Odett Peters
The Island
Chapter 1
The pleading was done. Hope had been set aside. Dorinda sat in the little seat in the prow of the dingy, tense, angry and very much afraid.
"We’ll pick you up in a week," Mike assured her grudgingly.
She did not answer, but instead watched the phosphorescence as the oars disturbed the quiet water and the small craft cut its way towards the dark bulk of the island that had suddenly and frighteningly close in the silver darkness of the Aegean night.
"Have it all to yourself. Not a man anywhere. Ought to make you happy." Make’s tone was sardonic. It bit and hurt.
Dorinda refused to be baited. She did not want him to sense the tears in her voice. But, instinctively, her arms tugged rebelliously at the cold metal of the handcuffs that joined her wrists behind her back.
He saw the motion and jibed:" You don’t need hands, honey. No nasty man to save your honour from."
She turned and gazed at him with a cold hatred that touched his impregnability.
"You won’t starve," he complained defensively. "You can save the martyred look for the goats. There’s a few around." He guffawed coarsely, "Don’t suppose the old billy will want to make love…"
Her disdainful stare cut short his half hearted attempt at humor. His voice became acidly businesslike: "There’s berries and some fruit. You’ll manage. Besides there’s the house. It’s a quiet place. No one living there right now. But no telling what you might find if you can get in. Probably a few cans of this and that."
Dorinda’s only answer was to deliberately clink the chain that joined her hands.
"You can rattle those handcuffs all you like, honey. But you are going to wear them." Mike’s voice became grim. "Just a nice little bit of jewelry to remember me by. They’ll make things difficult for you. Bet hell, you’ve got all the time there is. You’ll surprise yourself with all the things you can do with your hands behind your back."
Driven by one last powerful stroke of the oars the keel of the dingy bit into the sand of the beach. The man sat, watching. His lips curled in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He made no move to help.
As though following a predetermined drill, Dorinda paused for the little craft to steady, then carefully rose to her feet and stepped out on to the sand, still warm from the day’s sun. It felt good between her bare toes. She took a couple of paces before she turned to face the man who was making good his threat to maroon her, naked, on a Grecian island. She knew what in doing so she conceded weakness. There would be no last minute reprieve. She should have trudged manfully up to the beach without this last meeting of their eyes.
"You’re a silly bitch," Mike assured her cheerfully. "Have fun with yourself." Already he was yards away from the shore.
Dorinda choked back the vitriol. He would only laugh. She stood impotently watching the dingy speed back to the yacht. A tense white statue in the night.
What does a girl do when she finds herself alone, sans clothes, sans hands, on an uninhabited island in the Aegean Sea! Dorinda considered her plight. She had never felt more vulnerable. Mike had shrewdly computed her hazards of survival and reduced her resources to the minimum by which she could sustain herself. Even if she lived on berries she would have to pluck them with her mouth. Her hands were lost.
Petulantly she tugged at the steel bands upon her wrists. They were snug. If she kept pulling them they would chafe. If only he had been content to tie her she might eventually have managed to free herself by some expedient or other. But Mike had laughingly explained that, without the key, neither she or anyone else could free her hands from their imprisonment behind her back. They would stay like that until he chose to return.
He had similarly, despite her pleas, imposed nudity upon her. It, too, was impediment. Bare feet must tread with care, bare skin must shun the wounds of bramble and brush. A naked girl must eye with dubiety any other human an unlikely chance might trust her way. Clothes are a form or armor. Without them a girl might find herself eyed with both doubt and desire. Dorinda knew that should a man come into view her first instinct would be to hide.
The rattle of an anchor and the muffled purr of a motor came clearly across the water. The yacht was under way. Dorinda watched it merge into the night. She cherished no belief that this was a joke, so that it would soon return to retrieve a frightened girl now amenable to its owner’s whims. Mike had said a week. So a week it would be. She wondered miserably if that which she now faced would indeed break her resolve. But thrust the thought aside. Yet it returned. The seven days could scare be other than a frightening ordeal. But what then! Mike could so easily leave her as she was and go away and forget her. He was capable of such an act. Dejectedly she turned her back upon the calm water and trod carefully toward the higher slope where she would find warm dry sand on which to spend the night. She would not explore Kyrexos in the dark.
Morning brought hunger and a disquieting confrontation with helplessness. She needed food. But what could she do to obtain it? Sand clung to her skin but she could not brush it off. Her captive hands could not reach her hair, so that she was forced to toss her head wildly to dislodge the particles and, hopefully, soothe the tangles. Angrily she made her way towards the trees.
The thought of berries was nauseating. Dorinda wanted food, real food! She decided to search for the house. Even with her hands fastened as they were she could probably contrive to open a can should she be lucky enough to find one. Kyrexos was little more than forty acres in extent. A mixture of uneven surface, bare rock and sparse woods of cypress and pine.
There were paths! Perhaps the goats had made them. Most were barely discernible. But the one she chose bore evidence of the work of human hands and the tread of human feet. She stepped out hopefully and soon found herself on a cleared road, a double track that vehicles had used. Dorinda followed it up an incline in the expectation of wider reconnaissance.
The vista was delightful. She paused to admire. A shallow wooded valley swept down to a wide sandy beach and the sea. To one side the house had been set upon the upper slope. Even from a distance it was evident that the mellow stone structure had been built by someone with both an aesthetic appreciation and a great deal of money. Its terraces and balconies had been contoured to make it a part of the landscape into which it blended. The chained girl gave a small sigh of relief. If she could find an open door or window, at least she would have shelter. Scanning the panorama she found no sign of life.
"Lovely view, don’t you think?"
Dorinda froze. The cheerful male voice had come form one side and slightly to the rear. She was shocked into inaction. It was too late to run, too late to hide. Whoever it was, he had already seen all there was to see. Why be coy? Besides, she had liked the sound of the voice, it was educated and English. She found herself with the feminine wish that when she turned around to face him neither of them would be disappointed.
He sat among the rocks, his sun colored skin merging with them so that she had been unaware of his presence. He wore only the briefs of a swimmer. He was looking at her with amusement but no surprise. Dorinda saw that he was just the right age and just the right build and just the right height. In spite of feeling all breasts and pubic hair she hoped he found her as beautiful as she found him.
"Good morning," she managed inadequately and blushed.
He quite frankly appraised her body. His eyes roving in search of defects, assessing her attributes. Piqued by the impersonal quality of his examination to her features, she demanded bravely: "Do you want to feel as well as look?"
His laugh was pure good humor. His words made no sense: "Good old Dave! Comes up trumps every time."
Dorinda was hungry and very unsure. If he decided to rape her there was nothing effectual she could do to stop him. At least he might feed her afterwards. If he was a gentleman the sooner the preliminaries were dealt with, the better.