The Island

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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.

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