Dr Casswell's Plaything (20 page)

‘No, no, I do not drink,’ he told her. ‘But please, enjoy yourself.’

Sarah, sitting across the table from him, stared into his dark eyes. He may be well behaved when it came to alcohol, but she knew from experience that he behaved very differently when it came to women.

He had invited a second man to join them, a man Sarah recognised as another of the museum staff, and who drove them to lunch. Mustafa introduced him as Abdullah.

The atmosphere was tense and she felt uncomfortable, guessing that lunch was not the only thing on their mind. As Mustafa moved to top her glass up for the third time Sarah placed her hand over it.

He grinned wolfishly. ‘Come on now, a little more will not hurt,’ he said, and although his tone was conciliatory Sarah sensed something more threatening beneath. But she stood her ground, despite her heart pounding nervously in her chest, and refusing to be intimidated she kept her hand where it was.

The Turk’s smile did not falter, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Why not tell me about the diary?’ he said, lowering the bottle after a few seconds of uncomfortable impasse.

Sarah shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I should,’ she said. ‘You should talk to Dr Casswell. I only transcribe them; it’s not my place. How would you feel if one of your employees betrayed your trust?’

He nodded and lifted the glass of tea he had been sipping. ‘I understand, Miss Morgan. But tell me, if not the details, then how it excites you.’

The restaurant was ten minutes’ drive away from the museum, and they were in a small private room that was oppressively hot and stuffy, despite a large, slowly revolving overhead fan, and with the combination of the spicy food and the wine, Sarah was beginning to feel a little tipsy and a little sick.

‘You know, without me this research of yours would be nothing,’ Mustafa said in little more than a whisper, leaning forward as though he had a valuable secret to impart. When she did not respond he pressed harder. ‘Come on, Miss Morgan, tell me a little something about how the book makes you feel – I saw your face in the vaults. Those pretty eyes of yours were so intense… you were hardly breathing. I saw the look on your face. Tell me… tell us,’ he glanced towards Abdullah, and then back to her. ‘Does reading the diary make you very wet?’

Sarah blushed at the forthright, shameless crudeness of the man, but despite herself, she was a little emboldened by the wine. ‘I’ve already told you,’ she said, finding she had to concentrate a little to get the words out clearly, ‘I can’t talk about the diary. And I think I’ve paid the price already for Dr Casswell to have access to it. I’ve already done what you wanted…’ she lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper, ‘…with Anna Weissman.’

Mustafa laughed. ‘Really?’ he scoffed. ‘Tell me, would you not like a little something more? Did you not enjoy yourself with her? Come, come, you can tell us, Miss Morgan. Confession, I believe they say, is good for the soul.’

Sarah’s colour deepened, wondering if the waiter who appeared to clear some of the dishes understood what Aziz was saying. Certainly Abdullah did. His dark brown eyes were alight as they studied her discomfort with relish.

‘Well?’ Mustafa persisted. ‘Tell us.’

Sarah was about to shake her head when the Turk leaned forward even more, and under the cover of the table he slid a hand up under her skirt, stubby fingers squeezing her thigh, inching higher. At the same time he tried to grab her nearest wrist with his free hand, but Sarah snapped out of her alcohol-induced torpor and jumped to her feet, sending her chair clattering to the tiled floor, and not knowing quite what to do, the strong wine heavy in her brain and in her legs, she backed away and pressed herself to the wall just behind her.

The fat, odious Turk threw his head back and laughed patronisingly. ‘Do I make you so nervous, Miss Morgan?’ He stood and lifted the chair back onto its legs, and then patted the seat. ‘Come, come,’ he cajoled smarmily, ‘come and sit down again.’

Yes, Mustafa did make Sarah nervous, more than she could possibly say. She did not trust him any more than she trusted Uri Weissman; they were both out for themselves – for their own gain. Watching him warily, she very slowly began to back along the wall towards the door as he moved towards her, clearly being careful not to startle her again, as though tracking his prey.

‘Come, Miss Morgan, this is ridiculous,’ he said gently. ‘Sit down and let me order you some dessert and coffee. Have another glass of wine. I do not mean to offend by touching you, and I know you like it.’ Sarah shook her head, her mouth suddenly dry, but he ignored her silent denial of his insistent claim. ‘Let me make you purr,’ he coaxed. ‘Let me make you cry with pleasure… and pain. Aren’t they the two things you love the most?’

Sarah shook her head again. ‘I – I want to go b-back to the Weissman’s house, now,’ she managed, falteringly.

Mustafa sighed heavily and held up his hands in surrender. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘go.’ And then he resumed his seat and took up a mumbled, incoherent conversation with Abdullah, the two men totally ignoring her.

So without thinking, feeling very alone and totally belittled, Sarah snatched up her bag, wrenched open the door and hurried downstairs. She was still in a confused spin; she walked quickly through the main dining area, pushed open a door, and found herself out in the kitchens. They were filled with steam and noise and a couple of grimy cooks, but not wanting to turn back and risk bumping into Mustafa, she headed for another door she could see and stumbled out into the narrow winding back streets.

The oppressive heat hit her like a sledgehammer. For a few moments she stood still and allowed her pulse and her breathing to calm, and although she had no idea of where she was, she was extremely glad to be out of the restaurant. And although this was not the way they had arrived, she glanced around to get her bearings, hopeful that it couldn’t be too difficult to find her way back to Weissman’s, even without Mustafa’s help.

The door back into the restaurant kitchens had already swung shut behind her, not that she had any wish to go back inside and face Mustafa. So with a confidence that was little more than a veneer, Sarah set off into the maze of smelly, litter-strewn alleys. There seemed to be no one about, except a scrawny black cat curled up in the sunshine, but as she walked deeper into the labyrinth of identical lanes, she felt her panic rising. This was the native quarter, far away from the tourist beaches and stretches of modern hotels, and there was no doubt about it, she was well and truly lost.

After a while the lanes widened into narrow streets and her spirits rose a little, but it was increasingly hot and most sensible people where indoors, out of the searing sun, so there was no one to ask for directions. There were tiny shops, but they were securely shuttered. Sarah turned round and round, trying to set some sense of where the sea might be.

Should she turn left or right, try and get back to the museum, or the Weissmans’ house – even though she had no idea of their address? She took a deep breath, and trying hard to control the panic, made her way quickly down another shadowy alleyway.

The houses here on either side were closed and shuttered too, their windows like unseeing eyes. Despite the suffocating heat, Sarah shivered. It was hard to keep control of the growing sense of fear. The alleyway narrowed, but Sarah carried on into deeper and deeper shadows. Maybe it would be better to find her way back to the restaurant after all, despite Mustafa probably still being there. Or perhaps she should wait until she found someone to help her out of the squalid maze.

The alley twisted back and forth ahead of her, and for a few seconds Sarah had a real sense of freedom and progress. Maybe she would be all right, after all. She was certain she could hear the rolling waves of the sea, and then, just as she turned another corner, she realised with a horrible start that the alley was a dead-end.

On either side of the end wall, which was obviously part of a building, were two tall wrought-iron gates, through which Sarah had a tantalising glimpse of terraces covered in lush plants, and places that promised the sanctuary of ordinary domestic life.

The gates where locked with lengths of chain and padlocks – there was no access through them. So she had no choice but to backtrack and try to find another way. She turned – and lifted a hand to her mouth to suppress the shriek of alarm as she saw her only way back was blocked by the bulk of Mustafa Aziz, Abdullah, and the waiter from the restaurant. The fat Turk was breathing hard, his shirt stained with sweat, dabbing at his face with his usual grimy handkerchief.

‘So, there you are,’ he wheezed, and before Sarah could defend herself, the waiter sprung forward and grabbed her around the waist.

‘Let me go!’ she shrieked, wriggling and struggling against him, but he held her tighter still and pulled her close into his body, and despite her alarm she instantly noticed a lump pressing against her hip. It seemed he was deeply excited by the thrill of the chase and the capture, and his hands crawled over her body in the struggle as he tried to restrain and quieten her, fumbling against her breasts or her thighs or her bottom. He grunted and laughed, his hold tightening, and she knew that any further movement, any spirited fight, would excite him even further.

Once she was eventually still, trapped in the man’s arms, panting heavily from the exertions, Mustafa sniggered at her obvious discomfort and distress. ‘Cry out all you want, Miss Morgan,’ he jeered. ‘It will not do you any good here. No one will come to help you.’

Sarah shrieked again, and this time the waiter clamped a hand tightly over her mouth.

Mustafa smiled with lurid satisfaction, and as he dabbed at his lips with the handkerchief, Abdullah moved closer. She had noted the way he watched her during lunch. He clearly saw this as his big chance to get some pleasure out of life for once, and with the slightest of nods from Mustafa, he reached forward, albeit a little warily, as though she might squirm free and bite him at any moment, and began to unbutton her blouse, his fingers trembling against her breasts as he did. Once it was completely undone he licked his lips, eyeing the way the material hung open and the promising shadows within. Sarah, held fast by the strong arms of the waiter, his hot breath panting in her ear, watched Abdullah anxiously, her breasts rising and falling in time with her nervous breathing, causing her blouse to open a little wider each time she inhaled, offering the obnoxious little man a tantalising glimpse of her toned tummy and her shadowy cleavage.

His hands slowly slid inside the gap to seek out the warm contours of her ribcage, cupping her soft breasts. Then, losing all reason he frantically pushed the fabric out of his way and, uttering unintelligible ramblings, clamped his hot wet mouth to her flesh, as if he wanted to eat her alive, pressing oily kisses to her shoulders, her neck, her throat, her breasts, and her nipples. He was babbling away in his native tongue and trembling with lust, and so was his companion, the waiter. Abdullah slid his hands up under her skirt, his fumbling fingers seeking entry between her thighs, and as he did he cruelly bit on her nipple, make her writhe with pain and squeal into the hand still clamped over her mouth.

Sarah renewed her fight, pulling back from Abdullah, but in doing so pressing herself even harder into the embrace of the waiter. She managed to work one hand free and lashed out at her weasel of a tormentor, but Abdullah merely laughed and, catching her wrist, licked her fingers.

‘You know Herr Weissman has such plans for you,’ said Mustafa. ‘And I understand why, because you are wasted on that arrogant Englishman. I will suggest that he finds a place for you in one of the local stables – there is nothing so attractive as a slave with a spirit.’

His chilling words brought an abrupt halt to Sarah’s struggles.

Mustafa laughed when he saw her alarm, and the slime-ball waiter took advantage of the situation to maul her breasts while Abdullah slobbered over their fresh, firm ripeness. And for that moment Sarah was too shocked by Mustafa’s words to care what the two slugs were doing.

‘Did you not know?’ continued the Turk, with a despicable grin of mock innocence on his face. ‘Weissman is going to buy you from your precious doctor – or maybe he will barter you for more manuscripts.’

Sarah felt her heart sink. Was there any possibility that what he said was true? If it came to it, she had no idea whether Casswell would choose her over the books and manuscripts he loved so dearly.

Seeing on her lovely face the distress his words had caused, Mustafa’s expression returned to one of beaming triumph. He said something to the waiter, who was enjoying himself restraining and molesting her at the same time, his erection grinding against her bottom through her skirt, which made both he and Abdullah laugh.

It was all too much, the three despicable men were all too much, and Sarah began to fight again in earnest. If Casswell could not or would not save her then she had to save herself. Her newfound ferocity took the men by surprise, and the waiter had to quickly tighten his grip to keep hold of her. Sarah knew that unless she was rescued or escaped their vile clutches, all three of them planned to have her.

Abdullah grabbed her legs and, pushing a hand up between her thighs, rucking her skirt up at the same time, tried hard to prise them apart. But Sarah fought like a wildcat, her legs clamped together until Mustafa shouted something and the men, cursing and panting heavily, held off.

But then, responding to a nod from Mustafa, the waiter ushered her to one side and pressed her tight up against one of the iron gates, and with Mustafa’s help they strapped her wrists together with a leather belt and then hung her from one of the ornate curls high up in the wrought iron design. Her cheek and breasts pressed uncomfortably against the vertical bars.