy
Introduction
She heard the soft footsteps moving closer, and then in the starlight caught the glint of dark eyes. Instinctively she drew herself up into a small tight ball. Her unknown visitor moved closer - so close that she could hear his breathing. He was excited, struggling for control.
There was the sudden flare of a match, and in the flickering light she saw the heavy features of the driver who had picked her up earlier in the day. His lips were slack and wet, his eyes bright with excitement. He lit a candle and stood it on the flagstones beside her. His face contorted into a lustful grimace as he took in the details of her vulnerability.
Chapter 1
Peter Tourne ran his hand over the shaft of the whip, his handsome face closed and expressionless. Against the wall the blonde girl began to writhe, pulling frantically against the manacles that secured her. Her struggles raised a fine slick of sweat over her slim body.
He let the end of the whip drape across her narrow shoulders - just the lightest of caresses. He watched with pleasure as her breasts spread and pressed against the cold wall in an effort to avoid his attentions. The girl whimpered, closing her eyes to block out the images. They both knew what was to follow.
‘Please, Peter,’ she hissed, her words barely more than a sigh. It was difficult to decide whether she was begging him to stop or imploring him to begin.
He swung the whip, watching the tip flick back in a wide arc. As he brought it down the fine leather caught the girl squarely across the shoulders. Her cry came an instant later as the pain coursed through her. Her body bucked away from him, her instinctive movements exposing the soft pink crevices between her heavy buttocks. A thin red weal lifted on her flesh. Peter Tourne smiled, relishing the delicate flush that crept across her body.
She broke into a sob. ‘No, Peter,’ she shuddered, tears coursing down her face. ‘Please! Don’t hurt me. Please...!’
He swung the whip back again, concentrating on the satisfying hiss it made as it cut through the still afternoon air.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he said softly, almost to himself, feeling the excitement building low in his belly. ‘It’ll be all right. Just trust me.’
The girl screamed again as the whip found its mark for the second time.
In her studio, Alex Sanderson heard the phone ring and then the tone of the answering machine as it cut in.
‘I know you’re there, Alex. Pick the bloody phone up,’ snapped a familiar voice.
Alex grinned and climbed off the stool near her drawing board.
‘Morning, Laurence,’ she said, cradling the receiver on her shoulder as she wiped her hands on a rag. ‘You sound as if you’re in a good mood today. What can I do for you?
At the end of the line her agent snorted angrily. ‘I had arranged for you to come in to see me first thing this morning. Remember?’
Alex groaned and felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. She’d been on Laurence Russell’s books for less than a year. He was an established agent with connections in all the right circles - as a virtual unknown she’d been lucky he’d taken her on. She grimaced - besides being a damned good agent he was also extremely good looking in an intimidating sort of way, and it didn’t do to upset him.
‘God, I’m so sorry Laurence, I’d completely forgotten about it.’
Laurence Russell sighed. ‘You really must learn to take business commitments more seriously, Alex. You’re not in college now, you know.’
‘I know, I really am sorry,’ she said apologetically.
‘Okay, enough said. Now, I’ve got a commission for you.’
‘I’ll get my notebook.’ Alex stretched across the workbench on which the phone, the answering machine, and a thousand other things were piled with careless abandon.
‘It’s for a mural.’
Alex frowned. ‘Oh God, not more trompe l’oeil for the rich and famous.’
‘No. One of my existing clients saw the piece you painted at Vernis Restaurant and asked me if you could do something similar for him.’
Alex paused. Vernis had given her a free rein. She’d created a tableau of medieval images in rich golds and reds on a huge wall in their function room. It had been one of her most successful pieces of work so far.
‘I’d be delighted,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve still got all the preliminary sketches. Who’s the client? Have you got the address?’ She teased a pen out of a pot on the bench and scribbled it into life.
Laurence laughed. ‘Not so fast, not so fast, there is a slight problem with this one.’
Alex groaned. ‘I knew it. Go on, tell me.’
‘That’s why I wanted you to come in this morning, so we could discuss it. The site is in a place called KaRoche, D’arnos.’
Alex pouted. ‘Run that by me again.’
‘It’s on a Greek island. My client lives there in his villa.’
‘So, are you saying I’ve got to do it all on panels, and then we’ll ship them out?’
‘No, not exactly. The client, Mr Peter Tourne, has suggested you fly out there and work on site.’
Alex let out a low whistle. ‘In Greece?’
‘That’s right, all expenses paid. Would that be a problem?’
Alex glanced around her tiny studio apartment. Rain lashed at the skylight above her drawing board. She grinned. ‘No, I think I could manage that,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to come over right now?’
Less than a week later Alex found herself leaning against the handrail of a little Greek ferry, surrounded by local people making their way back from the mainland. Despite it being the beginning of the tourist season, hers was the only foreign face amongst the passengers on deck. She stretched, letting the warm fresh breeze tug and tumble through her long coppery coloured hair. Above her the sky was clear and cloudless. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of the sun on her body.
This has to be the life, she thought, drinking in the heat. The sea was as blue as any of the brochure photos she’d ever seen. Ahead, a cluster of islands rose from the water like glistening white pebbles.
When the ferry chugged slowly into port, it looked as if the harbour was sleeping in the midday heat. At the far end of the jetty Alex could make out a motley collection of dusty cabs waiting for the passengers to disembark.
She glanced at the piece of paper in her hand and murmured under her breath, ‘The Villa KaRoche, D’arnos.�
� She wondered if she would be able to make the local taxi-drivers understand her phrase book Greek.
White painted houses gleamed around the quay. Above the harbour the landscape was verdant green with dramatic outcrops of rock pressing up between the trees and foliage. Dotted here and there were villas, clinging precariously to the rocky hillsides. It was stunningly beautiful.
Must remember to send Laurence a postcard, Alex thought wryly, shouldering her bag and picking up her suitcases.
At the far end of the pier a man in peculiar mongrel uniform, made up of a smart military jacket worn with tattered cream cotton chinos and sandals, was holding a cardboard sign that read ‘Alex Sanderson’. She pushed her way towards him, relieved that she wouldn’t have to tussle with the language, and extended her hand.
‘Alex Sanderson,’ she said cheerfully.
The man’s eyes roamed over her body, drinking in the details, lingering on the curve of her breasts where a thin cotton shirt clung to her warm skin. Alex shivered as he licked his lips and spoke.
‘Not taxi,’ he said in an accent so thick that she could barely make out what he was saying.
She pointed to his sign. ‘Alex Sanderson,’ she repeated more slowly, enunciating each syllable.
The man raised his eyebrows and muttered something she didn’t understand, while his eyes continued to work across her travel-weary body. Feeling uneasy under his undisguised interest, she pointed to herself, repeating her name for a third time.
The man’s reaction was to pull a face and then say very slowly, ‘Alex Sanderson. I pick him up from ferry, today.’
Comprehension dawned: someone had assumed Alex was a man! She pulled her passport from her bag and showed the driver her photograph and name. ‘It’s me!’ she said slowly and loudly as though speaking to an idiot. ‘I’m Alex Sanderson, Alexandra! I’ve come to paint a mural for Mr Peter Tourne, at...’ she showed him the piece of paper upon which was written her destination, ‘... KaRoche!’
The man barely glanced at her passport, but at the mention of his employer’s name, rolled his eyes heavenward and snatched her suitcases. Reluctantly Alex fell into step behind him.
Parked a little way from the jetty, surrounded by village children, was a sleek black Mercedes. The driver opened the boot and slung her suitcases inside. Alex winced, obviously she was a great disappointment to him, and as if reading her mind, he glowered at her.
‘You should be man,’ he snorted disjointedly.
Alex shrugged philosophically and climbed into the car, which the man immediately gunned into life.
The main road meandered up around the island, taking in spectacular views of the coast and the sea below. Alex peered out from the cool confines of the car’s luxurious interior, while in the front her driver turned up the radio and watched her face in the rear-view mirror.
Finally, as they rounded a steep bend, Alex saw a huge pair of wrought iron gates with the name ‘KaRoche’ set into them.
‘Is this it?’ she asked, hoping to finally break through the uneasy silence between them.
He nodded. ‘You should be man,’ he repeated.
Alex sighed with exasperation. ‘Well, I’m not - I’m really very sorry.’
The drive through the island had not prepared her for KaRoche. The villa, built on a series of broad terraces, seemed to grow straight out of the hillside. Set amongst a tumble of vines, trees and fragrant shrubs, it was breathtaking. Alex gasped. The driver lifted an eyebrow at her reaction, but said nothing.
The car purred to a halt outside the front door. The driver unceremoniously dumped Alex’s bags on the doorstep before disappearing inside. Alex, perturbed by the man’s rudeness, picked up her luggage and followed him nervously into the villa.
The interior was cool and dark. It took Alex a few seconds before her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She glanced around the hallway. It had a red tiled floor and pale cream walls, set with a wealth of ferns and plants in huge urns. In the centre of the room a fountain and pool added a crystal babble of water to the cool and elegant interior.
Alex hesitated on the steps, uncertain what she should do next. Her thoughts were interrupted by a low melodious voice.
‘Alex Sanderson?’
She turned towards the sound. Across the room, a tall slim man in his early forties stepped forward. He was dressed casually in a soft white shirt and cream slacks. His features were refined and aristocratic, the impression heightened by his dark hair, shot through with grey, which he wore in a ponytail.
Alex smiled and extended her hand politely. ‘Mr Tourne?’
The man nodded, lightly pressing her fingers between his. His touch was cool and disturbing. Alex fought the urge to shiver as he lifted her hand to his lips.
‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding,’ he said, with the slightest trace of an accent. His dark eyes moved slowly and confidently across her face and body. ‘You are Alex Sanderson, the artist?’
‘Yes, and from the reaction of your driver, I assume you were expecting a man?’
Peter Tourne nodded, his eyes lingering on the curve of her breasts.
‘Does this cause a problem?’ she continued unsteadily. ‘My agent said you’d seen my work at Vernis.’
He nodded. ‘Indeed I have, and I was very impressed. But you’re right - please forgive me, I had no idea you were a woman. Your agent - Mr Russell - is perhaps having a joke with me?’ His eyes held hers. ‘But I am forgetting my manners. I trust your journey was a good one? My housekeeper has already prepared the guest cabin for you.’ He paused, and she detected the slightest flicker in his dark eyes. ‘Or perhaps you might prefer to stay here, in the main villa?’
Alex shook her head, a peculiar feeling of unease growing in the pit of her belly. ‘No, the guest cabin will be fine, thank you.’
The man pressed a bell set into the wall. Alex wasn’t sure what kind of reception she had expected, but this certainly wasn’t like anything she could have imagined.
‘Please don’t think me rude, but I am working at the moment. My housekeeper will ensure you have everything you need. We will discuss my plans for the mural when you have had a chance to recover from your journey. You will join me for dinner?’
Alex nodded. ‘Of course, that would be very nice. Thank you.’
A small woman, dressed in a faded cotton smock, appeared from the far side of the fountain. She eyed Alex suspiciously and then murmured something to Peter Tourne in Greek. He glared at her, his icy look stifling the words in the old woman’s mouth.
‘This,’ he said, with a hint of annoyance aimed at the elderly woman, ‘is Alex Sanderson. Would you please show Miss Sanderson to the guest cabin.’
The woman snatched up Alex’s cases and bustled across the tiled hall.
‘I’ll see you at dinner tonight,’ said Peter Tourne.
Alex turned to thank him, but he’d already vanished into the shadows. With her sense of unease growing alarmingly, she followed the old woman out into the sun-drenched garden.
The cabin, almost completely obscured by creepers, stood away from the main house, up a steep flight of steps. The housekeeper hesitated at the open door of the little building, her face closed and stormy.
‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s very bad place.’
Alex glanced back at her, uncertain that she’d heard the words correctly. ‘I’m sorry?’
The woman lifted her hands in resignation. ‘Mr Tourne, he very bad man,’ she snapped. ‘Better if you were man.’
Alex sighed and glanced around the sparse but comfortable interior of the little cabin. ‘Well, I’m not, and I’ve come to paint - not to discuss the morals of my client. What time is dinner?’
The woman pulled a face. ‘Eight. You find everything you want here; kettle, tea, bottled water.�
� She paused. ‘He make you do terrible things, you know.’
Alex swung round, her degree of unease increasing her annoyance. ‘I’m painting a mural, that’s what he’s paying me for!’
The woman stepped back out onto the sunlit steps. ‘Mr Tourne, he a wizard, he make a magic on women. Much better you had been a man.’ She closed the door behind her.
Alex wondered what on earth she had got herself into. She glanced anxiously back through the windows, watching the elderly woman bustle down the steps, and wondered why her agent, Laurence, hadn’t let Peter Tourne know that she was a female. As for the housekeeper - what could she make of someone like that?
Grateful to be alone, Alex slipped off her sandals and turned her attention to the chore of unpacking.
Outside, the afternoon sunlight touched everything with a brilliant exotic hue. Creepers and flowering plants that had been trained around the windows and doors filled the air with an heady exotic scent. Alex yawned, suddenly feeling tired and dirty from the journey. Her arrival at KaRoche had not been exactly auspicious, but surely things could only get better from here on in? Once she had unpacked her things, Alex slipped off her clothes and headed for the shower.
Under the refreshing torrent of water Alex soaped her aching body and thoughtfully considered her host. Peter Tourne was an odd man, but it was difficult to define exactly why. She thought about the housekeeper, and smiled at the woman’s melodramatic pronouncements.
Clean and rejuvenated Alex turned off the taps, wrapped herself in a towel, and lay down on the comfortable bed. She closed her eyes, and within seconds travel weariness led her gently into sleep.
In the villa Peter Tourne poured himself a drink and looked out into the garden below his office. Amongst the intricate tumble of foliage and heavily scented flowers he could make out the tiled roof of the guest cabin.
He was both surprised and delighted that his resident artist had turned out to be female - and Alex Sanderson was quite beautiful. He let his mind conjure up a picture of her slim muscular frame, her deliciously firm breasts, and the way her hair curled into the curve of her long white neck.