Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
She said, ‘Don’t you dare to speak to me like that. And what are you doing with the Minerva?’
‘Oh, we’re just going to keep it safe while your Marchese decides how much it is worth to him. Paola showed me where it was, and told me the legend. If the statue falls, the house of Bartaldi falls with it.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I wonder just how superstitious the Marchese will prove to be?’
‘I thought you’d already learned that he doesn’t respond to ransom demands.’ Clare’s tone was terse.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But a piece of stone doesn’t talk too much, or leave letters lying about that it shouldn’t. Paola’s more trouble than she’s worth, but I should end up making more money than I ever dreamed of.’
‘You’ll never get away with it.’
‘No?’ His smile widened. ‘And who’s going to tell on us. You, signorina? I don’t think so. Because you’re going to be the icing on a very large cake. I think Bartaldi will pay handsomely to get you back, raggazza.’
He looked past her and nodded, and Clare found herself suddenly enveloped in a blanket, thrown over her from the rear. She kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but the cloth, old and musty, muffled the sound. Meanwhile a cord was being wound round her, pinning her wrists to her body. Still kicking, she was picked up bodily and thrown into the car.
For a moment she was winded, and lay gasping.
‘Not as soft as Bartaldi’s bed, eh, pretty one?’ Fabio’s voice was gloating and hateful. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon be back in it, once your lover hands over the money.’
She tried to cry out, to tell them they were crazy, that Guido wouldn’t pay one solitary lira for her, but the car engine started with a sullen roar, drowning her words.
It was a bumpy, jolting ride, and it seemed to last an eternity. Clare lay still, trying to gulp air through the holes in the blanket and avoid being thrown off the seat at the same time. She was also trying to work out in time and distance how far they travelled, but it was impossible. Being cocooned like this made her totally disoriented.
To her own surprise, she felt angry rather than scared. She remembered Guido had not considered Fabio dangerous, just lazy and greedy. On the look-out for easy money.
But, by stealing the Minerva, he might have bitten off more than he could chew.
She remembered hearing somewhere that if you flexed and relaxed your muscles when you were tied up, the rope became looser, but she’d been tied up like a parcel. The rope bit into her arms and body. She was just becoming seriously uncomfortable when, at last, the car stopped with a squeal of brakes. Wherever they were, Fabio obviously wasn’t concerned about being heard.
She heard the car door open, behind her, then she was being tugged out ignominiously.
‘Stand, raggazza,’ she was ordered. ‘Now walk forward.’
They were on each side of her. She gauged their proximity, then kicked out as hard as she could, screaming loudly at the same time.
She connected with them both, gasps of pain rewarding her, and for a moment the hands holding her slackened their grip. She tried to run, then something struck her on the head, and the darkness inside the blanket became swirling and dense, and she fell forward into it.
Her eyelids seemed to have been glued down, and opening them was a lengthy and burdensome chore.
When she managed it, she found herself looking up at the dim light coming from a low-watt bulb guarded by a fluted floral shade.
Not a cellar, then, she thought, lifting her aching head and looking round. Nor her idea of a kidnappers’ den—if she’d ever had one.
In fact, her prison screamed suburban bedroom. She was lying on a single bed on a thickly woven white bedspread, and she saw that her sandals had been removed, presumably to protect the pristine surface.
I’m glad my captors remembered their manners, she thought ironically.
But she was still very much a prisoner. Her feet were free, but her hands were tightly secured behind her back.
She went on looking round. The floor was polished wood, with a few rugs scattered about, and there were one or two pieces of old-fashioned, highly-polished furniture.
Behind the floral curtains were heavy shutters, which common sense told her would be securely locked.
So now what? She wondered, relapsing gingerly back on to her pillow. She didn’t even know what time it was, and, even if she twisted herself in half, she couldn’t see her wristwatch.
So, all she could do was wait.
But she didn’t have to wait long. She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and a young man, presumably her other assailant, came in. He was shorter than Fabio, and stockily built, with a broad face which, she thought, would usually have been good-humoured, but now looked sullenly apprehensive.
‘So you are awake.’ There was a note of relief in his voice which didn’t escape her. Clearly they’d worked out that causing her physical damage was not to their advantage. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Never better,’ Clare returned with heavy irony. She looked at the strong hands with their callused palms and made a deduction. ‘You must be Marco.’
He flushed, giving her a scared, resentful look. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Because you look as if you spend your life out of doors—unlike your friend.’ She paused. ‘Will you untie me, please?’
‘No, that I cannot do, signorina.’
‘Well, you’ll have to do so eventually,’ Clare said crisply. ‘I need the bathroom.’
He went out, muttering, and returned with Fabio. Together they manoeuvred Clare off the bed, and stood her upright. She was taken out of the room, along a narrow passage, again dimly lit, and decorated with a series of highly coloured holy pictures, to a tiny bathroom, which was really a tiled shower cubicle with extra appointments, including a bidet.
And someone’s pride and joy, Clare thought, seeing how it all gleamed with cleanliness.
‘No tricks,’ Fabio warned as he untied her wrists, and pushed her forward, thrusting a thin, rather hard linen towel at her.
There was one tiny window, high up, so, unless she was Houdini, it was difficult to see what tricks she could get up to, Clare thought ruefully.
She made herself comfortable, then bathed her face and hands with cold water. She looked like hell, she thought, viewing herself critically in the small mirror. She was as pale as death, and there was a bruise on her forehead that was developing into a lump.
But common sense told her she’d probably got off lightly.
‘Hurry up.’ Fabio banged on the door.
‘I need my bag,’ she called back. ‘What have you done with it?’
‘We have it. And we are keeping it. Do you take us for fools?’
‘I’d better not answer that,’ Clare returned with assumed coolness. ‘Just let me have my cosmetic purse, then, and my comb. I’m hardly going to tunnel my way out with my lipstick.’
There was some more muttering, then the door opened and the required items were pushed at her.
Combing her hair, renewing powder and lipstick and spraying herself swiftly with scent wasn’t any real help with her problems, but it gave her a psychological boost, which was invaluable.
When she emerged into the passage, she gave them an icy glance. ‘And before you tie me up again, I want a glass of water, and something to eat.’
To her surprise, she got both. Marco brought her a bottle of mineral water and a bowl of savoury bean