Isobel cleared her throat. 'I-I'm British. I don't understand Greek.'
This was seriously bad news to him by the stream of what were obviously curses as he yanked her upright until her bound ankles hung over the bunk. He'd wrapped her in some kind of rug before trussing her up, which made it hard to keep her balance.
'Do you speak English?' she asked hopefully.
A negative grunt was the only response.
'Could you possibly untie my hands?' she asked without much hope. 'My wrists and shoulders are hurting.'
To her surprise, he did as she asked, then removed the rug and retied her wrists in front of her. Isobel forced herself to sit as upright as possible, horribly conscious now of how little she was wearing on her top half as he lit a lantern suspended from a hook on a roof beam. As the light fell on her the man cursed again, his eyes glaring through the slits of the hood. Isobel backed away in terror, her skin crawling as he ran his fingers through her tousled curls to frame her face. What was he going to do? Then she found out. He pushed a newspaper between her tied hands and took photographs of her with his phone, and for a finale took her breath away by flicking a knife open to slice off a lock of hair. Determined not to show fear, she glared at him defiantly as he pointed to a box which held a package and bottles of water. He fetched a metal bucket and placed it at the end of the bunk, then turned out the lamp and left the hut. The door slammed shut behind him and bolts rammed home, and shortly afterwards the outboard motor roared into action as the boat took off, leaving Isobel limp with relief because rape had not been part of the plan. Not yet, anyway.
As the moonlight faded, instead of the total darkness she'd dreaded, the first faint light of dawn took its place. Isobel's spirits rose as the light gradually increased enough for a look round her prison. She was in some kind of fisherman's hut, and a primitive one at that. The bunk was the only seating, and the mattress was damp and smelly.
The man had tied her wrists more loosely than before, which was good news. Otherwise, using the bucket would have been tricky, so would the eating and drinking part. How long was the man intending to leave her here? And who would be the lucky recipient of the hair and the candid camera shots? Luke? The kidnapper now knew she was British and obviously not some relative of Lukas Andreadis, so was he banking on the fact that she was his lover and worth ransoming? But in most cases kidnappers tended to get rid of their victims, whether the money was paid or not, didn't they? Isobel batted that thought away and set about solving more immediate problems. She had to get her hands free as the first step to getting herself out of here. There was no way she was just going to curl up in misery like a victim and wait for rescue or rape, whichever came first.
Fired with new determination, she tested the ropes. She'd deliberately tensed her wrists as the man retied them to gain a little leeway, and once she could see clearly she began tugging at the knots with her teeth. Ignoring the oily taste of the hemp, Isobel kept at it until the knot loosened and her teeth ached, but with freedom in sight she worked frantically, ignoring the soreness of her wrists until after what seemed like hours the knot finally gave and the rope fell away. Bingo! Triumphant, she smoothed her sore wrists for a while as she took a breather, then after some wriggling swung her feet up on to the bench to get to work on the ankle restraints. By some miracle, the support bandage was still in place though the ankle was aching. But with two hands instead of teeth for tools, unravelling this set of knots was marginally easier. After an endless, muscle-straining interval she managed to free herself and collapsed back on the bunk, panting but jubilant, as the ropes fell away.
The morning sun was revealing her primitive surroundings in all their glory now she had attention to spare for them. Isobel smiled sardonically as she reviewed her dramatic change of circumstances. Just a short time before she had been enjoying the luxury of Luke's villa, waited on hand and foot and coaxed to eat. Today, she was in a rude hut odorous with fishing tackle and nets, with only herself to rely on and her own two feet to get her anywhere. And, in spite of fright and the oily rope she'd been gnawing on, she was hungry. Wishing she'd eaten more last night, Isobel stood up gingerly and limped over the dank plank floor, the ankle hurting enough without her crutch to make her sweat as she grabbed her supplies. The bag contained bread, a chunk of hard cheese, a container of the inevitable olives and a few tomatoes. Panting as she got back to the bunk, Isobel eyed her haul thoughtfully. Exactly how long was the food, what there was of it, intended to last?
She ate some bread and a tomato, gnawed on a bit of the cheese, then packed the rest away for later. She drank the water thirstily, but stopped after a few needy mouthfuls. Who knew how long that had to last, either? Tired after her labours, Isobel decided a rest was only practical to sharpen her wits, and fell into such an exhausted sleep she woke to find more than an hour had gone by. Furious about taking a nap instead of looking for an escape route, it was some consolation to find she at least felt better for the rest. But now it was time to take action. She was heartily sick of being victimised by a man purely because he was bigger and stronger, like her kidnapper. And Gavin.
Isobel knelt up on the bunk to look out of the window. The hut was in a narrow cove with rock formations and shingle edged by pines and shrubs, but hemmed in by cliffs so steep and sheer it was a dark, forbidding place. She limped over to inspect the door, which was made of solid wood planking. The memory of bolts going home confirmed that there was no possibility of opening it, so she returned to the bunk and sat down, determined to stay positive at all costs. Cheering herself on with the prospect of Joanna's reaction when she got home to describe her adventures, she reminded herself that this was a fisherman's hut. Its owner might return and help her. She rolled her eyes. In fiction, maybe. But this was reality. The only one around to give her a helping hand was herself.
Isobel leaned her forehead against the glass, then moved back, eyes narrowed. The window was small, but if she smashed the glass she might just about wriggle through. But first she had to break the window. Isobel inspected the fishing paraphernalia stacked against the wall. Nothing there to break glass. Back at the dirty window, she used a corner of the rug to wipe a section of window clear to survey her section of the beach. And made an exciting discovery. The windowpane was made of hard, opaque plastic, not glass, which was why she could barely see through it. Her eyes lit up. If she heaved the metal bucket at the window it should do the trick. She gave a hysterical little chuckle. It was a good thing she'd thought of it now, before using the bucket for its intended purpose. Steadying herself on her good foot, Isobel picked up the bucket, stood back and heaved it at the window with skill retained from her netball-playing days in school. She checked the result. The window showed a few cracks but remained disappointingly intact. Damn!
Isobel drank a little more water, then resumed her window battering. It was tiring, noisy work, but she kept on doggedly until her entire body ached with effort. Then at last she gave a yell of triumph as the window gave and shards of plastic showered outside. Covered in sweat, her breath heaving through her chest, she wrapped her hand in the rug to hammer out the remaining bits, then shook more fragments out of the rug and sat down, head bowed and hands on knees while she heaved air into her lungs. After a minute or two she straightened to assess her escape hatch. It would be a tight fit, but she would manage. No choice. She had to. And her provisions had to go with her. She knotted up the bag of food and bottles of water in the rug and scrambled up on the bunk, wincing as her ankle protested. Stop that, she ordered. Cooperate. I've got to get myself out of here. She hoisted up her makeshift bundle and lowered it outside, then let it go the short distance to the ground, praying that the bottles wouldn't burst on impact, but, to her relief, the bundle touched down quietly on the sand between the rocks.
Isobel took a deep breath, then began to wriggle her way backwards through the opening. When she was halfway out she managed to get her good leg free, tearing her leggings in the process, then clung to the window frame, breaking a fingernail as she manoeuvred the other leg out. She hung there for a moment, gasping, then let go and landed on her bottom and fell flat on her back in the sand. Good. She stayed there, panting, pleased to find she was still in one piece. Isobel sat up and slowly got to her knees, and then to her feet. Her ankle was doing its usual throbbing thing but the rest of her was in reasonable working order. She could stand if she put most of her weight on the good foot.