Desire's Captive

'You're not touching me!'

This time there was less conviction in her voice and she started to back into the corner of the room, even though Nico hadn't moved.

And then he did—so swiftly that she was pinioned in his arms before she could move, his breath clean and cool against her forehead muscles taut under the faded bush shirt he was wearing, crumpled but clean, and she found herself wondering irrelevantly how he alone of all of them managed to look so clean and groomed at the same time as she croaked pleadingly, her hand protectively warding him off, 'No!'

CHAPTER FOUR

'I intend to search you, not rape you.'

The cool matter-of-fact tone added anger to her cringing disbelief.

'Why not combine the two?' she threw at him bitterly. 'Isn't that the way men like you normally get their kicks?'

'Men like me?' His tone was so soft she could almost have believed she imagined the rage suppressed in it, but a muscle was beating erratically in his jaw, a white line of anger tautening his mouth. 'Are you sure you're not the one who's looking for kicks?' he demanded smoothly. 'Spoiled little rich girls like you have a reputation for ... Oh no, you don't!' He grasped her wrist as Saffron lifted her hand, hard fingers closing round it, forcing it down and then pulling her ruthlessly towards him.

His clinical exploration of her body was the most humiliating experience she had ever undergone, the look in his eyes grimly explicit as he withdrew his hands.

'See?' he drawled mockingly. 'Hardly a picture of uncontrolled lust, am I?'

'You're . .. you're ... despicable!' Saffron spat at him, hating him. 'And I hate you!'

She was frighteningly close to tears and had to turn away from him so that he couldn't tell.

'Saffron?'

Was it her imagination, or had his voice softened slightly? She turned hesitantly and awkwardly, and stumbled. Nico's hand shot out to steady her, his fingers accidentally, brushing the tips of her breasts. A sensation not unlike a tiny electric shock shivered through her, widening her eyes and causing her pulses to race with sensual excitement.

'I'm all right. I.. . I want you to go,' she had been about to say, but as she looked away she became aware of the burgeoning hardness of her nipples clearly outlined against the taut pull of her tee-shirt.

Hot, guilty colour flooded her face.

'Get out of here!' she snapped. 'And don't touch me! I can't stand you touching me ...'

It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes were sardonically derisive. 'No?' he drawled, his glance resting thoughtfully on her breasts. 'I'd say you've got your wires crossed somewhere, Saffron,' he added unforgivably, 'and that what you'd really like is for me to touch you one hell of a lot.'

'No!'

'No?' He smiled dulcetly. 'Let's just put that to the test, shall we?'

She was in his arms before she could move, his mouth moving exploratively against her own. She kept her lips tightly closed, trying to pretend that it was Guido who held her, trying to force her body to feel revulsion and not pleasure as Nico's hands swept upwards , under her rib-cage, his lean fingers possessing the swollen heat of her breasts beneath her tee-shirt. Her gasp of dismay as he used one hand to release the catch of her bra gave him the purchase he was seeking. His mouth investigated the moist sweetness of hers, subjecting her to an intimacy never previously experienced.

While her lips softened and clung without her sanction his fingers possessed and aroused the throbbing fullness of her breasts. She was clamped against his body, the hardness of male muscles imprinted against her softness, and yet it wasn't enough. A tiny, rebellious corner of her ignored all her exhortations to resist and reject and murmured instead how much it wanted to the pleasure of naked skin against skin.

With an aching cry, Saffron tore her mouth from Nico's, her eyes wide and bitter.

'Nico?'

Nico gave her a grim smile as Olivia called him. The expression in his eyes as he stepped away from her and towards the door made Saffron writhe in a torment of self-disgust. What had possessed her? How could she have responded to such clinical lovemaking? She hated Nico! And yet her body had undeniably responded to him. Why?

Only when she was quite sure she was alone did she give way to tears, crying silently into open, upturned palms, her body shaking spasmodically. All around her lay swathes of dark, silky auburn hair, but it wasn't the loss of her smooth, sleek curtain of hair that she grieved for, but something deeper and less easy to understand. For a moment as Nico touched her something had come vitally alive inside her, and he had known it. There had been a second before she struggled when he had looked at her and she had known that somehow he had sensed her body's desire to respond against all logic and pride to the male command of his hand.

Her bag was in the room with her and she fished inside it for a pack of tissues. If only she had thought to put just one extra tee-shirt in it. With her tears drying on her skin she became aware of feeling hot and grubby. Her legs were dusty, but there was no water in her room for her to wash. Apart from Nico her captors didn't seem too concerned with the niceties of civilisation and personal cleanliness, not even Olivia, but Saffron was fastidious about her person, and the fact that she had not been able to bathe or even clean her teeth filled her with distaste.

There was a river in the valley and she could see it from her window. Just the sight of the gently flowing water increased her longing to feel its cool silkiness against her skin, and she wondered if she dared ask for a bowl to wash in. Olivia would probably delight in refusing her request and she refused to ask any of the men. Guido, because something about the way he watched her frightened her, and Nico because she didn't want him thinking that her interest in her personal appearance had anything to do with him!

As the day wore on the inertia which enveloped her—left on her own with nothing to do; nothing to occupy either her hands or her mind except the danger of her situation—deepened into a thick grey miasma of misery, a nadir of depression from which there was no merciful escape into acceptance, just a constant mental war against the admission that her life might very well come to an end, here in this dusty grey farmhouse.

During the afternoon she heard sounds of movement down below her, but no one approached her prison; she could see Guido working on the vines and prayed for the police to arrive as Nico had warned that they might.