Alien Vengeance by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

no way she could deny his attraction. Physically, he was one of the most devastating men she had ever seen. He would have turned heads on any street in the world, and under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given Gemma Barton, with her fair hair, grey-green eyes and chain store clothes a second look.
    And no matter how much he might charm her now, no matter how skilfully he might exercise that potent sexuality, that seductive expertise, she couldn’t forget that he was taking her only for some twisted motive of revenge.
    And that was her safeguard, Gemma realised painfully. Because she was beginning to realise that if this stranger who had forced his way into her life had wanted her—really wanted her—for herself, then she would not have known how to resist him.
    Gemma put the final touches to her appearance, and contemplated her reflection with satisfaction.
    The towel lay discarded on the bed, and in its place she was wearing one of the Cretan’s own shirts which she’d filched from his room. She’d had a quick look for the car keys too while she was there, but hadn’t dared spend too long in case he came upstairs and caught her.
    It was dark by now, and he’d lit the lamps downstairs, creating little intimate pools of brilliance against the encroaching shadows.
    Soft lights, Gemma thought caustically, but at least there’d be no sweet music to accompany them. And no sweet talk either. He’d barely addressed a word to her, except to ask when the meal would be ready.
    His shirt was too large for her, of course, but she’d belted it in with a piece of rope she’d found in one of the kitchen drawers, and rolled up the sleeves a little, making sure they still hung down over her wrists, hiding her watchstrap, and the knife now tucked into it. She would have to be careful not to scratch herself on it, but its mere possession gave her new confidence in herself.
    If he laid a hand on her now, he could lose it, she told herself defiantly.
    She’d managed to take a quick look outside too, and seen that he hadn’t brought the sports car, but a small jeep, which might prove more manageable.
    She tugged at an errant strand of hair, nervously flicking her tongue over her dry lips, an image of the man lying stabbed and bleeding on the floor while she searched his pockets for the keys taking nervous hold on her mind. Well—if it happened, he’d asked for it, she assured herself.
    With one last jittery glance in the mirror, she went slowly downstairs. The living room was empty, but as she paused at the foot of the stairs, he came through from the kitchen, bending a little to negotiate the doorway. He saw her and stopped, his brows snapping together incredulously as he noticed how she was dressed.
    Gemma took the initiative. ‘I hope you don’t object, kyrie .’ She allowed what was almost a coaxing note to enter her voice, as she circled briefly and gracefully in front of him. ‘But I have to wear something—and beggars cannot be choosers.’
     ‘Beggars usually content themselves with something less than my best shirt,’ he said coolly. ‘But wear it for this evening.’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘I can always reclaim it later. Now serve me this meal.’
    She murmured a meek word of acquiescence and slid past him into the kitchen. It smelled wonderful, she had to admit, and she had cooked Lyonnais potatoes and green beans in addition.
    She had set a place for him in the dining room, but had laid her own knife and fork on the kitchen table. After all, he’d told her she was to work as his servant, and the hired help wouldn’t normally expect to eat with the master of the house. Besides, while she was getting dressed, another little surprise had occurred to her.
    She carved the lamb into thick slices and arranged it on two platters, adding a helping of beans to each. Then she took her own serving of the browned and savoury potatoes, before lifting the top layer of the remainder and adding a hasty