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she became aware of other things. That the coverlet which lay over her was heavy with embroidery, that the couch, although hard, was apparently a valuable antique and—a rather more shattering discovery—that she was wearing nothing but a man's black silk dressing gown. She paused for a moment, letting the hot angry flush that suffused her body die away, then moving as stealthily as she was capable of, she pushed away the coverlet and slid to her feet.
    The exquisite mosaic floor was cold to her bare feet, but she moved on it noiselessly to the edge of the screen and looked around it.
    It was not a very large room, and the main item of furniture, apart from the shadowed shelves of books in expensive leather bindings which covered three of the walls, was an immense desk in the centre of the room. Joanna was unable to tell what time of day it was as heavy shutters had been drawn across the windows. A lamp on the desk, incongruously modern, was the room's sole means of lighting, but it was apparently sufficient for the man who sat at the desk, absorbed in the legal-looking document he was holding.
    She could not take her eyes from his face. He was not conventionally handsome, with that high-bridged nose and the sardonic curve of that thin-lipped mouth, but he was—arresting, she supposed. Her gaze took in the thick tawny hair hanging almost to the collar of his cream silk shirt, and the way his heavy lids hid the colour of his eyes.
    He reminded her of someone—she racked her brain trying to remember whom. It was something to do with a picture she had once seen—not a photograph. She felt instinctively it had not been as modern as that. And then she remembered. It was a reproduction in an art book she had once looked through—a portrait of some Renaissance prince—and he looked like this man who sat only a few yards away from her.
    Just as she was telling herself she was being absurd, he spoke, his voice low and resonant. 'I am not a peepshow,
signorina
.'
    Joanna flushed, angry that for all his apparent absorption he had known of her presence. She felt like a child again, caught peeping through the banisters at her father's guests.
    Instinctively she drew the dressing gown more tightly around her and re-fastened the sash, then lifting her head with an air of confidence she was far from feeling, she marched out from behind the screen and across the room to the desk.
    'Who are you?' she demanded, hating the huskiness that nervousness had engendered in her usually clear voice.
    'I am the master of Saracina.'
    The sheer arrogance of the simple statement almost took her breath away. She was aware that she was gaping at him, and furiously took control of herself.
    'I see.' she said, allowing the inflection to be deliberately sarcastic. 'Then you can arrange for me to leave this island and return to Calista and my friends.'
    'I could,' he agreed. He still not looked at her, but was studying the papers in his hand.
    She forced herself to give a light laugh.
    'You speak as if there was some doubt.'
    'No doubt at all,
signorina
. I could, but I will not.' He looked at her then, and she gasped as her eyes met his, tawny eyes, flecked with gold, vividly alive and wildly at variance with the almost patrician hauteur of his face and voice.
    'Are you implying that I am some sort of prisoner here?' In spite of herself, she faltered over the hateful word.
    'It is more than an implication,
signorina
. It is the simple truth. You are my prisoner, and you will remain here until I decide you may go.' He reached towards an ornate silver handbell on the desk. 'I will have Josef conduct you to the room I have had prepared.'
    'Wait,' she spoke sharply, and flinched as his eyes flicked haughtily over her. 'I mean—this is ridiculous! You know nothing about me, or even who I am. You can't just keep me here against my will.'
    'Even though you came here against mine?' He spoke softly, but a shiver drew an icy finger down her spine. She decided