by Sara Craven
"You will pay, my girl, for what your brother has done."
Andreas’s voice deepened, driving the bitter words like nails into Gemma’s bewildered mind. "You will pay in kind... in shame, and your family’s shame. You will stay here and work in this house as my servant, as Maria worked for your brother, and I shall take you as and when I please, as he took her."
Gemma swallowed. For a terrible moment she’d had an image of those firm lips crushing hers, those lean, brown hands caressing her. She whispered, "Touch me and I’ll kill you."
He laughed. "You have spirit. I approve of that. Our time together should prove more pleasurable than I anticipated!"
Alien Vengeance
Sara Craven
Harlequin Presents first edition September 1985
ISBN 0-373-10815-X
Original hardcover edition published in 1985
by Mills & Boon Limited
Copyright© 1985 by Sara Craven. All rights reserved.
Philippine copyright 1985. Australian copyright 1885.
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
The Harlequin trademarks, consisting of the words HARLEQUIN PRESENTS and the portrayal of a Harlequin, are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited and are registered in the Canada Trade Marks Office; the portrayal of a Harlequin is registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office.
Printed in U.S.A.
CHAPTER ONE
‘YOU say there’s still no message for me?’ Gemma Barton looked her incredulity at the desk clerk. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, thespinis.’ The man spread his hands apologetically and smiled at her, his teeth very white under the heavy Cretan moustache. ‘It is important this message? It worries you that it has not come?’
Gemma gave a slight shrug. ‘Actually, I’m more disappointed than worried,’ she returned. ‘But I’ll get over it. The only problem is I don’t quite know what my plans are until I do hear from my brother, and tonight is the last night of my booking here.’
‘No problem,’ came the instant assurance. ‘It is early in the season still, and there is room if you wish to stay. You have only to let us know.’
Well, that was reassuring at any rate, Gemma thought as she walked across the foyer and through the archway into the breakfast room. Not that she was sure she wanted to stay on in Heraklion even though the hotel was cheap and friendly and spotlessly clean. As she had another ten days to spend on Crete, she might as well make the most of them and travel further afield— especially if Mike continued to be conspicuous by his absence.
He was and always had been the limit, she reminded herself ruefully as she helped herself to fresh bread rolls, and poured orange juice into her glass. Mike was mad on botany, and generally oblivious to anything else, and the world’s worst correspondent, causing their mother, Gemma knew, hours of silent worry when he vanished into the wide blue yonder on his everlasting field trips.
This prolonged visit to Crete was part of a postgraduate study he was doing, and it had been his own idea that Gemma should join him for a holiday, instead of making one of a party to Ibiza with some of the women she worked with.
‘This is the place,’ one of his scrawled missives had told her. ‘Away from the tourist bits, the living is dirt cheap, and I’ve fallen on my feet, residing in the lap of luxury half way up a mountain. You could do the touristy things for a couple of days, then come and see the real Crete with me.’
‘The real Crete,’ their mother had snorted. ‘That mountain he mentions is probably all his dirty laundry.’
Gemma was inclined to agree, but at the same time the idea of going to Crete had taken a definite hold on her. While she was still at school she’d read Mary Renault’s The King Must Die and the exploits of Theseus and his fellow bull dancers at the Minoan court had fired her imagination.
And she wasn’t going to pass up the chance of going there, even if it did mean dealing with a backlog of Mike’s dirty shirts and socks.
So, she’d fixed her flight, and written to tell him, not being amazed or aghast when she received no reply except a postcard of the harbour at Chania with a laconic ‘Great’ and his initial scribbled on it.
It was rather a blow, however, to arrive at Heraklion airport and find he wasn’t there to meet her, but she supposed she could have expected it with Mike’s track record, and was glad she’d taken the trouble to book herself a few nights’ bed and breakfast at a hotel not too far from the harbour.
That very first day, even before she had unpacked, she’d written again to Mike—briefly reminding him that she’d arrived, and giving the name and address of the hotel and its telephone number. Each day since she’d expected to hear from him, but there’d been no word at all. Gemma wasn’t a child any more. She didn’t need a big brother to hold her hand, particularly on Crete where the people, she was sure, must be among the friendliest and most hospitable in the world. She knew Mike was there to work, and if he was too busy to get away, and regretting his rash suggestion then all he had to do was say so.
There was plenty she could do. She’d made friends with a young couple, fellow-guests at the Hotel Ariadne already, and they were talking about hiring a car and taking a leisurely trip right round the island, staying at tavernas en route. If Gemma cared to share the petrol costs, she was welcome to go with them, and she was sorely tempted.
But—she did want to see Mike, or at least talk to him so that she could take reassuring news home to her mother, who was still rather low after a lingering virus infection she’d acquired in the early spring.
As she turned away from the buffet with her food, she saw James and Hilary waving madly at her from a table in the corner of the room, and went over to join them.
‘Ignore James,’ was Hilary’s greeting as she sat down. ‘He was introduced to raki last night and the friendship developed rather too quickly, so he’s feeling a little fragile today. Says he can’t face the bus ride to Knossos. But I’m still going,’ she added swiftly, seeing faint disappointment on Gemma’s face. ‘I hope you are too.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Gemma said, giving the wan James a sympathetic grin. ‘Firewater was it?’ James groaned. ‘I only noticed the fire. Hilly, of course, stuck virtuously to ouzo and is fine. There’s no justice.’
His wife wrinkled her nose at him and turned to Gemma. ‘Takis says the bus to Knossos leaves regularly from the harbour.’
‘Then Takis is a liar,’ James said, taking a cautious sip of coffee. ‘He knows as well as we do that Cretan buses run as and when they feel like it. I don’t know why they even bother to have a timetable.’
‘Hangovers don’t suit James. They make him so jaundiced,’ Hilary said regretfully. ‘The first couple of days we were here, he thought it was wonderful that nothing ever happened when it was supposed to. Said it was the first real holiday he’d ever had.’
‘I still say that,’ James maintained. ‘And Takis doesn’t believe in buses anyway. He told me so. He says you should be able to walk the five kilometres or so to Knossos like they used to do in the old days—two big strong girls like you.’
‘Carr
ying bundles of firewood on our heads, no doubt,’ Gemma said drily. ‘There are times when Takis asks for a punch in the throat.’
‘Well, don’t expect Penelope to give him one,’ Hilary advised cheerfully. ‘She thinks the sun, moon and stars shine out of him, and she’d probably walk to Knossos and back carrying him on her head if he asked her to.’
‘Cretan men have got it made,’ James said moodily. ‘They don’t allow any women’s liberation nonsense to interfere with their basic rights.’
Hilary giggled. ‘And nor do you, darling, nor do you. In fact, you and Takis have a lot in common, and you can spend a lovely day together drinking coffee under the awning and discovering what it is while Gemma and I acquire some culture.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We’ll meet in the foyer in twenty minutes shall we? Then, with any luck, we’ll get to the Palace before it’s too hot.’
‘It’s too hot already,’ said James.
He had a point, Gemma thought as she and Hilary threaded their way along the busy streets leading to the harbour a little while later. Only idiot tourists rushed round risking sunstroke. Her skin was already beginning to tan, in spite of the filter creams she used to protect it, and on her first day in Heraklion she’d invested in a cheap straw hat.
The tables in the shade of the pavement cafes were already doing a roaring trade, she saw, and the aroma of coffee and cooking food mingled with the all pervasive fumes from the traffic. All around them worry beads clicked in an eternal rhythm, and voices hummed and rose on notes of laughter or expostulation. There never seemed to be any muttered conversations, Gemma thought with amusement. If a Greek wanted you to know something, he let you have it full blast.
They were equally uninhibited in other ways too, she reminded herself, aware of the frankly appreciative dark-eyed glances pursuing Hilary and herself as they walked along. At home she would have found such openly expressed admiration both embarrassing and a nuisance. Here, it was distinctly heartwarming to be regarded as if you were Aphrodite rising from the waves.
To their surprise, the Knossos bus was already there and filling up when they arrived. They found seats without difficulty, and paid the few drachmas for the fare.
They were both quiet as they set off, Hilary checking the cartridge in her camera, and Gemma wondering what it must have been like to have been part of the Athenian tribute to King Minos, and to have started the weary trudge in the sun to Knossos knowing that danger and probable death awaited them there.
She was very glad, she thought, that she lived in the 1980s instead of a couple of thousand years B.C. and that no danger waited for her at Knossos, or anywhere else on Crete.
Even as the thought formulated in her mind, a slight shiver went through her, as if a hand had been laid on her shoulder and a warning voice breathed in her ear, ‘Be careful. No Greek would ever tempt the fates and you shouldn’t either.’
It was an odd, disturbing little moment, as if a sudden shadow had passed across the sun, then Hilary made some idle remark about the suburbs they were passing through, and it was gone.
As journeys went it was relatively dull, the bus passing through the usual urban sprawl. Hilary mentioned the projected trip to the White Mountains and asked if Gemma had given it any further thought.
‘I’d love to come,’ Gemma admitted. ‘And I can’t wait forever for Mike to get in touch. After all, I don’t even know if he got my last message. Perhaps this mountain retreat of his has no telephone, or the mail only gets delivered once a month.’ She sighed. ‘Or more probably, Mike’s gone prancing off up some crag after a rare herb, and hasn’t given me another thought.’
Hilary sent her an amused look. ‘Does he do things like that?’
Gemma nodded. ‘Constantly.’
Hilary chuckled. ‘Then I suggest you set him a deadline, say midnight tonight. If he’s not in touch by then, you come with us. How about that?’
‘It sounds good to me,’ Gemma agreed. She glanced round, aware of an unusual stir. ‘What’s everyone looking at? We’re not there yet are we?’
‘The most amazing car is following us,’ Hilary said. ‘They’re all lost in admiration, I suppose.’ She grimaced slightly. ‘Thank God James isn’t here, or he’d be off the bus by now and interrogating the driver about cylinders and camshafts and all the other things he finds so fascinating.’ She eyed Gemma narrowly. ‘Do they fascinate you too, or do you consider a car to be an unreliable lump of tin, designed to get one from A to B, like me?’
Gemma grinned. ‘I think I occupy the middle ground. But I must admit it is a beautiful car— Italian, I think. It must have cost a fortune.
Hilary shrugged. ‘Well, the gentleman behind the wheel looks as if he can well afford it,’ she commented casually. ‘You admire the car, and I’ll admire him.’
The car, Gemma thought, was worth a second or even a third look. Not even the inevitable coating of Cretan dust could detract from its sleek, powerful lines. The top was down, so she was afforded a full view of the driver, but she was not particularly impressed, she told herself.
He was undoubtedly Greek, black haired and olive-skinned. His eyes were masked by sun glasses, but they did not disguise the fact that he was classically, almost startlingly good-looking.
In fact, Gemma allowed judiciously, he would almost have been beautiful, but for the tough uncompromising lines of his mouth and chin.
She thought that he must be aware of the fact that he was under close scrutiny from the bus, but preferred to appear arrogantly unaware of the fact.
‘Pseud,’ she thought dismissively, but watched with unwilling approval as he, at last, overtook the bus with maximum leeway, but minimum effort. He wasn’t her type, but he knew his car and how to handle it.
‘I expect he’s one of those Greek tycoons one reads about,’ Hilary said dreamily. ‘Maybe we’ll meet him, stumbling round the ruins at Knossos. If he’s smitten, and invites you to cruise on his yacht, I hope you won’t feel bound by our prior invitation.’
‘He’s more likely to be someone’s chauffeur, joy-riding on his day off,’ Gemma said crushingly. ‘And if he does have a yacht, it will probably be already crammed to the gunwales with starlets.’ Hilary sighed extravagantly, ‘Oh, Gemma, you’re so prosaic sometimes. Don’t you like to fantasise a little?’
Gemma smiled. ‘Why, yes, but my fantasies don’t centre round macho Greeks driving cars like virility symbols.’
Hilary gave her a curious look. ‘Just for the record—is there anyone serious?’
Gemma shook her head rather wryly. ‘No one,’ she admitted. ‘They used to say that it was women who wanted to get serious, who always had marriage in mind, but it seems to me that every man I meet wants to rush me into—into some kind of commitment or other, and I’m just not ready for that. Perhaps it’s a fault in me but I like to take my relationships slowly—one step at a time, but they seem to want—instant rapport.’
Hilary smiled drily, ‘You’re right to be cautious. I used to be that way myself, then I met James and within a month we were engaged. Don’t freeze them all off, Gemma, or you could miss out on something wonderful.’
Gemma laughed. ‘Not so far, I haven’t, and that I can guarantee, I’m afraid.’ She leaned forward. ‘It looks as if we’re nearly there.’
On leaving the bus, they walked down the narrow road towards the Palace, skirting the tavernas and souvenir shops, threading their way gingerly between the cars parked at the side of the road.
There was traffic edging down the road all the time, and in spite of herself, Gemma found she was watching out for an opulent dark blue sports car.
‘I’m letting Hilary’s nonsense get to me,’ she told herself severely.
‘It’s too hot for much culture,’ Hilary said as they queued up at the admission gate behind a party of French, who’d arrived with their own guide and were arguing noisily about numbers. ‘I vote we belt round, then go and find something cold to drink.’
But inside the gate, it was
like stepping into a different world. There were trees and shade, and Gemma saw that people were moving more slowly, talking more quietly, as if in respect of the fact they were present in one of the ancient places of the earth.
Even Hilary seemed subdued as they walked up the causeway towards the Palace ruins. It was all so much vaster than Gemma had imagined and not even the amount of restoration work which had been carried out, and the crowds of people wandering about could affect the power of its atmosphere.
By mutual consent, they decided not to attach themselves to any of the official tours which were being conducted round. Instead they walked quietly through the remnants of corridors and courtyards, past the remains of sacrificial altars, trying to come to terms with the size of the place.
They looked at restored frescoes, glowing in the brilliant sun, and wandered through dark state chambers where once King Minos and his Queen had sat in splendour.
Hilary was busy with her camera, making Gemma pose for her against painted columns, beside the big pottery jars, tall enough to conceal a man, and near the great Bull’s horns carved in stone, a chilling reminder of the Minotaur myth.
It was while they were standing studying the fresco of the Lily-Prince that Gemma first felt they were being watched. She told herself she was being silly. There were dozens of other people around, all doing the same thing as themselves. It was the young Priest-King with his plumes and flowing locks which was the real centre of attention, as a casual glance around confirmed.
All the same she was glad to be back in the open air again.
Hilary looked around at the clustering hills and tall cypresses which bordered the enclosure fence like sentinels. ‘It can’t have been too easy to defend—in a valley like this,’ she remarked dubiously.
‘They wouldn’t have had to,’ Gemma said. ‘It wasn’t a fortress. It was a symbol of how powerful and mighty the Cretan empire was. People came here to pay their respects, not attack.’