The Devil at Archangel Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Sara Craven
she was unconcerned, but she knew by the
widening grins on their dark faces that they were not deceived.
Someone had once told her that panic affected the throat muscles,
making it impossible to scream, and she thought it must be true,
because when the hand fell on her shoulder from behind her, the cry
that welled up inside her found utterance only as a strangled gasp.
The street dipped and swayed suddenly, and instinctively she closed
her eyes. A man was speaking in patois, his voice resonant, slightly
drawling even. The fingers that gripped her shoulder felt like a vice.
When she opened her eyes again, the street in front of her was empty
and the silence seemed to surge at her. She turned almost
incredulously to look at the man standing behind her. He was tall, his
leanness accentuated by the lightweight tropical suit he wore. His hair
was tawny, and there were lighter streaks in it where the sun had
bleached it. His grey eyes looked silver against his deep tan, and his
firm, rather thin-lipped mouth looked taut, either with anger or some
other emotion she could not comprehend. -
She wanted to thank him, and instead she said inanely, 'They've
gone.'
'Naturally,' he said coolly. 'Are you disappointed?' - His English was
faultless, without even a trace of an accent, she thought in the few
seconds before the meaning of his words got through to her.
'You must be out of your mind!' she flared at him.
'I must?' His brows rose. 'And what about you—roaming the back
streets of a strange town? Do your parents know where you are?'
'I'm not a child.' Infuriatingly her voice, trembled. 'And I'm here with
my employer.'
'Employer?' He studied her for a moment, and a smile touched his
mouth that flicked her, unaccountably, on the raw. 'My apologies. I
didn't think you were old enough to be a—working girl. But the way
you're dressed should have given me a clue, I suppose. What are
you—an actress or a model?'
He was laughing at her. He had to be, although she couldn't read even
the slightest trace of humour in his voice. Instead, there was a cold
cynicism which chilled her.
'I'm a sort ©f secretary,' she said quickly, trying to still her sense of
annoyance, reminding herself that she had to be grateful to him. 'And
I ought to be getting back. I'll be missed by now.'
'I don't doubt it,' he said drily. 'Well, Miss Sort-of- Secretary, and
what do your duties consist of, precisely? Can you type?'
'A little,' Christina said, her bewilderment increasing with every
moment that passed. After all, he had come to her rescue of his own
volition. She hadn't even called for help, so why was he behaving in
such a hostile manner?
'Only a little? But then I suppose your talents really lie in other
directions?'
For a moment, Christina remembered the advertisement she had
drafted in her own mind days ago in the back kitchen of the cottage,
and a rueful grin lifted the corners of her mouth.
'I suppose you could say that,' she admitted, then cast a distracted
glance at her watch. 'Heavens—the time! Can you—would you be
kind enough to direct me to the Hotel de Beauharnais? I thought I was
heading there, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.'
'What an admission,' he said satirically. 'You know, you aren't
running true to type at all.' He put out lean brown fingers and cupped
her chin, lifting her face so he could study it more closely. The
insolent assurance of his touch unnerved her, and she jerked her chin
away.
'Please don't do that,' she said, making a perceptible effort to stop her
voice from trembling again. 'I—I don't like to be touched.' She
hesitated. 'I know I should have said so before, but I don't know how
to thank you for—for coming along when you did. I really was so
frightened. If you hadn't been there, I—I can't bear to contemplate
what might have happened.'
'You'd have had your handbag snatched,' he informed her mockingly.
His smile widened, as her
widening grins on their dark faces that they were not deceived.
Someone had once told her that panic affected the throat muscles,
making it impossible to scream, and she thought it must be true,
because when the hand fell on her shoulder from behind her, the cry
that welled up inside her found utterance only as a strangled gasp.
The street dipped and swayed suddenly, and instinctively she closed
her eyes. A man was speaking in patois, his voice resonant, slightly
drawling even. The fingers that gripped her shoulder felt like a vice.
When she opened her eyes again, the street in front of her was empty
and the silence seemed to surge at her. She turned almost
incredulously to look at the man standing behind her. He was tall, his
leanness accentuated by the lightweight tropical suit he wore. His hair
was tawny, and there were lighter streaks in it where the sun had
bleached it. His grey eyes looked silver against his deep tan, and his
firm, rather thin-lipped mouth looked taut, either with anger or some
other emotion she could not comprehend. -
She wanted to thank him, and instead she said inanely, 'They've
gone.'
'Naturally,' he said coolly. 'Are you disappointed?' - His English was
faultless, without even a trace of an accent, she thought in the few
seconds before the meaning of his words got through to her.
'You must be out of your mind!' she flared at him.
'I must?' His brows rose. 'And what about you—roaming the back
streets of a strange town? Do your parents know where you are?'
'I'm not a child.' Infuriatingly her voice, trembled. 'And I'm here with
my employer.'
'Employer?' He studied her for a moment, and a smile touched his
mouth that flicked her, unaccountably, on the raw. 'My apologies. I
didn't think you were old enough to be a—working girl. But the way
you're dressed should have given me a clue, I suppose. What are
you—an actress or a model?'
He was laughing at her. He had to be, although she couldn't read even
the slightest trace of humour in his voice. Instead, there was a cold
cynicism which chilled her.
'I'm a sort ©f secretary,' she said quickly, trying to still her sense of
annoyance, reminding herself that she had to be grateful to him. 'And
I ought to be getting back. I'll be missed by now.'
'I don't doubt it,' he said drily. 'Well, Miss Sort-of- Secretary, and
what do your duties consist of, precisely? Can you type?'
'A little,' Christina said, her bewilderment increasing with every
moment that passed. After all, he had come to her rescue of his own
volition. She hadn't even called for help, so why was he behaving in
such a hostile manner?
'Only a little? But then I suppose your talents really lie in other
directions?'
For a moment, Christina remembered the advertisement she had
drafted in her own mind days ago in the back kitchen of the cottage,
and a rueful grin lifted the corners of her mouth.
'I suppose you could say that,' she admitted, then cast a distracted
glance at her watch. 'Heavens—the time! Can you—would you be
kind enough to direct me to the Hotel de Beauharnais? I thought I was
heading there, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.'
'What an admission,' he said satirically. 'You know, you aren't
running true to type at all.' He put out lean brown fingers and cupped
her chin, lifting her face so he could study it more closely. The
insolent assurance of his touch unnerved her, and she jerked her chin
away.
'Please don't do that,' she said, making a perceptible effort to stop her
voice from trembling again. 'I—I don't like to be touched.' She
hesitated. 'I know I should have said so before, but I don't know how
to thank you for—for coming along when you did. I really was so
frightened. If you hadn't been there, I—I can't bear to contemplate
what might have happened.'
'You'd have had your handbag snatched,' he informed her mockingly.
His smile widened, as her